Drawing Lessons

by Julia Gabriel

  “And what was Maya doing on Fox News saying I was a liability to the campaign? It didn’t look to me like she’s just licking her wounds. More like jockeying for position.” She shot her mother a meaningful look. “Still.”

  She grabbed her coat and purse from the hall closet, then charged out of the house, slamming the front door behind her for good measure. She didn’t even wait to get out of sight of the house before allowing herself a little skip and fist pump into the air. It was working. The publicity about Luc’s show was working, if Richard felt he had to shunt his wife off to rehab to rehabilitate her image. It took all her willpower not to dance down the middle of the street.

  Chapter 22

  Luc saw her as soon as he pulled into the driveway. She was leaning against her car, face turned up to the sky. Her hair was pulled up, her neck long and graceful above the collar of her wool coat. The light was perfect, clear and blue, unobstructed by the heavy tree canopy of summer. In the distance, a line of geese dotted the sky.

  Everything about her was beautiful, timeless. And he was helpless before her.

  Déesse.

  He had meant it when he’d said that he belonged to her. An artist always belongs to his art.

  He memorized the scene in the moment it took her to turn toward him and smile. Then she was running toward him and all he could do was open his arms and catch her. Once you see, you can never un-see.

  She snuggled into his chest, warm and solid in his arms. He pressed his lips to her head and took a deep inhale, breathing in the faint flowery scent of her hair. He loved the way she smelled, her shampoo, her perfumes—she had two that she wore, he had determined that—the soap on her skin ... he loved the Marie-ness of her.

  “What happened, ma chérie?” He left Sam’s house the minute he’d gotten her text. He wasn’t fond of Thanksgiving anyway. Too much food for a Frenchman’s stomach, not to mention American football.

  She shook in his arms, and he was momentarily alarmed until he realized she was laughing. She looked up at him.

  “They want to send me to rehab, to fix my image as a senator’s wife.”

  “That’s ridiculous. They can’t do that.”

  “And my parents were going along with it. I had to leave or else I was going to bludgeon them all to death with a twenty-pound turkey.”

  “Now that would be a story for CNN.” He kissed her. “You should have come with me.”

  “I wish I had. But Sam must hate me.”

  His hands found the bun at the back of her head and tugged it free from the ponytail holder. He ran his hands through her loose hair, releasing a bloom of scent around her. There came a tightening in his groin. That never took long with Marie in his arms. He wanted her lovely naked body in his bed or on his floor or anywhere he could have her. He wasn’t particular.

  “Are you kidding? She’s never had so many reporters in her gallery. She’s loving the attention.” He caressed her soft cheek, warm against the cold air. “She still thinks I’m an idiot, of course. But that’s nothing new.”

  Inside, they shed coats and shoes, grasping for each other’s body beneath layers of fabric. Luc unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her skirt, unrolled her stockings. Quickly, quickly. Then he stepped back to look at her, clad in nothing but lacy ivory panties that were barely distinguishable from her porcelain skin.

  Art or sex? Suddenly he was torn. At their best, they were one and the same.

  “You want to draw me,” she whispered.

  She knew him so well. But of course she did. He belonged to her.

  If he did this quickly, he could have both. He lead her to the sofa, posed her just so. Her legs stretched out along the leather upholstery, one arm resting on the back of the sofa, the other dangling toward the floor. He lowered her panties just enough to expose one flawless hip.

  L’invitation. That’s what he would call it.

  Lines flew easily from his pencil. She was here, and he was happy. He could keep her safe here, in his home. No ocean, no husband, could reach her here. He drew her curves against the curves of the sofa, her pale skin fairly glowing against the dark leather.

  “What is that little smile for?” she asked.

  His smile widened to a grin. “In my next life, I am coming back as a sofa. As your sofa.”

  “Are you saying you wish you were lying beneath me?”

  He closed his eyes with a groan, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy that image. Marie’s body stretched out on top of his. He had a raging hard-on now. All he could think of was being inside her, her warm heat around him, holding him tight. When he opened his eyes, she was staring back at him with heavy-lidded eyes of her own. Her breasts rose and fell above her ragged breath.

  Fuck the art. He was done drawing.

  He went to her. She sat up, making short work of his jeans, popping open the button fly, then cradling him in her hands. She kissed him, exploring his hard length with her lips, softly. When she found the vein and ran her tongue alone it, he closed his eyes again. He wanted simply to feel this, to be blind to everything but her touch.

  She slid her lips over him, pulling him in and out of her mouth, slowly, patiently. With his eyes closed, it was all sensation, just the soft velvet of her lips and tongue caressing him, soothing him and urging him on at the same time. When she splayed her fingers across his hip, it was more than he could take.

  “Marie. Please. I don’t want to come this way.”

  She let her lips slide slowly off him, then pulled him down onto the sofa next to her. She stripped off her panties and climbed onto his lap.

  “You wanted to be beneath me?” She pushed him back into the sofa cushion.

  “I want to be anywhere in your general vicinity.”

