Perfect Match

by Alexis Alvarez

  “For sure.” Fia nodded. “I wish I had that kind of confidence.”

  “Well, he might also be high. Did you see his pupils? So there’s that.”

  “True. True. But still.” She reached for her purse. “It’s only fair that we should split the bill for this disaster of a culinary experience so nobody has nightmares. You know, share the wealth.”

  “No, please, my treat. I insist.” He rolled his eyes and stuck a sheaf of bills into the pocket. “You can get dessert.”

  “Deal.” She let go of her purse, her mind wandering to dessert. Whipped cream on his stomach. Cherries on her nipples. She put a hand to her mouth.

  He was watching her, a small smile on his face. “What are you thinking?”

  “Something I can’t say out loud.”

  “I’m intrigued.” He stood up. “Ready to go?” He offered her his arm.

  Back in the car, her mind was full of art, and Dylan, and doing what you want. But when they stopped at a red light right next to a little bodega with bins of fruit and veggies, she opened her door and darted out.

  “I’ll be right back!” she called to him. “I need to get our dessert in here. Go around the block and come back for me! No, just—go, go!” She waved her hand and the light turned, and she slammed the door. He made an exaggerated motion with his head, but drove off.

  “Strawberries! Perfect!” She giggled and bought a pint, rolling the top of the brown paper bag down as Dylan pulled up beside the curb. She got in to angry honking behind her, laughing so hard she could barely buckle her seat belt.

  “Fia, you’re crazy!” But Dylan was smiling. “What the hell did you need in there?”

  “You’ll see. Oh, I’ll just tell you. Strawberries!” She unrolled the bag and displayed the plastic container in one hand. “Ta da! Not stolen, but still just as delicious as their ill-gotten counterparts.”

  “Nice.” He reached out and touched her knee. “I like the way you think. Well, since you picked the food, I’ll pick the venue. I’m going to take you somewhere special.”

  “Where?” she was giddy, eager.

  “You’ll see.” He parroted her words.

  “Tell me now.”

  “You know I like to make you wait.”

  She flushed, thinking of how he’d made her wait. Then she squirmed in her seat, because just his voice saying it made her want him. Right now.

  The ended up in a dingy industrial part of town, and when he led her to the door of a warehouse, she gave him a questioning look.

  “Here we are.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the huge sheet of metal, and pointed into the cavernous entrance. “Come on in.”

  “Where: In there?” She narrowed her eyes. “It looks like a place where tractors go to die.”

  He shook his head. “You asked before if I’m hiding something. I am. I want to show it to you. It’s,” he swallowed, “my art.”

  “Your art?” She stood still. “You’re an artist?”

  “Yeah, I am.” His face was somber.

  “What do you do?”

  “Sculpture.”

  “Oh, wow.” She was floored. It all made sense, now. His comments about starving artists, his worries about his career, his knowledge of Damien Hirst. “God, Dylan. That’s so cool. I never even knew. You didn’t say anything about it.”

  “I don’t tell a lot of people.” He put his hands into his pockets.

  “Then why me?”

  He pursed his lips. “I guess I wanted you to see it.”

  “Well, I’m—honored. Okay. So, in here?” She stepped forward, glanced backwards, and peered around the gloomy space. “All I see are a bunch of twisted metal scraps.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Wait, are those yours?” Her stomach sank. Please, God, let those not be his.

  He laughed. “Those are sculptures by Anthony Derrisan. We share a workspace.”

  “Dylan, I had no idea that you were an artist too! Otherwise I never would have said what I did back in the restaurant about modern art.” She tried to remember her exact words.

  “You would have lied. I prefer honesty.”

  She was silent.

  “Look, I get frustrated by Hirst and so many others. But there are also dozens, hundreds of inspirational artists. You just have to find the good ones and follow them. Let the other stuff go. You’re not entirely wrong about it being meaningless to many. But when it’s you, when you’re the artist—well, it means something then.”

