Only You

by Carmen, Roya

  My thoughts settle on the beautiful old Victorian loveseat with lush raspberry-colored velvet upholstery. “Yes, it was one of the first things I noticed when I walked in.”

  “Tomorrow… you and me, we make love on that sofa,” he says softly.

  I almost choke on my sandwich. “Make love…” I thought today was good, but I can only imagine what making love with him would be like.

  “I did not have a condom today. I had no clue this would happen, that I would see you again. Tomorrow, I will be prepared.”

  Oh my… I’ll be prepared too, I tell myself. Today, I showed up in a plain white bra and cotton panties with a silly cartoon of a turtle on the front. How was I supposed to know I would be seduced, sketched, and pleasured by a guy who might very well be the sexiest man on the planet? I brought two naughty lace underwear sets because Trish insisted and pointed out that underwear takes up almost no space in luggage. I agreed with her and finally conceded. Thank you for that, Trish.

  I’m wearing something naughty tomorrow, and he’s going to ravish me. Well, that’s the plan anyway.

  I think about Trish and feel a bit guilty. But she’s the one who told me to go for it. I can’t wait to tell her all about my lunch break.

  * * *

  As soon as everyone makes their way back to class, we’re back in front of our sketch pads. We’ve left our easels in the center of the room and settled at the tables. My heart is still not beating a proper rhythm as I go over the collection of photographs Alex has laid out for us: nudes, flowers, and general scenery. I can’t stop thinking about his kiss, about his mouth between my legs, his cock in my hands. That was so damn sexy. I don’t think I’ll be able to properly function for the rest of the day.

  I shoot a look at him. He’s chatting up Monique, an older silver-haired lady. He’s acting pretty damn normal for someone who just feasted on pussy and got off in the middle of this room. I imagine the whole thing probably didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me.

  I wonder if this is what he does. He flashes his sexy smile, pegs down a vulnerable girl—someone who desperately needs to be fucked—and has a little lunchtime fun. I bet he’s done this before—he’s way too good at it to be a novice.

  Trish has been smiling at me with a raised brow ever since she came back. She knows I’ve been up to no good, and of course, she’s dying to know every single detail. I can’t exactly tell her about it now, even if we seem to be the only English-speaking people here.

  Feeling kind of naughty, I choose a nude photo of a woman. I’m determined to do a better job this time, to show him that I do have some visuospatial intelligence. Probably not much, but some. I don’t want this one to look like a hot dog.

  For the next three hours, Alex and I exchange maybe twenty words. I work hard. Trish struggles to teach me as best as she can, dabbing her paintbrush in the watercolor palette and demonstrating which colors work together. As she paints her own nude, I try to replicate her actions.

  As he walks by me, he smiles and shakes his head a little, as if I’m beyond help. I think I might be.

  “Picasso is one of the most famous artists,” I tell him. “Realism is overrated. I think I’ll just stick to my style. It’s abstract.”

  He laughs. “It sure is.” He pulls up a chair and sits next to me. He grabs the paintbrush from my hand. “You try too hard. The watercolor medium is very easy, very free.” He makes it look so easy as he creates a lovely image with just a few strokes. The colors he chooses work together like magic—he truly is a genius.

  “That’s beautiful,” I tell him.

  “You can do better. Keep working on it.”

  I want him again. He mentioned the loveseat and condoms and making love tomorrow, but I can’t see why we can’t go pick up some condoms after class and have a little fun tonight. Trish mentioned that she wants to grab dinner at a little burger place everyone raves about, then head to a bar. We could all hang together, then Alex and I could head back to his place…

  I get a little jealous when he spends so much time giving instructions to the other students, including Trish. But me… I get a quick demo and a few words. I know he thinks I’m beyond help. I do understand he needs to teach the ‘real artists’. I get it.

  He might be helping all these other ladies, but I’m pretty sure he’s not licking their pussies.

  Trish is packing up her supplies when I decide to talk to Alex. I can’t seem to steady my breathing as I near his desk. He’s cleaning up, packing up his brushes. He smiles at me but doesn’t say a thing.

