I gasped, ‘Oh yes!’ and wrapped my legs around his muscled back as his cock found my opening and slid home.
It took no more than a few quick, shallow thrusts and I was going over the edge into a spiralling orgasm that had me clinging to him and screaming out my release. The neighbours would just have to deal with it, I thought hazily as I arched up to meet him.
His strokes turned longer and deeper as he sought his own release. I worked my hands down to the small of his back, then over the curve of his ass, pulling him into me, coaxing him deeper. Feeling the subtle changes in my body that made it difficult for him to go as deep as he once had. Wondering, again somewhat hazily because I was still in the thrall of my own orgasm, if I felt different or better or worse. There was no anxiety in my thoughts. I could tell how much he wanted me, needed me, by the way his body moved, the way he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me up to meet him, the way his breathing turned harsh and ragged as his desire exploded in a rush of heat and wetness. I held him to me, soothing the muscles in his back with my fingers, feeling the tension ease out of his body.
He rolled us on our sides, afraid I guess of hurting me despite my assurances that he wouldn’t. I hooked a leg over his hip to keep him inside me for as long as possible. I curled my fingers at the base of his neck and pulled him down to me for a long, lingering kiss. I laughed into his mouth, realising we’d hardly kissed at all.
He smiled. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘All these years together and we don’t even need to make out before we’re going at it like rabbits,’ I said.
His smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I should’ve taken my time and done it proper.’
I tugged a lock of hair that was in need of a trim. ‘I didn’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘Not at all. You’re my home, Quentin.’
‘And you’re back home where you’re meant to be.’ He reached between us, palming my expanding stomach with a protective hand. ‘You both are.’
I closed my eyes. We were going to be OK. All three of us.
The Art of Desire
They say life imitates art. More often I’ve found that art imitates life imitates art. Or something like that. I’d never had much interest in art – or painting, at least. I didn’t really understand it. Oh, I could appreciate it, stand still long enough to admire the brush strokes on a painting or the contrast and complement of colours, but I’ve always liked photography more. In photography, what you see is what you get. Photography is reality, painting is fantasy. Or so I thought. Until I met an artist who created reality from fantasy and captured truth and beauty in the strokes of paint on a canvas and the strokes of his fingers on my body.
What first caught my attention were his hands. His hands, with their long bronzed fingers and short buffed nails that often had half-moons of paint under them when he was painting. His hands stroked me and with his touch he memorised me with his fingertips. With his hands he turned me on, got me wet, got me off. Antonio’s hands. His strong, beautiful hands teased my fevered imagination long before he even touched me for real, after his scent faded from the air around me and his laughter was just a memory of the day before. His hands were as much a work of art as anything he painted on canvas.
Antonio was an artist struggling to put together a gallery show while teaching art classes to students with a fraction of his talent. I met him through a life drawing class at the college. I’m not an artist, I’m an actress. Correction: I’m an actress who doesn’t work enough to support herself, so I wait tables and do some modelling for extra cash. Modelling for an art class means stripping down to my birthday suit. There are worse ways to earn money and I didn’t have to worry about the art students pawing me because they’re too busy trying to capture the creases in my thighs and the dimples in my ass in their careful, self-conscious way.
It’s a good gig, being an art model. Good pay, good atmosphere. I’m a big girl, but I’m not particularly modest, so it doesn’t faze me to be the only naked body in the room. Granted, it can get a little tedious sometimes having to hold the same pose for an hour or more, but I have an active imagination. I keep myself entertained by practising my monologue for auditions or, when I’m lucky, running lines for whatever theatre production I’m currently in. Sometimes I spin stories to myself – ideas for screenplays I want to write.