  She took his hand. “Oh, Dylan. I want to like modern art, okay? I do! So badly. Because it’s my time period, it’s my era, it’s my art, for lack of a better expression. I want to love it.”

  “What do you mean, you want to?” He studied her face.

  “I want my soul to expand and split apart into a thousand shards of light when I see it. I want to feel all the emotions of the earth, all the happiness and joy and desperation. That’s what I want. That’s what art is to me. It’s not phony pretension and big names and stupid blotches. It’s not sycophantic suck-ups and pompous critics and endless ridiculous rumination. It’s that raw burst of power that hits you in the gut and knocks you the fuck down. And just because I don’t see it in one piece doesn’t mean it’s not there, waiting for me, somewhere.”

  His face lit up. “Exactly! That’s it, Fia. Me, too. I’m looking for the art that has the power to last because it grabs your lungs and twists them right the fuck out of your body, and squeezes all the air out until you nearly die before you take another breath. That’s what I want to create. And no, most modern art does not do that for me. And not for anyone, if they’re honest.”

  “It’s all just so odd, the whole thing. Art, in general.” She shook her head. In the dim light, his eyes were mysterious and flashed with glints of sunlight that came in from the high, industrial sky-lights, far above them. His jaw was in shadow, and his lips looks both smooth and fierce. She was drawn to him more strongly than ever.

  They were silent for a second, and she watched his chest rise and fall with his breath, his muscles strong beneath the t-shirt. She wanted to run her hands down his torso, and hoped the darkness of the space hid the sudden warmth that grew in her cheeks.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “So—why don’t you see what I wanted to show you.”

  “Okay.” She felt a sudden anxiety. “Um, where is it?”

  “Around the wall. Behind that partition. Go past the metal sculptures, and turn right.” He gestured, then stepped in behind her and flipped on the light. It took a while for the overhead fixtures to flash into life, as if the electrons were asleep, dusty, rusty like the sculptures. She could almost hear them sighing and complaining as they warmed up. Something hummed.

  Confronted with the fact that she was about to see something dear to him, she felt unaccountably shy, and tried to hide it. “Is a clown going to pop out? Is it that kind of weird performance art? There better not be a clown.”

  “There aren’t any clowns.” His voice was taut. He crossed his arms. “Go ahead, then, if you’re so eager.”

  “Okay. I’m going.” She looked back at him once, then walked ahead.

  She walked forward past the rusted metal amalgamations, meldings of gears and beam shards that did nothing for her but raise questions and disappointment.

  When she turned the corner, she sucked in her breath, confronted with things so magnificent that she, at first, didn’t think they were real. A low metal table held a collection of orbs, some of glass, shining, other metal. Different sizes and shapes, some oblong, some spherical, they glowed with a presence, calling her forward. They were otherworldly, gorgeous, strange, and hypnotic. The colors! Such swirls and whorls, like each one was an entire planet, but also maybe something like a seed, a flower, an ocean.

  “These—are yours?” They were like the things in his house, the ones she’d admired.

  He came up behind her. “Yes.”

  “Can I touch?” She felt the raw need to come closer. “God. These are
amazing.”

  “Every sculpture in here can be touched.”

  She reached out to the closest orb. “Can I pick it up?”

  “If you can lift it.” His voice held amusement.

  She struggled in vain to pick up a large sphere, moved to a smaller, fist-sized one. It was surprisingly heavy, a bowling ball in her palm. “What’s this made of?”

  “What’s it made of?” His voice held a smile. “My heart.” But despite the expression, his eyes were ferocious, serious, rapt, as he watched her touch.

  She held the small one in both hands, pressed to her chest. “I want it. I want to own this. It’s beautiful.” She looked at it, moved it around to examine all the parts of it. “I don’t want to stop looking at it. I want to eat it. Absorb it. Have it in my house, so I can see it all the time.”

  He gave a short laugh, and she could swear that her praise made some tension drain out of him. He looked looser, lighter, like a weight was lifted from him. “Don’t overdo it. Maybe you just like them because you hated Anthony’s stuff so much.”

