by Bea Paige
“That’s why this is the perfect opportunity for you to see my studio, my artwork. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“No!” I say, a little too quickly. “No,” I repeat, avoiding the look of satisfaction in Anton’s gaze. “Like you said, Ivan’s away. What harm could it do?”
Walking towards Anton with a confidence I don’t feel, I plaster a neutral look on my face. Just before I reach the door, Anton’s arm flies out preventing me from entering. The heady smell of his scent filters through my senses as I take in the smooth chocolate of his eyes. On the surface he smells of apples, but beneath that is a more intense smell, of incense and smoke. It’s a strange combination, but not unpleasant. It reminds me of Bonfire Night and the delicious warmth of a roaring fire. I lean towards him almost involuntarily.
“You remember what we discussed?” he asks, the soft warmth of his breath fluttering across my cheek.
“Yes, I get the freedom to dance and I help you to see…”
“And,” he prompts.
“And I become your muse…”
Anton smiles, his arm dropping. “Please, come in.”
I step into his studio, immediately accosted by a rainbow of bright colours and half finished canvases. Strewn about the room are bottles of paints, pencils, charcoal, paintbrushes, half finished sketches and more art paraphernalia that I can’t name. For a minute I can only take in sections at a time. My gaze moves from the high glass dome above, letting in all the light, to the huge six foot canvas that rests against the wall on the other side of the studio. Half of it is covered with a large piece of material, the beige sheet falling haphazardly to the floor. There are smaller canvases stacked against another wall, the one in front is covered in blocks of colour. I stare at it trying to figure out if there’s some kind of meaning behind the design.
“That was my Piet Mondrian phase. It didn’t last long,” he chuckles.
I watch as he walks into the middle of the room and leans across a huge art desk, reaching for something on the other side. I don’t pay attention to what he picks up, instead stepping towards his desk to look at the multitude of half complete sketches that lie across the surface. The outline of a face, a headless figure, the back of someone’s body. I see a sketch of Fran smiling whilst holding a tray of food, a light charcoal drawing of a woman bent plucking a flower from a wild hedgerow. So many sketches, all of them beautiful, detailed. One in particular, catches my eye. It’s nothing more than a room with a panelled wall of mirrors and a chair situated in the corner, but what intrigues me the most is a long stretch of wood that crosses one side of the mirrors to the other, a barré. This is a sketch of a dance studio, and that has me reaching for it, but Anton quickly picks up another one, distracting me with a portrait of Erik.
“My god, you drew this?” I ask, my mouth popping open as I take it from him.
He’s got the likeness spot on. The angular cut of Erik’s jaw, the full lips of his mouth and the heavy set eyebrows drawn together over troubled eyes. Erik is holding a violin between his chin and shoulder, the bow pressed against the strings, his fingers forming a note along the neck.
“You sounds surprised?”
“Not surprised… impressed. This is amazing, incredible, Anton.”
“Thank you.”
I hand him back the sketch. He takes it and lays it on the table, covering the drawing of the dance studio. I want to ask him about it, but then he raises what looks suspiciously like a joint to his lips and lights it, drawing in a lungful. The end lights up a bright orange as the weed crackles and burns.
“Are you smoking a joint” I ask, taken aback.
“Yes, this is a joint. Do you want a toke?” he asks, puffing out a thick stream of smoke.
It has a particular smell, just like weed always does, but there’s an undercurrent of apples. That explains the strange scent I’d smelt earlier.
“No, thanks. Never really been into drugs.”
Anton shrugs. “Fair enough. So, what’s your poison?” He looks at me curiously when I don’t answer immediately. “Come on, everyone has one.”
“Red wine,” I say. Even though that really isn’t my poison of choice. Vulnerable, powerful, evocative men are. But I’m not about to spill that little secret right now.
“Well then, I’ll make sure I get some in for our next session. No use me getting high if I haven’t got someone to join me.”
Anton draws on the joint one more time before stubbing it out in a saucer that he’s using as an ashtray. Then he picks up a bottle of water and takes a long drink.
“May I look at some of your stuff?” I ask, heading towards the wall where the majority of canvases are stacked against it.
“Sure,” Anton says, cutting in front of me. He reaches up for the sheet that’s covering half of the large canvas and pulls it up to cover it completely. “But not this one. It’s for a client, it isn’t finished.”
“You sell your work?” I ask, looking at a painting of a young boy running through a meadow of poppies. It’s incredibly lifelike, but the colours are off, a little too stark to be a real representation of the image he’s trying to capture.
“Yes. I’ve sold a few over the years.”
“And your condition? How have you managed with it and getting the colours right?”
“Fortunately for me, art appreciation is subjective. Some people will like my work and the oddity of the colours, others not so much. I’ve been lucky so far.”
“Then why do you need me? If you’re able to make a living out of the artwork you already produce, why do you need my help?”
Anton sighs. “Because I want perfection. For once I want to produce something that everyone will appreciate.”