  I hate this. I don’t know how to ask. “Hi…” I start, shaking in my sneakers. “My friend, Trish, and I are going to—”

  His cell buzzes. He smiles and shoots up his index finger. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

  I struggle to hear what he’s saying, but I don’t understand a word. He smiles frequently and says Sophie, pronounced the French way, a lot. I stand there like an idiot while he holds up his finger here and there.

  Wait right there, it says. I’m very important, and I’m talking to one of my many girlfriends. You can just wait, you naughty little American, and then I’ll have my way with you again.

  Anyway, that’s what I think it says.

  I sneer, unimpressed. Yes, Sophie is probably his girlfriend. And I’m the other woman. I can’t be the other woman. I’m just not that kind of girl. Jeez, I need to end this with this guy. I glance at the inviting loveseat—there will be no lovemaking, as tempting as that might be.

  He’s probably married. He doesn’t wear a ring, but he could have easily taken it off. I’ve heard bad things about Frenchmen—that they play loosely with the vows of marriage. I know he’s Canadian; not technically French. I know I shouldn’t believe everything I hear, but either way, I’m done.

  When he turns his back to me for a second, I take the opportunity to make a not-so-subtle exit. I trudge back to Trish, feeling like dirt at the bottom of a shoe.

  As I leave the room, Trish by my side, he catches up and grabs my arm softly. “Samantha, I am sorry. It was an important call.”

  I’m sure.

  “What did you want to say to me?”

  “Oh…” Should I still invite him? No, that would be asking for trouble. “It was nothing… never mind.”

  “We’re going to Chez Martine for dinner. Did you want to join us?” Trish asks with a playful smile. “Maybe we’ll go clubbing after. Are there any spots you can suggest?”

  Oh no.

  He smiles. “Thank you,” he says as his gaze reaches mine. “I’m sorry, but I have plans tonight.”

  Of course he does.

  “But I can give you lots of suggestions for clubs,” he tells her. “Just friend me on Facebook, and I’ll send you some links.”

  And just like that, he and Trish are good friends. He’s probably going to seduce her too.

  I shake my head. “Let’s go,” I say, turning to Trish. “Bye,” I snap at Alex.

  He nods with a furrowed brow—he seems confused.

  There’s nothing to be confused about. You’re a player. I’m a good girl. We’ve had our fun. And now it’s over.

  7

  Trish beams as soon as we’re out of the building. “Spill it, Sammy. I want to hear everything.”

  I try to focus on the gorgeous architecture. Years of history around me—a marvel, really—and all I can think about is how I just got brushed off, how I just got played. I’ve never been played before, and it hurts like hell.

  I’m so glad I didn’t sleep with him, but I was completely irresponsible. He went down on me, and I have no idea where that mouth has been. I’m going to need to go to the doctor. I’m not the girl who has unprotected sex, but I just did. I was so fucking horny I wasn’t thinking straight. I fall into sobs.

  Wide-eyed, Trish drops her large portfolio and wraps her arms around me. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “He… played me…” I try to explain between sobs. “He’s just a player
.”

  She pulls from me. “What happened? Did you sleep with him?”

  I shake my head. “Almost. He just…” I can’t quite say the words; I’m just too embarrassed. “He kind of… pleasured me.”

  Her eyes grow even wider. “How?”

  I bite my lip. “With… his tongue.”

  “Wow,” she says, her gaze lost in the far distance. With a cocked brow, she turns to me. “Explain to me… why are we crying exactly?”

  “I just realized what a player he is. I was foolish. I should have never…”

  She tilts her head, perches a hand on her hip, and I know she’s about to try to teach me something. I decide to listen because she’s been with a lot more men than I have—the woman knows a thing or two.

  “Sammy, you need to learn how to have a little fun. Not every guy is a keeper. Some guys are just for fun. Now, was he any good?”