  She shook her head. “No. I could have walked past the Sistine Chapel and I’d still love these.” She put it down and stroked it. “It feels warm! Alive. Smooth. Tingly, sort of. How did you do that? And how do you make it shine?” She tilted her head. “I love the way they catch the light.”

  “Secret of the trade,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll never tell.”

  “I love them.” The words came all at once, in a rush, and it was true, and she knew it was true. These things, these spheres, they were singing to her, all of them, a wordless tune that hit her in her soul. She looked up and met his eyes. “I love them.” Her voice was hushed.

  He smiled, and it lit up the harsh planes of his face, made his eyes glow. “So do I.”

  He stepped in and she felt the warmth of his body as he intruded into her personal space, and she leaned in just slightly, as if to encourage him to come further, to keep coming until they were only atoms apart. She smelled his faded cologne and his own masculine scent, mixed with the odor of paint and wood in the warehouse. She could see his tendons when he swallowed. His eyes were gorgeous.

  “So we have something in common.” Her voice came out breathy and low.

  “A miracle.” He smiled, and his dimple showed. She nearly melted. His face was so close! “Although I think we have more than a few things in common at this point, Fia.”

  “I guess we do.” When he reached for her, she didn’t resist, and when he stood her in front of him and undressed her with his eyes first, before unzipping her dress and silently pulling it down the curves of her body, she acquiesced.

  The only thing she said was, “Here?” glancing around the vast space, the corners dark and foreboding, as if strange things, colorful magical things might be hiding there, alert and untrustworthy. But the light in the center shone down like a spotlight, accentuating his features and making his eyes shine.

  He nodded. “Right here.” He pointed to a chaise lounge under the lights, blue, velvety.

  “It’s like we’re on a stage.” She felt as if they were in a strange theater.

  “Nobody will watch. It’s just us.” His voice was low. He stripped off his shirt, took off his jeans and boxers. Nude, with the lighting creating highlights and shadows on his body, he looked mysterious, chiseled, a perfect Greek sculpture, each muscle just so, his face gorgeous and powerful.

  She slid off her lacy thong and tossed it aside, and faced him, naked. The look in his eyes almost scared her; he was so fierce, so raw.

  “You want to play by my rules again?” he murmured, walking around her. He picked up her hair and fisted it, then kissed her neck.

  She shuddered at the touch of his lips. “Yes,” she whispered. She stood still, like a statue herself. She wondered if the lights flickered and gleamed on her skin like on his, whether he saw her like a living piece of art, too.

  “You want me to be your master again, right here, right now?” His grip tightened on her hair, not painful, but she was definitely aware of his strength.

  “Yes.”

  At that, he snaked one arm around her flat stomach and pulled her against him. She sucked in a breath when she felt his hard cock pressing into the seam of her ass. With his other hand, he dropped her hair, letting it flow back over her shoulders, and gripped her neck, firmly but not too tightly, and pulled her into his head that way, too. They stood that way for a minute, just breathing, his hands hot on her throat and belly. His cock twitched and she pushed her buttocks back into his body, wanting more.

  “Do you trust me?” His voice was low.

  “Yes.”

  “Completely?”

  “Yes.” It was true.

  “Good.” He released his grip. “Please go over to the chaise and lie down on your back. Close your eyes.”

  She started to vibrate with excitement and felt moisture seep down her thighs. Just imagining what he was going to do, how he might tease her in terrible and delightful ways, made her body hum with eager anticipation.

  She walked over, swaying her hips, and arranged herself as gracefully as possible. She shot one look at him before letting her lids shut: He was stalking toward her, that feral look, his body so strong and sexy—that was the last image she captured before she closed her eyes, and that picture stayed floating behind her eyelids, flickering in and out.

  Her pulse accelerated as she heard him approach, and she flinched slightly when he touched her hair.

  “Relax.” His voice held humor. “I’m not going to hurt you…yet.”

  “Dylan?” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “And when I do, it will only be the way you like it. You liked it last time.”

  She nodded, her muscles easing back into comfort.

