Taste Me Bare

1

Why the hell had he agreed to do this shoot?

Jensen Ackles was asking himself that question, yet again, as he adjusted the settings on his camera.

His model had given him only grief from the moment they had started. He had bitched about the lighting. He had bitched about the clothes he was wearing, chosen by some fashion editor employed by the magazine for which he was posing. He had bitched about Jensen's placement of the camera (to which Jensen had raised his brows, causing the other to finally fall silent).

Jensen had known, from the moment Jared Padalecki's agent had contacted him, that it wasn't a good idea. Sure, Padalecki was the fashion industry's Big Thing at the moment, and any photographer in the field would have given their best lens to do a shoot with the model. That didn't mean it was a good idea. The model's agent, one Misha Collins, was a long-time friend of Jensen's however, so he had taken the assignment.

It wasn't that Padalecki wasn't photogenic; he most certainly was. Even while running his smart-ass mouth, he produced gorgeous photos. It was the thoughts that kept popping into Jensen's head of how to make him shut that gorgeous, smart-ass mouth.

Most of them weren't very professional.

He exhaled a slow breath in frustration as Padalecki shifted - again - mid-shot, ruining the frame. "Are you uncomfortable?" he called, "Do you need to change positions?"

"I'm fine. Can we just do this?"

The photographer raised his head and glared over his camera at the other man. He didn't miss the way Jared rolled his eyes at him – it made him want to take the young man over his knee and deliver a solid spanking to his well-dressed ass. It was through gritted teeth that he stepped back from the camera and instructed, "Okay, let's take ten."

He had just about had enough of the model's attitude.

"I need more caffeine for this," he muttered, not quite beneath his breath, as he walked away from his tripod.

Jared Padalecki was an idiot. He was 6'4" of GreatBigFuckingIdiot. At least, that's what he was telling himself.

He had one of the industry's best photographers here to do a photo shoot with him. The very photographer whose work he had admired and, admittedly, he had been crushing on (crush? Serious understatement) since meeting him at a fashion show two years earlier.

And he couldn't seem to stop running his damn mouth. Yes, he was nervous: Jensen Ackles was gorgeous, and commanding, and had an intense green gaze that threatened to steal Jared's breath. In fact, Jared pretty much wanted to fall to his knees and worship the other man's body with his mouth every time that green gaze was cast on him. He was nervous and, instead of being the professional he really wanted to be in the front of the other man, he was running his mouth.

Damn, he sounded like a snippy, spoiled prick today. And Ackles was getting aggravated. He could tell, despite the man's professional demeanor. Why couldn't he seem to shut the hell up?

Jared ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His cell phone buzzed nearby, and he snatched it up off the small make-up table. He breathed a relieved breath as he saw his best friend's name on the screen.

Jared grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge in the corner as he answered the call and his best friend asked, "How's the shoot going, Jare?"

Jared spent the next few minutes on the phone with Genevieve Cortese, quietly filling her in on the past hour. He listened gratefully to her encouragement that he could handle this, and her insistence that he be the professional model that she knew and loved.