Antonio’s class was composed of about a dozen students of varying ages, most of them edging closer to the retirement home than the club scene. They were all respectful of and almost deferential to Antonio, with his dark Mediterranean good looks and soft voice that would whisper, ‘Yes, very nice’ in their ear as they dragged their charcoal across the sketchpad in front of them. On the other hand, they seemed positively terrified of me, as if I had an explosive device strapped to my thigh. They spoke to me haltingly when I was naked and they weren’t much more comfortable with me when I was clothed. That was more than OK with me. I preferred the solitude of coming and going from the studio without having to make small talk.
The only one who would meet my eyes when I was naked was Antonio, but that had as much to do with his own self-confidence as it did with his familiarity with models. He didn’t acknowledge my nudity except to point out certain features to his students and then it was as non-sexual as if he was talking about the table in the corner – if the table had breasts and hips. But while he shifted his attention from my body to his students’ sketches, I would spend my time studying him. His body was angular and graceful – much like his hands. From his longish dark hair to his nearly flawless olive skin, he was beautiful. He wasn’t the type of guy I was normally attracted to, actually. I tended to go for the rough-around-the-edges guys, the ones with big bodies and big hands that made me feel petite in their arms. Antonio had a more slender build than most of the men I dated and wasn’t much taller than me. But it wasn’t his looks that kept me from approaching him outside of class. He seemed aloof, untouchable. Too striking for an actress-slash-waitress. I was the one who was uncomfortable around him, especially when I was naked.
I’d sat for three of his classes over the summer term and we were well into fall when he asked me to stay after class one evening.
‘Valerie, could I speak to you?’ he asked softly as the students filed out of the studio and headed for the coffee shop on the corner.
Idly, I wondered if he raised his voice when he argued or when he was happy – or in bed. I stifled a yawn and smiled at him. The ninety-minute art lesson had left me exhausted and stiff and I longed for a hot bath and my warm bed. But Antonio’s request felt more like a command and I nodded tiredly in agreement because I had nowhere to go but home and no one waiting for me there except my cat, who was probably sleeping on my pillow anyway.
‘Just let me get dressed,’ I said, tying the belt of my robe as I padded toward the workroom where I stored my clothes during class.
‘Could you wait?’ he asked. ‘It won’t take long. I want to show you something.’
He sounded almost anxious, which piqued my curiosity. I sighed, too tired to be self-conscious at this point. ‘Sure. What’s up?’
‘Wait here.’
I sat on one of the stools, twisting my neck to crack it and release some of the tension in my tight shoulders. It was late September and the room was cooler than usual, probably because no one had thought yet to turn on the heat. We had been in the grip of a very pleasant Indian summer for weeks and no one was in a hurry to welcome winter. Still, I would have to make a point of saying something to Antonio so I wouldn’t have to suffer through the next class session. My nipples were like rocks, poking through my thin pink robe like some 1950s pinup and aching like they’d been pinched and twisted all night. Like the natural redhead I was, I blushed hotly at the thought of Antonio’s capable hands on my breasts.
Thankfully, before my thoughts could go too far down that dirty path, he returned carrying a medium-sized canvas. He had it facing his body, so I couldn’t see the painting. Despite my exhaustion, I was more than
a little curious. I assumed it was the work of one of his students, but I wasn’t sure why he’d be showing it to me privately. I knew nothing about art. He put the canvas on one of the students’ easels, but it wasn’t until he stepped to the side that I could get a good look at it.
‘No one has seen this yet,’ he said, his voice sounding hesitant. ‘I wanted you to be the first. What do you think?’
It was a painting of me, though it took me a moment to even realise that it was me. Seeing a painting is a visceral experience, much more so than seeing a photograph. I responded to the art first, not to the subject. What I saw were the soft, rounded curves of a woman, her pale body stretched out on an ornate purple couch, her long red hair trailing down one shoulder, a playful smile teasing her lips in a way that made me want to smile too. The light of the painting was ethereal, as if the woman – who I finally realised was me – cast the glow that lit the space around her. It wasn’t quite an angelic effect, because the woman so obviously revelled in the sensuality of her nakedness, but it was otherworldly. I realised the luminosity was not light at all but eroticism, as if all her passion was bottled up, trapped beneath the surface of her skin, illuminating her and the room around her. It was, to say the least, a breathtaking effect and nothing like any of the other work Antonio had done.
