But what lay beneath all that, I wondered?
"Come with me," I said.
Stan followed me like a dejected dog all the way to the back of the studio. We entered my private office. Stan looked around, no doubt stunned by the matching flamboyance of the room. The walls were painted a deep orange and framed photographs of my work everywhere, mostly from fashion magazine photo shoots.
"All right, Stan. Could you do me a favour and enter over there?" I asked, pointing to a sectioned off area in the corner hidden by a floor-length velvet curtain.
"Is there a cage you're going to trap me in?" He asked.
I chuckled. "Not unless you want there to be."
His face turned a deeper shade than the walls. Stan was adorable. He hadn't yet realized that if he was going to tease me, I could tease him right back.
"No thanks," he said, approaching the curtain. "What am I supposed to do here?"
"Strip."
He choked. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, my apologies. I meant strip,please."
He gawked at me. "You can't be serious. I'm not going to get naked for you."
"Not naked," I clarified. "You can wear your underwear, if you wish. I don't mind either way. But this is necessary for me to see what I'm working with."
I spoke mostly the truth, but therewasa cheeky part of me that wanted to see him naked.
Now to observe Stan's reaction. Would he outright refuse? Would he hem and haw until finally grudgingly agreeing? Perhaps he would storm right out of the studio, never to be seen again.
What I didn't expect was for Stan to glare at me, bite his lip, then unzip his jeans right in front of me. My brows lifted in surprise.
"As much as I appreciate a free strip show, the curtain is there for your comfort," I reminded him.
Stan huffed, blowing up a long strand of hair on his forehead. "It's fine. I want to do this fast and get it over with."
I wasn't sure how much I believed that, considering it would only take a few extra seconds to draw the curtain around himself. He really was an interesting human. With every passing second, he stoked the embers of my intrigue. If I wasn't careful, soon my fascination with him would become a wildfire.
Although Stan wasn't deliberately stalling, I perceived his clothes coming off in slow motion. I held my breath as the baggy, torn, discoloured jeans fell to the ground, pooling at his ankles in a sad heap of denim. Now I was free to ogle his legs. They weren't what I imagined. I expected his legs to be thin and straight but they were remarkably toned, as if Stan did a lot of physical exercise. His thighs and calves were pleasantly curved in a way that drew my eye. I did my best to avoid looking between his legs, of course, but I couldn't help sneaking a peek. By the grace of the gods, Stan's single well-fitting piece of clothing was his underwear. He wore a pair of black briefs that fit snugly across his hips.
With his pants out of the way, Stan grabbed the hem of his ratty shirt and pulled it over his head. I could practically hear the shirt fibers screaming for death. I was half hoping the thing would finally disintegrate and put itself out of its misery, but alas it did not. He gathered his clothes, folded them neatly, then placed them on a nearby table.
Now I had a clear view of Stan's upper body. And wow – what a view it was. Stan was no bodybuilder, but he wasn't lacking in his chest and arms either. Just like his legs, he was nicely toned. It gave me the impression of somebody who ate well and exercised. Along with the fact that he was freshly showered and neat about folding and laundering his clothes, it was giving me a clearer image of who Stan was as a person.
It wasn't that he didn't care—he simply wanted people tothinkhe didn't care.
I couldn't take my eyes off of Stan's almost naked body. Warmth stirred inside me, a kind of simmering desire I hadn't felt for—well, ever. It startled me. I never felt this way about clients. It wasn't professional.
But was Stanreallymy client?
Stan crossed his arms. "Well?"
I cleared my throat, then shook my head to clear my daze. "Yes, thank you. That's a great help."
Stan made a small grunt of acknowledgement but didn't say anything else. He averted his gaze, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he stared docilely at the floor. It surprised me that Stan was not only willing to strip, but to stand there like a mannequin as I observed him. It was a far cry from his defiant rudeness in the elevator. I wondered if he was warming up to me or if I was reading too much into his behavior.
"Wow," I breathed, because I couldn't help myself. My eyes refused to tear away from Stan's form.
He tensed up and exhaled in aggravation. "Okay, I get it. You're awed by my ugliness. Can I put my clothes back on now?"
