Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance

by Mazurkiewicz, Joanna

  I lean my head backwards as he continues playing with me, kneading my breast with his hand. This is a delicious torture, especially when he doesn’t want me to touch him. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but ever since that afternoon in his gallery, it feels like we’re locked in a violent storm of lust.

  I’m afraid to tell him what I want him to do to me. I’m a little self-conscious and afraid to be judged by him.

  “Oh, Ethan,” I moan when he pulls my jeans down all of a sudden. I’m trapped as he places his hands around my bum cheeks, pressing his mouth to my sex. He starts kissing me there, slipping his tongue between my folds, glancing his tongue against my clitoris, teasing my growing need until I’m out of breath and my knickers are drenched.

  Before I have a chance to tell him that this is exactly what I need from him, he throws me across his shoulder and carries me to the bed.

  “Now, let’s make you come multiple times. What do you say?”

  “Bring it on,” I giggle.

  The bed is very soft and Ethan stands in front of me still fully clothed with those whiskey amber eyes penetrating my naked flesh. I bite my lip when he sheds his clothes quicker than I ever saw him do it. When he is all naked and beautiful right in front of me I start to appreciate the fact that we are away together. The strokes of his fingers on my skin leave behind marks of love and anticipation, heating up my blood.

  Ethan likes surprises and just when I begin to think that today he wants to go slow and smooth, he lifts me up and takes me, pushing himself fully into me. I’m pressed against the cold wall and he is inside me, thrusting fast and deep. I moan, closing my eyes, trying to memorise every moment. My body is drenched with his scent. I start panting with my legs all over his waist as he picks up the pace, breathing hard.

  Ethan

  With her I’m someone else: a man of needs. My breathing deepens and then she explodes around me, moaning and coming for me. I love seeing her so engrossed in the intensity of the moment, pushing the limits, forgetting about everything we left behind.

  A moment later I fill her up, my heart pounds faster, pulse racing, and I’m on the edge. I come inside her fast and hard. I keep moving my hands over her body, enjoying the feel of her soft skin. We stay like that for a moment, entwined in our postcoital haze, catching up with our ragged breaths.

  “Ethan, you always surprise me.” She laughs when I let go of her, after a long and passionate kiss.

  “Surprise you, how?”

  “I don’t know, you just do,” she mutters and in that moment I wish that I could read her mind. She starts putting her bra on and I get back into bed, admiring what’s mine. I’m falling for her hard. It’s like nothing I ever felt before. My emotions are wildly transparent. It makes me question myself, doubt if this is ever going to go anywhere.

  “What would you like to do tonight?” I ask, pushing away negative thoughts. She climbs on top of me in her underwear, her panties all that separate our natural alignment.

  “Maybe we can just stay here, order room service and make each other come all night long.”

  “That sounds very appealing, but trust me, we have a busy day tomorrow. We should go out and have some food.”

  “All right, let’s go. I’m starving anyway.”

  Sometimes I think that Arwen is simply too good for me, that I won’t keep up, but she injects new, intoxicating energy into me. We leave the room and head to the town centre, which is not far from the hotel.

  Bruges is filled with rich history, beautiful monuments and canals. It’s dark as we walk holding hands, admiring Brug Square and Grote Market. For tonight, I don’t want to worry about Colin or Bethany, and what they would think about this relationship. I take her to De Halve Maan Brewery, so she can try the famous beer.

  It’s very busy, but we manage to order drinks after a few minutes. I notice that other men are eyeing Arwen. She is still so young, naive and in need of protection.

  “I can’t believe this,” she says.

  “You don’t believe what?”

  “This.” She points to herself. “If anyone had told me that I would be in Bruges in one of the oldest breweries with a man twice my age, I would have never believed it.”

  “So you’re worried? About the age difference?”

  She frowns.

  “No, that’s not what I said, but it’s surreal to feel love again. I don’t want to think about the future, Ethan, but you make me happy. Actually, I have never been happier in my entire life.”

  Her blue eyes only confirm it and I stare, mesmerised by her beauty. Love—she said that she feels love. I’ve changed since I’ve been around her, but I don’t dare to label anything yet. It’s too soon.

  “I never thought that I could change my life. I had this odd routine, but then I saw you in the gallery and I had to talk to you.”

  When she presses her lips against mine, my erection is back, waking me up from the memory. She is so eager and I’m finding it challenging to keep up. I search on my phone for a romantic restaurant around the square. Ten minutes later, we are walking through the stunning streets.

  I never wondered if I was romantic, but with Arwen I’m exploring, wanting to make her happy. I want to treat her, cherish her until I can’t breathe. We enjoy a delicious meal with wine and we talk for hours, finding out more about each other. She tells me about her life in Saint-Malo, about her mother and her past boyfriends. Her life has been so different from mine. Arwen likes vivid colours, old furniture and vintage clothes. I can daydream with her, so I allow myself to do that. Even if this doesn’t last, it’s better to have it now than never to have it at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Arwen

  The next day we don’t wake up until ten. My head is pounding again. I mixed too many spirits with wine at the bar last night. It looks like Bruges suits us both. It’s so romantic out here and I feel calmer waking up next to Ethan in the morning. When I think about the art dealer, I’m back to being a nervous wreck. It’s another name on the list, another person that could help us in finding my bastard father. At the beginning I thought that my search was all about closure; now I get that it’s also about rebuilding a family history, fixing my irrational thinking.