  She lifted her hips above his lap and slowly eased him inside her. She moaned as he filled her inch by slow delicious inch. When her hips reached his again, she paused, sighing, savoring the feeling of him inside her. Completely, fully inside her.

  “The look on your face right now, Marie. I will draw that someday. Just for me.”

  She began to rock her hips, letting him slide in and out of her. She gasped for air with each stroke. He rolled her nipples beneath his thumbs, but she seemed not to notice. She was lost in herself, his déesse filling herself with pleasure, with desire, with him. He folded his arms behind his head, a smile on his face, and silently watched her skin and hair and breasts bob and sway before him.

  She stilled her hips and her eyes came back into focus, taking in his amused smile, his casual posture. “I’m sorry, Luc,” she whispered.

  “Sorry for what, love?”

  “For—”

  She began to lift her hips off him. He pulled her back down.

  “It’s just that ... posing for you ... I got carried away.”

  He pulled her head toward his and kissed her deeply. “Shh. I know what modeling does to you. It’s okay.”

  “It’s not right to just ...”

  “Use me?”

  She nodded shyly.

  “Who says it’s not right? It’s just the two of us here. I am yours, Marie.” He kissed his way over to her ear, sucked gently on her earlobe for a moment—long enough to feel her squeeze around him—then added quietly, “Do you need to just fuck me tonight?”

  He leaned back to watch the rosy blush warm her face.

  “You do that on purpose,” she protested.

  “Guilty as charged. I’m an artist, ma chérie. I like to see color. I also like to see you come.”

  He pulled her breast to his lips, heard her sharp intake of breath as he closed his mouth around her nipple. Her hips began moving again, slowly at first, then faster. He held her away from him so he could watch. Her breathing fell shallow and ragged again, but her eyes were no longer a million miles away. They were right here, trained on him. Her entire being was here and intent on claiming the pleasure she needed. He had never loved her more than right this very minute, when she was taking exactly what she wanted. And
what she wanted was him.

  He would paint this, too, someday. Just for himself. He contemplated the logistics of such a painting to hold back his own orgasm until she came. There were so many paintings he wanted to make, it would take a lifetime to complete them all.

  “L—Lu—” She was trying to get his name out and failing miserably, charmingly.

  He felt her muscles contract around him and he let himself go with a loud moan, accepting the weight of her body as she collapsed onto his shoulder.

  “Come with me to New York tomorrow.”

  He joined her in the tub, slid behind her and wrapped her in his arms.

  “What’s in New York?”

  “Some collector Sam wants me to meet with. But that won’t take all day.” He kissed her warm shoulders.

  She sighed, and he knew by the tenor of the sound that he was about to get turned down.

  “I’d love to. But I have finals next week and I’m behind on studying.” She twisted around in his arms to face him. “I’m sorry.”

  “No apology necessary. Professor Marchand believes in studying.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I just can’t picture you in a classroom. I’ve been trying but I can’t see it.”

  He ran a wet finger along her collarbone, imagining another drawing. “There are videos of some of my lectures on YouTube.”

  “Maybe I’ll look those up.”

  She palmed soapy bubbles onto his chest, then began tracing circles through the lather. If she kept this up, he would end up taking her again, right here in the tub. She didn’t comprehend how great his need for her was.

  “Do you miss it? Teaching?”

  He didn’t want to discuss teaching. Unless it was teaching her. And not even that today. Her teacher was the last thing he wanted to be today.

  “Sometimes, yes.” He slipped his hand under the water and between her legs. She inhaled sharply when his thumb found her clitoris. “When you’re passionate about something, I think you naturally want to share that with others. I don’t have as great an outlet for that anymore.”

  “And they won’t let you do it now, because of ...”

  He couldn’t believe she was continuing this conversation. She could be stubborn sometimes, his déesse. Her voice trailed off when he slipped a finger inside her. He hoped his intentions were becoming clearer.

  “If she were still alive, people would probably have gotten over it by now. But she’s not.”

  “I never intended for your past to get dragged into this. If I’d known, I would have done things differently.”

  With his free hand, he pulled her toward him and kissed the words back into her mouth. “It’s not your fault, Marie. If it gets you free once and for all from your husband, then it will be worth it. The press coverage doesn’t change anything for me.” Her hips were beginning to rock back and forth, as she pressed herself against his hand. “Fuck me again, love.”

  Chapter 23

  Marie set down her bag of groceries and inserted her apartment key into the lock. It was early Friday evening, and she shivered in the cold. The forecast was for an early snow, unusual for Virginia. Well, no matter, she told herself. Studying was the only thing she had planned for the weekend anyway. She’d left Luc’s house early that morning, picked up her books from the apartment and headed to the university library downtown. The apartment complex was noisy when the local schools were out. But if she had to study here all weekend, snowbound, she’d manage.

  The key turned easily in the lock. Too easily. There was no heavy thunk of the deadbolt dropping. Had she forgotten to lock up when she left? Probably, she figured. It had been early and her brain had been fogged with memories of Luc and lovemaking. Fuck me, love and she’d been putty in his hands.

