Salacious

by A. Zavarelli

  Even the simple curve of her arm as she holds the forbidden fruit in her palm appears deadly and sinful. Magnetic. Everything about the image draws the viewer in. Harnessing the eye in a way that only his artwork ever could.

  He did this.

  Mr. Vaughn did this.

  The wind stirs behind me, carrying his scent on the breeze. He’s here now. Silent. In the shadows behind me. Waiting and watching.

  Rellek.

  It is him, I realize. The other half of Mr. Vaughn. The artist who cannot help himself. The Jekyll to his Hyde.

  “Is this how you see me?” I whisper.

  “How could I see you any other way?” he replies.

  His body heat draws closer, even though his feet don’t make a sound. And then his breath is stirring the hair just behind my ear, sending a shiver down the back of my neck.

  “I am sorry, Chloe.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for?” I ask.

  He remains behind me. Masked in the darkness. Neither of us able to face each other as we whisper our secrets into the night.

  “I am sorry for how I treated you in class,” he tells me in a solemn voice. “And I am sorry that I could not stay away from you when I should have.”

  Silence descends over us, but it is not uncomfortable. It feels as though we have known each other forever. Two souls reunited after countless lives searching.

  “You are the entire reason I am here,” I confess. “I have followed your work since the beginning. I have followed you.”

  He is quiet and still behind me. And that fear is there, within me, as it always is. That he will reject me. That he will leave.

  But he doesn’t.

  “I am not that man anymore,” he says finally. “I never was, Chloe.”

  “I know who you are,” I argue. “So don’t tell me. I see you every day. You made this for me. You created this… for me. Do you think I don’t understand what that means to you?”

  I can feel the tension rising in his body, expanding into my own. He is still trying to resist. But only because his mind tells him this is wrong. But his body… I feel what his body is telling him. That nothing has ever been so right.

  “I just wanted you to know I was sorry,” he says again. “And that I understand now.”

  “You understand what?”

  “The music you were playing,” he explains. “This is about your father. Isn’t it?”

  This time, it is me who tries to move away from him. But he reaches out and halts me. Holding my back to his chest, only closer. So much closer.

  “Do you need someone to give you permission?” he whispers into my ear.

  My body comes alive for him, and I melt into his arms. Pliable. I am open to anything he has to offer me right now.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m giving you permission, Chloe,” he tells me. “I want you to show me what you are really capable of. I want you to show me the girl who created all of this.”

  I lean my head back against his chest and look up at him. He does not protest, even though our lips are now only a breath apart. So close, and so far.

  “What if I’m not good enough?” I ask him.

  “You will never be good enough,” he assures me, his fingers coming up to touch my temple. “In here. An artist never is.”

  “That isn’t the reason you do it,” I reply.

  My words surprise him. They were from an interview he did. Back in the days of the media circus that surrounded him.

  “No,” he answers. “That isn’t why we do it. We do it because there is no other option. Because inside, you die if you quit.”

  “But you quit.”

  He is quiet now. Pensive.

  “You made me want to do it all over again,” he admits finally. “When I saw you up here.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because that part of my life is over. I want to help people now. I want to help you, Chloe. Which is why it’s best that I leave.”

  “I think I should have a say in what’s best for me,” I answer him. “And it isn’t that.”

  He breaks away and paces along the wall, turning his face away from me. So that I can’t read him. So that he can lie to me without regret.

  “What do you want?” he demands.

  “I want this,” I tell him. “I want body movement, the human figure, and paint. A fusion. I want freedom. I love to dance, but on my own terms. Nobody gets that.”

  He turns back to me and his eyes are soft. Open in a way that I have never seen them.

  “I get it.”

  “That isn’t the only thing,” I tell him. “I want you. I want that too.”

  He doesn’t speak. Or move. His eyes are on me. Imagining the things his mind tells him are wrong. The dirty things he wants to do with me. I can see them.

  There is no hiding it.

  I take a step forward. And then another. Until I am in front of him. Until there is nowhere else to go.

  “Do you want to touch me, Mr. Vaughn?” I ask him. “Because you can.”

  He swallows and looks away. But he can’t hide the bulge in his trousers. Or the heat radiating from his body.

  “Sometimes we must indulge in the things society would not approve of,” I tell him.

  Another quote of his. From another interview. In a past life. One so long forgotten that I do question if he is the same man underneath.

  “Those are the words of someone who was ignorant, Chloe,” he replies. “Someone who didn’t know any better.”

  “You’re wrong,” I argue. “Those are the words of someone who was free.”

  I reach out a tentative hand and find his with my own. He does not pull away, even as I run my fingers over the flesh of his palm.

  “How did it feel?” I ask. “To create again? Did it make you feel alive?”

  His voice is thick when he replies, and honest too. “Yes.”

  “You make me feel alive,” I whisper. “So it can’t be wrong.”