  “Morning,” I sing, stretching my arms. “This bed is comfy and I don’t think I want to move my sexy arse out of here.”

  “We should go out for breakfast. It’s a beautiful day,” Ethan says, staring out at the clear blue sky. We are lucky; it’s cold, but we fought the sun.

  “I’m starving.”

  “Okay, get dressed and let’s go. Enough lounging for this morning.”

  We choose a small bistro near the hotel in the square. We have some croissants, coffee and then eggs. The food is delicious. We are both relaxed, but I sense that there is something in the air, a thrill of anticipation. I don’t know at all what to expect. There have been too many disappointments.

  “Crap, I’m stuffed now,” I say, patting my lovely stomach that Ethan is so well acquainted with. He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee.

  “Are you sure that you’re ready for this?”

  I keep smiling, but a deep and wrenching fear settles in my stomach now, crushing my confidence to pieces.

  “Yes, I am. This has gone on for too long, Ethan,” I assure him, lying to myself.

  “All right. I want you to know that I’ll be there for you,” he adds, squeezing my hand. I let go of a small gasp, and after a short argument about the bill, we return to the hotel.

  In the car, Ethan checks the address. Voltare’s main office is farther away from the main square, on the outskirts of Bruges.

  It’s a beautiful day and I don’t know why, but I’m hesitant. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of another disappointment. I think that I’ve grown so much in the past couple of weeks and this can only set me back.

  Fifteen minutes later we pull up by a side street. It looks like Voltare owns an antique shop next door to his workshop. I walk around the ca
r and take the painting out of the boot, feeling on edge.

  We check out the antique shop and one of the staff members lets us through to the office. The place is filled with beautiful but expensive-looking pieces. Voltare’s collection is well maintained. He has built a rare portfolio. The smell of paint clouds the air—it is a smell that has been following me since the day I sat down to paint for the first time.

  There is a man in there who looks like a local, typing furiously on the computer.

  “How can I help?” he asks in French.

  “We would like to speak to Lucas. Is he available?” asks Ethan, squeezing my hand.

  “Can I help you with anything? Mr. Voltare is setting up paintings for an exhibition that's on tomorrow,” the young man replies.

  “No, I’m sorry; this is quite important and personal. Can we see him? We won’t take much time,” Ethan continues. He always acts so cool and collected, it seems like people pay him to be polite.

  The man disappears and I try to breathe steadily, but the tension is slowly getting to me. I hear a loud discussion in Flemish in the distance and after some time an older man appears. He has a thick black beard and copper hair.

  “Please, come through. I’m extremely busy today, so this has to be quick.”

  “We appreciate it and won’t take much of your time,” Ethan says.

  He walks us though a long corridor and soon we find ourselves in a large room where the exhibition is going to be held. It’s a wide plain white room, very spacious.

  “How can I help you?” he asks.

  “I got this, Ethan,” I say, knowing that I need to take control, get involved. This whole thing is about me.

  I explain to Voltare what I’m searching for, letting him know who gave me his details. “I think I better show you. Many people don’t believe me when I say that there is a third copy,” I add. He is looking at me strangely, like he is confused but intrigued at the same time.

  For the first time my hands are steady when I unwrap the paper, and when my painting is out in the open, I feel nothing. It’s like the anxiety has vanished and I want people to see my creation.

  “Impressive and thrilling. Who painted this?” he asks.

  “I did, the way I remembered it,” I say, massaging my neck. “So have you seen it? We didn’t have much luck with other dealers, so I’m”

  “Yes, I have and I know the owner personally, but you’re wasting your time. He won’t sell it; he loves this painting.”

  My heart drops and my mouth goes dry. For a long, sluggish moment I stare at him without saying anything. Ethan’s hand creeps over my back.

  Ethan

  “We just want to talk to him, please,” I say because Arwen has gone too quiet. She keeps saying the right things, but this man won’t give her any details. He protects the privacy of his clients.

  “Have you got his address?”

  He looks at me then and narrows his eyes. “You don’t want to buy any art from me?”

  “No, Mr. Voltare, we don’t, but it’s important that we speak to this man. We have been trying to track him down since September,” I say.

  “All right, we can make a deal. Sell me your reproduction and I’ll give you his details.”

  Arwen pales and I stare at Voltare, angry that I didn’t see this coming, shocked that he’d dare to propose something like that. He must sense that Arwen will do anything to get what she needs out of him.

  “Why? Why do you want the painting?” I ask, curious, trying to steady myself.

  “Because I do, Mr…?”

  “Rivera, Ethan Rivera. This is my girlfriend, Arwen West.”

  “I can’t sell it to you. It’s the only memory about my father that I have,” says Arwen with a heavy voice.