  It would be hard to settle for an ordinary Thanksgiving in the future. She turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

  It was the aroma that hit her first, ginger and the yeasty smell of rice. And a faint odor of smoke. The lights were on, that was the second thing she noticed. She had not turned on the lights when she was here that morning. She definitely knew that. She had rushed in, changed into jeans, grabbed her bookbag and left.

  Richard stepped around the corner from the small dining nook next to the kitchen. She let out a tiny cry of surprise, then braced herself for the yelling. Instead, his smile was affable and relaxed. He wore casual jeans and a button-down shirt.

  “Hungry?” he asked, not a trace of anger or animosity in his voice.

  He held out his hand to her, as if he really expected her to take it.

  Who are you and what did you do with the real Richard?

  “I got Chinese.”

  Slowly she inched toward the dining nook. Surely there was a catch here. It had been easily over a year since Richard had spoken to her without yelling or accusing her of something or other. The table was set, two candles lit in the middle, a bottle of white wine already opened and poured. He took the bag of groceries from her hand.

  “Sit. I’ll put these away for you.”

  Marie was stunned. Something was off here, but what?

  “How did you get in here?” she finally managed to say.

  “The building manager let me in. He didn’t want our dinner to get cold while I waited for you to come home.”

  She listened to Richard opening and closing cupboards in her tiny kitchen. The building manager let him in. Of course, he would. Her husband was a senator. But still. Not good.

  “What do you think of that wine? Your mother recommended it.”

  The wine glowed in the light of the candle. Marie picked up her glass and took a sip. “It’s okay.”

  “Really? I thought it was quite good. It’s from New Zealand.”

  She glanced at Richard’s glass. Half empty. Or half full, she supposed. If that was all he’d had, it wasn’t enough to make him drunk. Not that Richard had ever been a big drinker. His military family was wound too tight for that.

  He came out and sat down at the table, began dishing out kung pao chicken.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “We need to talk. Rice?” He handed over the white carton.

  “About what, exactly?” Marie could think of a dozen things, exactly, that they needed to talk about. But then again, none of those really required any further discussion.

  “About us. I had a really good conversation with your parents yesterday.”

  I bet you did.

  He went on. “I’m sorry about everything with Maya. That was stupid of me. Monumentally stupid of me. But that’s over now.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, took another sip of wine. The wine wasn’t bad, actually. If her mother had recommended it, it wouldn’t be, of course.

  “No no. I don’t expect you to believe me right away but I’m going to prove it to you, Marie. I want you back.”

  “Your campaign manager wants me back. You said so yourself when you came to my office.”

  Richard sipped at his own wine. “Can’t we just give this a try? If you think it’s not working, then we can quietly separate after the election.”

  She drank more wine. She needed it. “I’m seeing someone else, Richard.”

  Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “That artist is bad news, Marie. Haven’t you seen the news reports? One of his students killed herself. He got fired by UVa for ethics violations. He’ll never teach again.”

  “That’s in the past.”

  “Marie, he’s using you. Can’t you see that? He’s a two-bit has-been artist who needs to sell some paintings. What better way than selling nude paintings of a senator’s wife?”

  “That’s not true.” This conversation was making her head hurt, and she was tired. Studying all day had wiped her out.

  “Your parents really helped me see the light yesterday. We are good together, Marie. We’re a good match. We’ll be players in Washington for the rest of our lives, like your parents.”

  She closed her eyes. All she could think
of was sleep.

  “Don’t your parents have a good life? We could have that, too, Marie. Please don’t throw this away for us.”

  * * *

  People were shouting near her. She was being jostled. Now she was floating on air. In the distance, car tires whined on the street. Behind her eyelids, lights were flashing around and around. Her head felt like it had been split open. She reached a hand to her hair.

  “She’s coming to!” someone shouted above her head.

  A hand grabbed her wrist and pressed on her pulse.

  She opened her eyes a crack. Faces peered down at her. She was in mid-air—and then she wasn’t. She was set inside a room with a thud. Where am I? Damn weirdest dream.

  “How are you feeling?” someone else asked.

  She felt a sharp pinch on the inside of her elbow.

  Okay, she’d play along with this dream.

  “Fine. Where am I?”

  “You’re in an ambulance. We’re taking you to the hospital.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You took a bit of a spill back there on the street. Knocked yourself out cold.”

  She heard a door open, a blast of air on her ankles, then another voice. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  She thought for a moment. How much of that wine did she drink with dinner? Well, she couldn’t really say with dinner. She’d barely eaten any of it. “Half a glass of wine, maybe?”

  “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like enough to make someone black out on a street corner.”

  She laughed weakly. “No. No, it doesn’t.”

  The voice was irritated this time. “Did you take something else then? We need to know what you have in your system, dear.”

  “Some kung pao chicken. A sandwich from lunch. That’s about it, I guess.”

  “She’s still high. Oh well.” The voice was no longer talking to her. “They’ll figure it out at the hospital. Doesn’t look the type, eh?”