  His eyes move over my face, and then his other hand follows. Touching me. Feeling all of the curves and valleys of my features. Memorizing them. And I know in this moment that painting of me won’t be the last he does.

  His fingers dip lower. Lower. Until they are feathering over my collar bone and down my shoulder. I am breathing hard for him now. The butterflies in my stomach are out of control. There is fire in my veins. And want so dangerous I fear I might become addicted to this feeling. To him.

  He feels it too. And right now, he is powerless to it. A slave to the desire. He tugs my body against him and then presses his lips to mine. Biting at my lip and then soothing the sting with a kiss.

  “Fuck, Chloe,” he murmurs against me. “Fuck. We can’t.”

  He tries to pull away. I pull him back. And slide my hands up inside of his sweater, feeling the heat of his skin beneath.

  “I want you inside of me.”

  He groans. And it is the most agony I have ever heard in a single sound.

  “I feel like I’ll die if you don’t give that to me,” I beg.

  And then his hand is slipping inside of my shorts. Directly between my legs. To the place no man has ever touched before. I jerk against him and he groans again.

  “Christ,” he says. “Fucking Christ, you are so wet for me.”

  “Please,” I beg him again.

  He touches me. Exactly where I need him to. His fingers soothing and maddening the ache inside of me. His lips find my throat and he tastes me. Whispering secret confessions against my skin in the darkness. About how much he wants me too. About the things he thinks of.

  Dirty things. Depraved things.

  He tells me he wants to fuck me rough and dirty and come inside of me. He tells me he wants to degrade the perfect little ballerina. Tie her to his bed and never let her leave.

  I come for him. I come so hard for him. All the while begging for him to do it all.

&nb
sp; But he doesn’t.

  As soon as I’m recovered from the most intense experience of my life, he pulls away and looks at me with regret.

  “Keller?” I whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells me again. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I have to go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Keller

  I am painting again.

  With maddening need and an unquenchable thirst for more.

  I don’t even know what it is until I stop. And see the face of the angel staring back at me. An angel in pointes, covered in paint.

  The way I envisioned her on that rooftop as I watched her dance. Watched the way her body moved. Alive and free and covered in paint.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m unzipping my pants. Fetching my cock and jerking myself off to the image. The image of her. Of her taste and her scent which is still on my fingers.

  Fuck.

  Fucking fuck.

  I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.

  The temptation to draw her in and destroy her the way I do everything else is too much. She is young. Pliable. Vulnerable. Looking for someone to guide her in a way that I can’t. I would only ever corrupt her.

  It doesn’t stop me from coming as I think about fucking her pretty face. As I imagine bending her over the desk in my classroom and painting her body with my fingers.

  Tasting her and pleasing her and showing her what it feels like to be with a man.

  A man thirteen years older than she is.

  Christ.

  I wipe off my shame and cover over the painting so that I don’t have to look at it. So I can pretend it doesn’t exist. That none of this ever happened. That I didn’t lose myself already. That I haven’t lost control.

  And that Chloe will only ever remain what she should to me now.

  A student.

  ***

  When she comes to class the next day, I expect avoidance.

  What I receive instead is something else. Something I haven’t quite seen in her before.

  Determination.

  “Mr. Vaughn,” she greets me.

  Just the sound of her voice saying that name has my cock raging hard beneath my desk.

  “Yes, Chloe?”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  I glance around the class as the other students filter in, wondering if this is it. If this will be my undoing. If she will put me to shame in front of them as I rightfully deserve.

  “Our final projects are coming up soon,” she says. “And since this will be my last semester here, I was hoping you could help with mine.”

  I blink up at her. And suddenly I’m less concerned with my shame than the words she just uttered.

  “What do you mean it’s your last semester here?” I ask. “You’ve only just begun.”

  She frowns and shrugs her dainty shoulder in the way that she often does when she is upset.

  “My father wants me to start auditioning for companies,” she answers in a flat voice. “The shelf life of a dancer is short, and he only agreed to let me come here for a year. But now…”

  Her words drift off, and I am irrationally angry on her behalf. It is clear to me that although Chloe loves to dance, it is not the thing she wants to do. I would say that it should be clear to her father too, but I know just as well that isn’t the case.

  I heard the recordings. I heard his voice. Degrading her. Destroying her.

  Which is probably the very reason she stands before me now, with her big blue eyes looking at me with admiration.

  It occurs to me in this moment that she has father issues. And it also occurs to me that the very last thing I want her to see in me is a father figure.

  She shouldn’t admire me. Or look to me for help. She should be running as far away from me as she can. But I can’t let her go. I can’t let her follow that path when I know it will destroy her.

  Just as my father’s insistence to follow an academic path destroyed me. He wanted something real to fall back on. Because art isn’t something to make a living on, he’d say.

  And oddly enough, I’ve never had to worry about money.

  That isn’t why I’m here now.

  But neither is the pressing need to help the lost girl in front of me.

  Still, my lips are speaking the words before I can stop it from happening.

  “How can I help you, Chloe?”

