Title: "Soft Focus"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Distribution: ttk, ghadultfanfic, m-b, my site.
Rating/Classification: 'R', Nik/Gia/Lucky, nongraphic smut (a little groping never hurt anyone!), vaguely masochistic.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, the daytime world would be a scary place.
Summary: A little twist on Gia's practice shoot with Lucky and what might really have been going on.
Dedication: To Mere...I know this isn't *quite* what you asked for, lol.

"Be sexy," he urges. "Work it."

She tosses her head, feeling her hair whip her cheeks and fan through the air like a curtain of black beads.


"You want this. You want it more than Helena's head on a pike." There is a twinkle in his bright blue eyes...a combination of 'come hither' and 'let's get this over with'.

She arches, her lips parted in a silent moan as her hips thrust forward.


She wonders what he sees through the lens. Does he actually see her? Her body? Her face? Does he think she's beautiful? Does she affect him at all? Does anything simmer beneath his pretty boy facade? She knows Nikolas simmers. Nikolas burns and she has tasted the heat. But Lucky is...indifferent. To anything that isn't his precious goody-goody girlfriend. To life outside Miss Perfect Elizabeth and Kelly's and making sweet love. But once, long ago, he wasn't so restrained. His focus wasn't so narrow.

She remembers a time when he gave her bruises. When he clutched her shoulders so hard, the black and blue imprints of his thumbs remained for days and her wisdom teeth rattled. He and his brother...both of them...so hands-on. So angry.

His voice snaps her back. Easygoing. No hint of violence or the snide hatred she has come to expect. "Gia, you're losing yourself...where *are* you?"

She jerks her head up, feeling her eyes widen on impulse as she freezes like a doe in headlights.


"Do that again," he murmurs, tilting his golden blond head as he pins her with an intensely concentrated, cerulean, artist's gaze. "Wherever you went, must've been one hell of a place."

It is easy to obey the directive. Easy because she can't resist.

The makeup artist...Carly...the lights...they all melt away.

She lets herself go.


The alley. A brick wall warm and hard against her back...or is it a chest? One set of wide hands bands her waist like shackles...the other traps her shoulders. The money is forgotten. She's not here for blackmail payments. Not this time. And this time she isn't struggling.

She tosses her head, feeling the hood of her sweatshirt fall back...her hair whips her cheeks and fans through the air like a curtain of black beads. It rains down on the dark head that is curved against her throat. She arches, her lips parted in a silent moan as her hips thrust forward. *Nikolas*. Her pulse flares underneath his tongue, even as her gaze is caught in the thrall of hypnotic blue eyes. *Lucky*.

She'll have bruises.

Not from his fingers, but from his eyes.

From the way they pound, relentlessly, into her skin.

She can't look away.

He's daring her to...but she can't. She's a prisoner of hands and lips and eyes and bodies. A willing prisoner.


He's right...it's one hell of a place.




"Good," he murmurs. "Great! Give me more!"

So she does.


She manages a glance down and marvels at how tanned fingers have inched up her sweatshirt and tank top without her notice. The olive skin is a shade duskier than her bared 'black' midriff and the contrast is almost as erotic as his brother's fairness against them both.

Lucky's cheek feels cool against her jaw...his ice-tipped hair brushes her brow and she shivers. His left hand covers Nikolas' right and, entwined, they slide beneath her waistband.

All the while, the mouth teases her throat and the deep blue gaze holds her still. They work in tandem. Perfect partners.

One is dark. One is blond. One is lupine. One is leonine. One brother is malleable against her back, curving into her like an extension of her own self, liquid sensuality.... and the other is unyielding before her, blocking her escape like stark, hard, reality, a wall of fire. Both of them...so hands-on. So angry. So...wanting.

"Gia!" one of them whispers, urgently. "Oh, Gia..."

In the haze, the constricted space of flesh and clothes and three separate bodies as tight as one, she can't tell who speaks. Who moans. Who pleads. It could even be her own voice. For she has never been so aware of herself...of her own power...of her own capacity for passion...and this is self-discovery as much as it is an exploration of two wild others.

Her hips rock forward and then back. Faster. Her arms are suddenly her own again...but she can't decide who to hold. In the last moments, she covers their hands with both of hers. And the tangle of olive and mocha and peach satisfies her hunger more than anything she's ever known.


The word tears from her throat in a gasp of triumph.

She'll have bruises.

She wants to.

She wants proof of this moment, of one's undeniable submission and one's undeniable response.






The shoot is over before she knows it. A blur of words and compliments and the sound of the camera being opened and the film rolls being taken out.

She doesn't want to move. To leave. She feels rooted to the spot, a mass of ecstatic nerve endings, of live wires.

He drops his eyes at last. Golden lashes fold over the disquieting blue orbs and break their spell. And he smiles. All dimples and quirking lips. The pretty boy is back. He doesn't see her. She doesn't affect him.

They are back to status quo.

Automatically, the tension flows out from her veins. She lets out a long breath as she moves to a side table and reaches for bottled water. Relief? Or disappointment? She is nothing to him again...barely on the edge of his consciousness...no longer in the focus of his personal lens. His brother's problem, not his.

She shakes her head and a grin spreads across her face.

It doesn't matter.

She has the bruises.

And they are enough.


February 2001.

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