It wasn’t until I took a deep breath that I realised I’d been holding it in since Antonio revealed the painting to me.
‘Well?’ he asked, sounding wholly unlike himself. ‘What do you think?’
I was moved by his art, but I was even more touched by the tentativeness in his voice, the realisation that he was nervous about my reaction and eager for my approval making me forget how beautiful and aloof he was. This was not the Antonio I knew, but I liked him and was even more attracted to him for this show of vulnerability.
‘It’s incredible, Antonio. I’m honoured,’ I said. ‘I hope it doesn’t sound vain to say that it’s one of your most beautiful paintings.’
He laughed, regaining some of his confidence, though I think it was more masculine than artistic pride. ‘It is vain, but that’s all right. You inspire beautiful art.’
I couldn’t stop looking at the painting, at myself. Was that how he saw me? Was I that beautiful, erotic creature on the canvas? I didn’t feel like that. While I recognised myself in the features, I didn’t think I looked like that, either. I had taken enough classes with bitter, brutal acting coaches to know I would never pass for the ingénue or even the leading lady. I was a character actress, the full-figured best friend, the comedic relief in a drama, the secondary character who added colour and dimension to the plot – and I was fine with that. But Antonio had made me into – painted me into – a seductress, an erotic beauty.
‘Why –’ I couldn’t quite figure out how to phrase the question. I didn’t know if he would understand. I tried again. ‘Why did you paint me like that? So … exotic?’
He looked from me to the painting and then back to me. ‘Because you are so incredibly beautiful and you don’t even know it.’
It was trite, clichéd. Simple. Yet I believed he felt that way. ‘Thank you.’
I took a step towards him, wanting somehow to let him know how grateful I was that he would not only paint me but let me be the first to see it. I put my hand on his shoulder, felt the fine bones shift beneath my hand as I leaned forward and kissed his smooth cheek.
‘Thank you so much for showing it to me, Antonio.’
‘Valerie –’
When I started to move away, he put his hand on my waist, stilling me. He leaned in, as if to kiss my cheek, but his lips settled against mine. They were cold, from the air or from nervousness, I couldn’t be sure. Our lips and his hand on my waist were the only parts of our bodies that touched. As I relaxed into the kiss and felt his lips part and his tongue tentatively lick my bottom lip, I realised I wanted to touch more of him. I put my arms around his narrow waist and pulled him closer, feeling soft and feminine and desirable in his arms.
He let out a soft sigh against my mouth as if, finally, he could relax. ‘I have wanted to kiss you like that since that first night in the summer class,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve been a man obsessed.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ I murmured against his open mouth.
‘I didn’t know how to approach you.’
His confession, his raw vulnerability, made me ache with need. I kissed him again, taking his bottom lip into my mouth and sucking it with gentle persistence. He pulled me closer, moulding his angular body against my rounded one, stroking my hip with one hand while he twisted my long hair up in the other, his fingers tangling in the wavy strands.
‘So beautiful,’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘So luscious.’
No one had ever called me luscious before. I felt myself responding to his words as much as to his gentle caresses.
I whimpered as he trailed feather-light kisses across my jaw and down my neck. I clung to him, not sure who was supporting whom, as we sunk to the hardwood floor in one slow, fluid motion. He was stretched out on top of me, his warm body between my legs, the cold, hard floor against my back. I hardly noticed any discomfort as he looked into my eyes and smiled.
‘Is this OK?’
‘More than OK,’ I breathed. ‘It’s wonderful.’
He knelt up between my spread thighs and undid the belt of my robe. I trembled as he parted it, feeling shy and vulnerable, as if he had never seen me naked before. In a way, Antonio had seen more of me than anyone ever had. And yet, this was different. This was … intimate. I resisted the urge to cover myself with my hands and lay there, letting him study my body in a way that had nothing at all to do with art.