  My words bring her relief, and I watch as she opens up to me. Probably the first time she’s opened up to anyone in this way. I respect that for the gift it is as I listen closely to everything she has to say.

  “It’s big,” she answers shyly. “I want to go really big.”

  “Okay.”

  She’s searching my eyes for doubt. For anything that will prove this is a foolish notion. But I can’t and won’t do that to her.

  She continues.

  “It’s a series,” she says. “Of movement and paint fusion. I already have them picked out.”

  “Tell me what they are,” I insist.

  She glances over her shoulder, once again checking to be sure that she is not embarrassing herself. That nobody else is privy to this vulnerable moment. Nobody else but me.

  I shouldn’t like that. But I do. I like it very much. And I am selfish for wanting more of these vulnerable moments.

  “Since Christmas is around the corner, I was thinking the Nutcracker on canvas,” she tells me.

  The idea is brilliant in its simplicity. The idea of her body and her feet laying claim to the canvas with a classic. The audience trying to reverse engineer the movements in their minds as they capture each splatter of paint in their eye.

  “It’s perfect,” I tell her. “I have no doubts it will be huge, Chloe.”

  “Really?”

  She lights up under my praise, and my cock is pressing at the seam of my trousers. Fuck.

  “Yes, really,” I answer her.

  “Well there’s a couple more. I was thinking a yoga sequence too. I know it’s been done before. But there’s a class in the city. For amputees.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I know exactly why. It hits me right in the fucking gut, her words. Her meaning. I know the people in that class. Many of them are the same faces from the theater that day. The people whose lives I altered irrevocably.

  “I thought we could give them a chance to create something beautiful,” she says softly. “To show that beauty still exists, even after the darkest of days.”

  I can imagine what she’s speaking of in my mind. Again, the idea is astounding in its simplicity. But what she is asking of me is to face my own demons. To face the people I have destroyed. For simply being fans of my work.

  “Chloe, I’m not certain if…”

  “I’ve already spoken to the group,” she cuts me off. “We have a handful of willing participants. They are really excited about it, Mr. Vaughn. They want to connect with you. They want to do this.”

  Christ. I don’t know how to say no to that.

  I can’t say no to that.

  I owe them that much. She sees that in my face. The resignation. The defeat. And she capitalizes on it.

  And in that moment, I realize that maybe Chloe isn’t the one who should be running from me. Maybe I should be running from her.

  “I thought we could capture some images during the process as well,” she continues. “To really bring it to life.”

  “Of course,” I choke out. “That would be… great, Chloe.”

  “There are two more pieces,” she says.

  I feel the urge to have a drink. But I continue to listen instead. To give her my attention and ignore the panic clawing inside of me at the prospect of facing my past.

  “One will be a live piece,” she tells me. “At the very end. Swan Lake.”

  “And the final piece?” I ask.

  She smiles, and it unsettles me.

  “That one is a surprise. I’ll have
to work on that later. But I need your help with the rest. So can you do it?”

  “You’re talking about a very large-scale project, Chloe,” I reply. “Are you sure you can get it done with all of your responsibilities?”

  “Yes,” she answers defiantly. “Absolutely.”

  What choice do I have when she’s looking at me that way?

  “Okay,” I answer. “Then yes. I will help you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Chloe

  Mr. Vaughn arrives on the rooftop at exactly the time we agreed on. And at first, he seems relieved to find that we are not alone.

  Until his eyes settle on Bastien.

  And although it was really not my intention, I am pleased to see the spark of jealousy in his eyes. The unmistakable alpha male who exerts his dominance with a single look in my direction.

  “Bastien is going to help with the piece,” I explain. “We need at least two dancers. And I didn’t figure you were up to the job.”

  I mean it as a joke, but Mr. Vaughn doesn’t seem to take it that way. He’s sizing up Bastien, who is admittedly very handsome. But that isn’t why I picked him. I picked him because he’s nice and a good dancer, and I know he can keep his lips shut about the project until the final reveal.

  But right now, he sort of looks like he wants to bolt. I break the awkward silence by handing Mr. Vaughn the paint I’ve already prepared and then stripping off my sweater. I’m already dressed in a leotard, skirt and pointes. Ready to go.

  Bastien is as well, in a dance belt and tights. And nothing else. Which is maybe part of the problem. But I need him for support since we are using paint. I’ve already customized my pointes with suede tips and soles, but Bastien knows what to watch for since this is a different surface than what we’d normally be working on.

  “Okay.” I shake myself out and take a breath. “Mr. Vaughn, would you mind cueing the music?”

  He nods and presses the button on my iPod. There is an intentional two-minute delay in which I show him what intervals to add paint to the surface and where.

  And then the music begins.

  For the pas de deux, Bastien and I take on our respective roles of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her prince. We start on opposite ends of the canvas before coming together and moving in tempo. The piece is slow and graceful, providing the perfect opportunity to apply the paint at each interval.