  “I’m not allowed to disclose any personal information about my clients, and that particular one likes his privacy.”

  I want to punch this arrogant bastard. My palm is itching and I’m angry. He isn’t protecting anyone; he is making a business transaction.

  “Fine then, in that case I’ll sell it to you,” Arwen sighs. I touch her shoulder, pulling her aside.

  “Arwen, this doesn’t have to be done this way. You love this painting,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “It’s the past and I need to move on. I just want to have this whole thing behind me. It’s time.”

  I exhale, looking back at Voltare, who is watching us with grave intensity. He is using an innocent girl to get what he wants, knowing that he can make a large profit on her painting.

  “She wants four thousand euros for it and she won’t take anything less,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  Arwen opens her mouth, probably to protest, and I shake my head slightly.

  “I might give you three and a half.”

  “Four. We both know that this painting is worth more than that. Arwen created a superb reproduction from the original that no one has seen for years. We both know how valuable it is, and we both know that you will do anything to buy it.”

  Voltare scratches his beard, not taking his eyes off the painting. I have done some research, and there is a great mystery about this piece that will make many collectors want it. I’ll let him have it for now, but her painting won’t stay in his possession for too long.

  “All right, we have a deal.”

  Arwen is too quiet and I have no idea what’s going through her mind. Voltare writes the address of her father and we exchange the money for the painting.

  Her breathing is shallow when we step outside she looks slightly pale. I bring her to me, hugging her, because I don’t know what else to do.

  “Ethan, have you lost your mind? Four thousand euros?” she hisses.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I should have asked for more.”

  Arwen

  My heart is pounding faster than it should and I think I’m having a panic attack. I have just sold the only painting that kept me sane. Ethan has lost his mind.

  “More? Are you fucking crazy? The painting was hardly worth anything,” I shout. Yes, I was attached to that piece of art, but now I can finally get some real answers.

  He runs his hand through his hair, staring at me in confusion. “Arwen, it’s a reproduction of a very rare piece. You don’t even realise how talented you are. He will sell it for more than four thousand euros.”

  My jaw drops and I stare at him in disbelief. He can’t be serious. “Ethan, listen to yourself. Some of the established artists don’t sell their work for that much. I can’t believe that he agreed to that ridiculous amount.”

  “No, Arwen, established artists sell for much more than that, some in the range of fifty thousand euros and up. Because this is a reproduction, not an original, it wouldn’t command a price that high, but with the mystery surrounding D’Orsay’s work, Voltare will probably double his money. You’re still new to this business, but I have done a lot of research, and trust me, Voltare got himself a real gem at a bargain price. I saw the way his eyes glittered when you took the wrapping paper off. He likely wants to exhibit it tomorrow night.”

  “What am I going to do with that kind of money? I mean–”

  “Stop it, stop thinking and analysing it. I’m the luckiest man in the world having you close.”

  I stop and look at him, realising that I have fallen in love with him. He is kind, caring and perfect. Wide, pulsing love spreads through me, igniting the fire in my belly. I want to tell him everything, scream that I finally found the missing piece of myself, but it’s too early, he won’t understand. Ethan has become a part of me—my life wasn’t worth living before him. He woke me up from a long dream. Ethan has changed me from that withdrawn, damaged girl into a confident woman.

  I look down at the address that Voltare had given us.

  “It’s an address in Brussels, Ethan.”

  “Tell me—what do you want to do, Arwen? We don’t have to stay here. We can leave now.”

  “I want to go, but it’s our weekend away. We had so ma
ny plans and we’ve barely seen anything.”

  Ethan laughs and brings me to his body.

  “It’s just the beginning, baby. We have the whole future ahead of us,” he whispers in my ear and my heart is melting. It’s hard to believe I only just met him. I feel like we’ve known each other in the past, maybe in a different life.

  We start walking in silence until we reach our hotel. Ethan helps me pack. The phase when I felt hatred and degradation has passed—now I’m excited about the unknown.

  Ethan checks us out and several minutes later we are in the car. The drive back to Brussels isn’t long and there is no traffic. Ethan doesn’t cut corners; his satnav is taking us straight to my father’s address.

  I check on my phone that he lives on the north side of Brussels, slightly on the outskirts. When Ethan slows down I begin to sweat, breathing faster than I should. We move slowly through a housing estate. There is nothing special about the houses and I keep looking for something familiar, anything that can tell me why my father has chosen to live his life here, in these ordinary surroundings.

  “Its number thirty-seven,” Ethan says, and a second later we pull in next to a detached house made of red brick. There is a car parked outside, a small Fiat, and the grass looks like it has just been cut. All sorts of thoughts start to circle around in my head. None of this looks how I imagined. My father liked the sea and art, and in one of the letters that he left my mother, I read that he refused to compare himself to common people.

  Maybe it’s a mistake; maybe Voltare gave us the wrong information.

  “Should I come with you?” Ethan asks, throwing me back to reality. I blink a few times and clear my throat.

  “Yes … right, I think that’s a good idea. I want you to know that I’m not ashamed of being with you despite our age difference.”