“But that’s impossible. Like you said, what one person might think is a stunning piece worthy of hanging in their home, another person might dislike intensely. You’re setting yourself up to fail.”
Anton smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “When I say everyone, what I actually mean is my father…”
“He doesn’t support you?” I ask, almost dumbfounded. How could he not? Anton has a medical condition which means he’s never been able to see colour, and yet every single piece of artwork in this room is utterly stunning.
Anton barks out a laugh. “No, my father doesn’t support my need to create in this way. He never has.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Me too.”
For a moment the tension between us returns as Anton stares at me openly. His eyes rake over my face and I can’t help but notice the way his pupils dilate, and his lips part on a breath. The light flirting is replaced suddenly with a man that is dedicated in making me feel bare under his scrutiny. I feel naked when he looks at me like this. Naked and raw.
“What are you doing, Anton?”
“Committing you to memory. Having you in my space like this, so relaxed, is quite the inspiration.”
“Well, I’m glad I could help,” I respond, stepping backwards as he steps towards me.
“Perhaps tomorrow when you come to work, you’ll bring your ballet shoes? I’d like to see you dance.”
“Perhaps,” I murmur, my cheeks blazing with colour. It’s been a long time since I’ve performed for anyone. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m capable of dancing the way I did before. My body is so very different now. Whilst the passion for dance hasn’t lessened and the thought of being able to dance freely excites me, my agility and failing strength have me more nervous than I have any right to be. I shouldn’t be dancing at all. My body won’t appreciate it even if my soul will.
Glancing at my watch, I can see that I’ve already lost almost an hour talking with Anton, and with the sudden need to leave his studio, if only to get away from the growing appreciation I have for this man, I make my excuses.
“I should go. I’ve a lot to do…”
Anton relaxes. The almost obsessive stare gone now.
“Sure, you’ve already given me eno
ugh to work on. Same time tomorrow… I’ll bring wine?” he asks, trying to ease the tension flaring between us.
“As tempting as that sounds, the only drink I consume at eight in the morning is tea.”
“Then how about when you’ve finished your shift. A glass of wine at four o’clock isn’t so bad?”
I laugh at his tenacity. “For a drunk I’m sure it’s positively acceptable.”
“You can’t deny me now, not after I’ve shown you the place where I keep my soul…” his voice lowers a little at that, a dangerous, powerful darkness leaching into his tone.
“Fine, four o’clock tomorrow.” I agree. “But on the agreement, I have space to dance.”
Though the room is huge, it’s filled to the brim with stuff. Frankly, I’m almost positive he won’t be able to manage to tidy it. Part of me is counting on it, the other part hopes he makes room for me somehow.
With that agreement in place, I turn on my heel and stride from the room. Halfway down the hall, the drum and bass switches back on, louder than before, and I’m pretty sure that beneath the din is the sound of a man dragging a table across a hardwood floor.
Chapter Nineteen
Ivan
Sleep has evaded me for two nights now. I left for London the moment I knew Erik would be okay, catching a direct flight from Newquay. Now, I sit with my bare feet propped up against the balcony of my hotel room still unable to rid myself of the intense heat that my body roars with every time I think of Rose and that kiss.
That fucking kiss…
It had been electrifying, all consuming, everything I wished it wasn’t because now all I want is more. I’d broken the one cardinal rule I insisted on keeping with the women I fucked.
Absolutely no kissing.
It’s just too personal, too intimate, too fucking emotional.
And yet, I’d cast that rule aside and kissed her.
That fucking kiss had cleaved open my chest and ripped out my heart, pulverising it in one easy motion. Now my chest is still gaping, an open wound I’ve no idea how to fix.
What is she doing to me?
More to the point, why am I letting her?
“It’s not you I’m afraid of, it’s me. I’m afraid of the demon in me.”
That one statement had been it for me. For reasons I’m unable to fathom right now, those few words had unlocked my resolve and made me weak.
I need to gain back some power, or I’m fucking lost.
She must never know what that kiss meant, and I sure as hell won’t be kissing her again. Not in this fucking lifetime.
“Damn it to hell,” I mutter, slinging back another double shot of brandy. The alcohol does nothing to dull the ache I feel in my cock at the thought of Rose and her sharp tongue, her will of steel, her fucking... dominance.
“Fuck!” I slam the glass tumbler on the table in my anger.
That kiss had started with me ruling her. I could feel her mould against me, welcoming my mouth and then, when I touched her beautiful plump breasts something changed…
She’d fucking bit me!
Then, catching me off guard she’d flipped me around and climbed up my damn body.
And I’d fucking let her.
If Ms Hadley hadn’t walked in on us I’ve no damn clue what would’ve happened next. Would she have continued to rule me? Would I have continued to let her?
“Rose, what have you done to me?”
Aside from making me talk to myself like a crazy man, Rose has slipped beneath my skin like no one since Svetlana. I don’t even think Svetlana made me feel as confused. I know who I was with her. With Rose, I don’t know who I am anymore.
Who the fuck am I? Ivan? Luka? Who?
“Pull yourself together!”