He leaned forward and ran his hands down my body, pausing to stroke my plump breasts and hard nipples before running the flat of his hand over my rounded stomach, down farther over my bare mound. I spread my legs wider, opening myself fully to him as he touched me. I could feel the wetness growing between my thighs, could almost imagine my pussy swelling and opening for him, an exotic pink flower tipped with dew.
‘You are stunning,’ he said, his gaze between my legs. He slid a finger gently inside me, then pulled it out and over my clit. I gasped and he chuckled. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, like this.’
He stretched out on top of me again, shifting his weight so that his legs were spread on either side of my right leg while his hand worked between my thighs. He wore a white linen shirt and dark trousers and his body was warm, far warmer than the room warranted. I was making him hot. I was arousing him the way he was arousing me. I put my hands on the back of his head and pulled him down so I could kiss his mouth while he slid his finger back inside of me. He caressed me lightly, as if learning my internal curves the same way he had memorised my external ones.
I thrust my hips up to meet that one slender finger, longing for more. Needing more. Needing everything he could give me. He gasped as my thigh pressed up hard between his legs. I held onto his waist as he rocked against me, pressing his impressive erection against my thigh. I gasped when he added a second finger inside my wetness, imagining how good his cock would feel.
‘Oh, God. You’re driving me crazy, Antonio.’ I pressed my mouth against his neck and bit down, gently at first and then harder as his fingers became more insistent. ‘I want you.’
He didn’t answer, but only continued to press his fingers deep into my pussy and then withdraw them before pushing them into me once more. Fucking me slowly with those long, graceful fingers. I braced my feet against the floor to keep us from sliding, my robe riding up underneath me. Reaching between his legs, I rubbed his erection through his pants, trying to give him just a taste of the pleasure he was giving me. I felt myself grow even wetter as I touched him and felt his cock jump against my hand.
He kept fucking me, slowly, steadily, those two fingers making me throb inside for something else. Something bigger.
‘More, Antonio,’ I whimpered. ‘More, please.’
He added
a third finger, slowly twisting them inside me like a corkscrew in a wine bottle, capturing me on his hand. He pinned my shoulder to the floor, his fingers hard on my tender flesh. I writhed against him as I cried out my pleasure, my voice echoing in the empty studio. I knew I would be bruised from the experience, but it didn’t matter. If anything, it only aroused me more to think of having Antonio’s mark on my body like a smudge of paint on a canvas. I fondled him roughly, impatient to feel him buried inside of me.
‘Fuck me,’ I cried, my voice a plaintive plea.
I ground my clit against the palm of his hand, whimpering as he fucked me. Shifting his weight, he braced himself on his knees so I could work his zipper down over his swollen cock. I reached into his pants, pulled his erection free, ran my fingers along the glistening tip and then stroked the length of him roughly. He moaned in response and pinched and rolled one of my nipples between his fingers.
‘Do you want me?’ he asked, barely a whisper.
I nodded.
‘Yes?’
‘Please, Antonio, yes.’ He was playing with me, making me want him more, teasing me with his fingers and his dark eyes heavy-lidded with his desire, my pale body reflected in their depths.
He pulled his fingers from my pussy and I cried out at the sudden emptiness. He dragged his trousers down to his hips, freeing himself just enough to take his cock in his hand and press it to my pussy.
‘Yes?’ he asked again, rubbing the head along my slit, teasing me, making me squirm.
I groaned in anticipation and longing, shaking my head back and forth on the floor, my long hair making a swishing sound on the hardwood.
‘No?’ He made as if to pull away.
I reached down and gripped his wrist. ‘Yes!’ I moaned through gritted teeth. ‘Yes! Now!’
He let me guide his hand, pressing the wide tip of his cock to my opening stretched from his fingers. I blinked away tears of intense emotion as he carefully slid into me and the softness of my body enveloped the hardness of his.
Seduce Me Tonight (Mischief Books) Page 10