  “I’m going to tease you again, bring you to the edge, Fia.” His voice got darker. “Until you can barely stand it. You’re going to be begging me for release, and when you come, you’ll scream my name right here into my own art. Fuck.”

  Her nipples hardened into pebbles, and she shifted on the chaise.

  She felt air, and then he must have bent down, because his face was right next to hers, his lips brushing her cheek. “I’m not going to tie you up, at least not with ropes and leather. But I’m going to bind you, all the same.”

  “How?”

  “With your word,” he said, running his fingers over her breasts. “I’m going to ask you to spread your legs for me, and put your arms above your head, and not to move them, no matter what I do. And because you trust me, you’re going to do it. Yes?”

  She nodded. “Y-Yes.”

  “No matter how hard it gets, no matter how badly you want to close your thighs, you won’t. Not even a millimeter. You’ll keep them right where I put them, even if you cry and beg me, won’t you, Fia?”

  His voice drifted over her as his hands stroked, and she felt hypnotized, like she was falling into a deep, dark sea of warm velvet and flowers.

  “Yes, I will.” She was frantic for his touch. She wanted to spread her legs for him and let him start tantalizing her.

  “Promise me.” His voice was sharp.

  “I promise. I won’t close my legs.”

  “Good girl.” He stroked her arm. “If you do, I’ll punish you. So keep that in mind.”

  “P-punish me?” She gasped and arched up into his touch.

  “You heard me.” He ran a hand over her hip and gave her a small tap, not a spank, but a reminder. “Punishment. Discipline. To keep you obedient. And you like that.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  She licked her lips.

  “Sit up, and lean back,” he told her, and helped assist. “Arms up and behind your head, fingers laced. Just like that. Now, put up your knees and spread your legs nice and wide. I want you completely open and on display for me. Open your eyes, now. I want you to see what I’m doing.”

  Her eyes flew open. He was holding something in his hand, a small bundle of leather tassels,
gathered at the end by a handle. “Do you know what this is?”

  She shook her head, eyes wide.

  “It’s a new flogger. I got it just for you. I’ll use it for pleasure and for punishment.” He raised the flogger and slapped it onto his palm. She started at the whish and crack. God, this was like all of her dirtiest fantasies coming true!

  “You’ll get both, depending on how you behave. When you’re good, I’ll flog you gently, in a way that will arouse you. If you’re disobedient, you’ll get a much harder strike on your breasts and thighs, guaranteed to make you squirm and promise to do better. Yes?”

  “Yes.” She breathed out the word, staring at the thing in his hands. The world was just her spread legs, her naked body, her throbbing sex, and this man, this handsome stern man, standing in front of her, threatening pain and bliss.

  “And when you really beg me, that’s when I’m going to have you get down and suck my cock,” he promised, stepping between her thighs and kneeling down. “But first, let’s see how you like this.” And then he put his tongue to her slit and made her cry out instantly with the sensation, so powerful and raw.

  He started in strong from the beginning, lapping at her clit hard, almost too hard, licking it ferociously, almost slapping it with his tongue. She wailed; it was too much too soon, and she pressed her knees into his head, trying to soften his assault. He immediately pulled back.

  “Fia,” he said. “I’m afraid that merits punishment. Thighs stay open, no matter what. Remember?”

  “But it was too much,” she pleaded, although her safeword wasn’t even in her mind.

  “It’s your job to take what I give,” he snapped. He flipped the flogger. “Five, each breast.”

  “On my…ouch!” She sucked in a breath as the flogger landed, all the tails spreading out, one hitting right across her nipple. “Fuck. Dylan!”

  “Move, and the count goes up. You want six on each?”

  “No, please, ow!” she hissed out the word as the flogger fell on the other one.

  “Relax your muscles,” he suggested. “Lean back into the chaise, melt into it. Accept the flogger on your tits, Fia. Accept the punishment. Relish it. It hurts, but it will be followed by pleasure. Count out loud for me. Five, and then five again. Start now.” He flicked the flogger at her left nipple.