I stare at her, shocked.
"What ... what nude of me?"
Her grin widens into a full-fledged smile. "Well, I guess you'll have to model for me so I can draw one."
She reaches over to stroke my neck again. My nipples are tingling, my skin is all gooseflesh. She leans in for another soft, soft kiss, gently tugging at my nipple through the silk. Her eyes are full of mischief.
My hand slips from her neck, "accidentally" brushing the nipple that is showing through the thin cardigan. She closes her eyes and sighs. Brings her fingers up to trace my mouth softly, as if memorizing my face for drawing. I take one of her fingers in my mouth, timing my little tugs on her nipple to my sucking. Another sigh.
"I take it that's a yes?"
I look down, nod silently. I can't say anything.
Silently we get up together and head for her apartment. The walk across the park leaves me a little breathless. The breeze rustles the trees, scattering stray leaves on the sidewalk. The doorman looks pointedly at me, smiles knowingly at her as we pass, taking the elevator to her floor.
The entry hall of her apartment has a series of drawings of women. Most are in the park, sunning on benches, lying on the grass. There is one of me from last summer, wearing the dress that got me the worst leers that first week at work, the one I have never worn to work again. The one that showed my nipples in the air conditioning. Even in the park, it seems almost transparent in her drawing.
Around the bend, the women are less formally dressed, a few buttons open at the top, top open to the waist, sheer bra, topless. I find myself looking more at the yellow oriental carpet than at the drawings.
On the door to the studio is a self-portrait. Of the artist. She is nude, arms overhead. It's hard not to stare at it. I turn to look at her.
She has removed the cardigan and is standing there in a soft white camisole. Her nipples and areolas are plainly visible. "You like?" I don't know if she means the drawing or her body. I smile, reach back to put my hand on her neck. She comes forward, touches the tip of my nose with hers. A soft kiss on the lips before she steps back, looks at me appraisingly.
"Have you ever posed nude before?"
"No." I'm whispering, still can't quite speak. Staring at the leafy pattern in the carpet. I can't look at her, can't look at the drawings. "Am I going to pose nude today?"
She looks at me appraisingly. Gives me a little ambiguous smile.
"Would you like something to drink?"
I nod.
"Go on into the studio. I'll be back in a minute."
Inside there is only one drawing. It's the blond from the park. She's lying on a divan, nude, looking frankly at me as if welcoming a lover.
Then I see the divan, under the skylight. A sheer scrim lets the amazing light in, the soft breeze, the muffled sounds of the city. There isn't anywhere else to sit, so I go over and sit on the very edge. The woman in the drawing seems to smile faintly at me.
The artist returns with tea. Fine alabaster china. A couple of little cucumber sandwiches. Had she known I was coming? I grin at the incongruity of a little plastic honey bear amid such an elegant setting.
She places the tray on a little three-legged calling card table and gracefully hands me a teacup. Jasmine tea, my favorite. She takes a sandwich and gently brings it to my lips, caressing my cheek as she feeds it to me. The touch tingles the entire right side of my face, runs down my neck and arm, brings my nipple back to attention.