I’m like a fucking madman, unable to control my thoughts let alone the words that spill out of my mouth. In an hour I’m meeting with the Freed brothers to talk business. Fuck knows how I’m going to get through the night with thoughts of Rose on my mind. Getting up, I stride into the bedroom and pull off my clothes, the sound of the city drowned out by the thumping of my heart. Walking into the bathroom, I turn on the shower and stare at my reflection as the water heats to the right temperature.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Pulling my spine straight, I force myself upright and look at myself. Really look.
Years of dancing has kept me trim, muscular. I have a body most men would envy, and most women want to fuck. My muscles have bulked up more since training them in a different way. I’m not as graceful as I once was, but the shadow of the dancer in me still lingers. For the briefest time, I wonder what it would feel like to dance with Rose… It’s a dangerous thought, so I bury it.
“Why her? Why Rose?” I ask myself.
I think of her wicked sharp tongue, her soft lips, her shapely legs, curvaceous body. I think of her demanding kiss and the power within it. I think of the way she felt towering over me a full head height taller as she clung tightly to me with her legs wrapped around my waist. I think of the way her hands pulled at my hair, just on the side of painful.
My fucking cock comes to life at the memory.
Automatically, I reach for it, squeezing the base with my hand, trying and failing to temper the raging hard-on. Thoughts of Rose scatter across my mind as my hand moves up the hard shaft of my cock; her plump lips, her ripe arse, the way she’d stood up to me in my office when we first met, and later in her kitchen… The way she’d danced so gracefully, despite what it meant, despite how it hurt her.
That damn kiss.
She’d rubbed herself against me with abandon and I’d almost come there and then in the fucking hallway. My hand moves down, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure.
She’d fucking bit me.
My balls twitch, precum beading on the tip of my cock. I let out a moan as I run the pad of my thumb over it, smoothing it over the bulbous head. I’m so ready to fuck, so damn fucking needy. Slamming my palm against the bathroom unit I lean over and start running my hand up and down my cock, fisting myself like a fucking teenager.
Self-pleasure isn’t something I’ve done for years now given I have women at my beck and call. But I need to get Rose out of my damn head, otherwise the meeting tonight will go to shit. It’s hardly professional entering a meeting with tented pants.
“I’m going to fuck you out of my head, Rose,” I growl, imagining her softness beneath me, imagining taking everything from her, breaking her open and holding her bleeding heart in my hand. I imagine tasting the salt of her tears and absorbing the sighs of pleasure.
“You’re mine.”
The room heats up from the steam of the shower, and I begin to lose myself behind a cloud covering the mirror. It’s okay though, I don’t want to look at myself getting off, it’s only distracting me from thoughts of Rose.
Rose and her luscious arse.
Rose and her shapely legs.
Rose and her soft breasts and creamy skin.
Rose and her meadow-green eyes.
Rose who stands up to me, when everyone else fucking cowers.
My hand moves quicker, my fist twisting as I move my hand up and down to a steady rhythm. I feel my balls tighten as I imagine Rose on her knees before me, her face pressed against the hardwood of the studio floor back home. She’s naked and bare, her arse high in the air. I imagine turning the ripeness of her beautiful curves a bright pink as I spank her with the flat of my hand. I imagine the sting across my own palm, the loud slap reverberating around the room, only drowned out by her cries and the whimpers that follow when I stroke the same spot with gentle fingers. While I stroke her pussy until it glistens with her juices.
A low moan releases from my lips as my eyes roll back in my head with the heady intoxication that thoughts of Rose cause me. My legs begin to tremble with the oncoming orgasm, so much so that I fall to my knees onto the soft bath mat.
“Rose,” I utter on another moan.
Then the fantasy be
gins to change, and it’s no longer Rose kneeling on the floor, it’s me. My hands are tied behind my back, and Rose is standing before me, her green eyes boring into my fucking soul. In her hand she holds a paddle. She lays it across her palm, caressing it with the flat of her hand.
My fist pumps harder, as my fantasy unravels, my breathing comes in short gasping breaths as Rose walks behind me, trailing her fingers over the bare skin of my shoulders. This fantasy is so real, so desired, that when I imagine her kneeling beside me, her berry red lips whispering in my ear, I can almost hear the soft cadence of her voice.
“You’re mine, Ivan. Submit to me.”
And with the echo of those words in my head I come harder than I’ve ever done in my life.
Chapter Twenty
Rose
By the end of the second day, my back is killing me, and my stupid knee is swollen once again. Walking to and from work, as well as lifting and hauling boxes of files is taking its toll on me physically.
Today, I hate my body.
I hate that I can’t do what I used to. That I can’t dance the way I want. I miss the way I always felt so beautiful dancing, so unencumbered, so free.
I’d felt that way once with Roman… at least my sixteen year old self had. The version that’s me now doesn’t feel anything but pain when I think of him.
Sighing I shut the computer down, more than ready to go home. Except I can’t. I have an agreement with Anton. One that I promised to fulfil.