Page 69 of Short Stack 3

“How do you want me?” Georgie calls cheerfully, standing with his hands on his hips like he’s at the supermarket examining the vegetable selection. His cock is long and thin, and his pubes are a startling black against his pale skin.

“On your back reclining, I think,” Ivo says, pursing his lips.

“Story of my life,” Georgie says, and a ripple of laughter passes around the room. He gets into position while Ivo walks around him, eyeing Georgie’s pose from all angles. He finally nods in satisfaction.

Georgie settles in. “Bit different from flowers, eh?” he says cheekily.

Ivo is known for his vibrant flower paintings. He chuckles. “A rose is but a rose.”

Georgie winks. “But I haven’t even shown you my petals yet.”

“Flirt,” Ivo says, and the young man grins at him. Ivo steps back and eyes us all. “Okay. This is the position. Select your materials and draw what you see. Follow the lines. Experiment and have fun. I will give you time to get started, and then I will move around and offer help if needed.”

He immediately heads over to an easel set up to one side. This one is much more battered than ours, and I bet it’s his own. He rifles through an old leather bag, taking out a piece of charcoal, and then starts to draw the model. In contrast withthe rest of us, his strokes are sure and deft, his eyes steady and withdrawn as he looks at the model.

“I think I’d rather watch Ivo paint than try my hand at it,” Joe muses.

“Is that because youcan’tpaint?”

“I’ll have you know that I was quite the piss artist in my day.”

“It still is your day,” I say tartly.

Georgie’s music plays, and I lose myself in the lines I’m tracing on my page. It’s surprisingly enjoyable. I find myself switching off my busy brain and focusing on the now.

Joe is not so good at it, which isn’t surprising. He’s too on the go to enjoy sitting still for long. He fidgets, picking things up and gazing around. Soon, he’s up and out of his seat and wandering. Laughter and chatter follow in his wake as he bounces from one easel to another. I shake my head, repressing a smile when I hear him discussing a wedding venue with a young couple three easels down.

Ivo comes up next to me. He studies my drawing in silence, and I shift, surprisingly nervous. It’s not essential that I can draw. It doesn’t impact my life at all, but it’s a bit like being in a school pantomime and having Kenneth Branagh turn up to watch.

“That’s good,” he finally says.

“Really?”

He raises one dark eyebrow. “You seem surprised?”

“I was terrible at art at school.”

He shrugs. “We get better at a lot of things as we grow older.” He pats my shoulder. “You should take it up.”

I’m surprised to hear myself say, “I might.”

“Plenty of classes are around if you can’t make this one. I’ll text you some.”

I smile at him. “That’s very kind of you. Let me give you my number.”

“No need. I’ve got your home number. Joe gave it to me when I saw him and Gabe for lunch the other day.” He eyes me. “You should come along when we meet up. My husband Henry would love to meet you.” He grins. It’s wide and warm and very charming. I bet he was a heartbreaker in his time. “I must say I’ve heard so much about you. You’re famous.”

I put on an earnest face. “Well, I must say anyone can reach my level of fame if they work hard. They’ve just got to be prepared to get drunk-married in Vegas, lose their husband, and then lie their way into a comedy of errors that ABBA soundtracked.”

He bursts into laughter. We turn when the door opens and a man sidles into the room. He’s stunning, with a thin, angular face and dark red hair. I wonder if he’s waiting for the next class. Maybe he’s the model.

One look at Ivo changes that assumption. Ivo’s whole face lights up, all his previous arrogance gone in an instant and replaced by pure love. “Henry,” he exclaims and strides over to him.

I see the wedding ring on the redhead’s finger and realise this must be Ivo’s husband.

“Sorry for intruding,” Henry says, his voice very posh. “I thought I’d pick you up for lunch.”

“Really?” Ivo asks, raising an eyebrow.

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