  I’m brought back to that moment perched on the stool, his head between my legs. I get aroused just at the memory. “He was amazing.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  * * *

  After class, we walk around town and hop on the funicular. The funicular is a cool crazy elevator/escalator. It’s basically a glass box that carries you up, kind of like an amusement park ride. I marvel at the scenery as we climb up and reach higher ground.

  As we take a short tour of the beautiful Château Frontenac, I almost, but not quite, forget all about Alex. I wonder what he’s doing with his girlfriend tonight. I wonder if he’s going to press his mouth on hers after it was all over me. What a scoundrel. I hope he at least brushes his teeth.

  Trish is happily chatting away. She’s getting a real kick out of the local men, the cool buildings, and the carriage horses. My feet are aching by the time we step into a little burger place.

  Trish pulls out her selfie stick and takes a photo of us and our burgers and fries as if that will be remotely interesting to anyone. I know she’ll post it—along with the selfies we took in front of the canons and the guy on the horse and the two sexy bearded dudes we met on the street. I’m really starting to hate that selfie stick.

  I spot a guy wearing the same shirt Matthew used to wear, and I realize I haven’t even thought of Matthew or Melanie in the last twenty-four hours. Thinking about Alex has taken up all of my time. Maybe Trish is right—I should just have fun.

  We go check out another club, but we’re both so exhausted we decide to call it an early night. As I sink into my comfy bed and drift into sleep, all I can see is Alex’s beautiful face.

  * * *

  Alex sits leisurely at his desk. He’s wearing his cool tortoise-shell glasses again—they make him look smart. He’s even more attractive than yesterday, if that’s possible.

  “Has everyone brought their travel supplies as I requested?” he asks, shuffling through some papers. “You will need your travel paint palette, three or four brushes—a one-inch flat brush, a large round ten brush, a six, and a one—pencil, eraser, plastic cup, and art pads.”

  “You can borrow my stuff,” Trish whispers to me. “Bring your notepad too.”

  I’m really looking forward to painting in plein air, as Alex and Trish refer to it. However, I suspect it might be a little challenging considering how much trouble I’m already having.

  “We’ll settle at the bottom of la rue du petit Champlain,” Alex explains. “There is a large terrace I like, the perfect spot to paint. Everyone should also bring a bottle of water. It is hot today.”

  The eight of us follow Alex along the cobblestone streets, taking in the sights as we leisurely walk to the lowest point of the city. Alex hasn’t looked at me once, and it breaks my heart. I wonder if Alex and I will ever be together again. I doubt it. He talked about making love on the loveseat, but we aren’t even working in the studio today. We’ll be out and about all day according to the schedule on the pamphlet. He likely regrets our little tryst as much as I do.

  It’s for the best, I tell myself. He has a girlfriend, and I have no desire to be the other woman.

  When we finally reach our destination, we settle amongst the tourists. We’re painting the architecture. I can barely paint the human form, so I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do with a whole row of buildings.

  Trish hands me a thick sheet of paper that I clip to my large notepad. She’s brought extra brushes and a plastic cup for me, and we share her paint palette. Alex walks around filling everyone’s cup with water. When he stops at mine, his gaze lingers on me for quite a while, and he gives me a shy smile.

  Despite my morals, stupid butterflies flutter around in my stomach. Seriously, butterflies, don’t let the man fool you. He might be charming, but I’m pretty sure he’s a player. He moves on to Trish’s cup, and I want to scream, “Come back! Look into my eyes again.”

  I attempt to distract myself by drawing a faint sketch of the image in front of me. It’s nowhere as easy as copying the image on a photo. There are no boundaries, no clear lines to follow. I wear out my eraser correcting my numerous mistakes. Trish shoots me a smirk, and part of me wants to strangle her. I’m sure she finds this hilarious. Art is easy for her—she’s been drawing and painting all her life.

  It’s official—I have absolutely no visual intelligence whatsoever. My perspective is completely off, my angles pointing in every direction. The worst part is that I really tried. Trish stifles a laugh as she studies my painting.

  I really hate her right now.

  My heart beats a mile a minute when Alex approaches. He raises a brow as he studies my work, a hint of a smile tracing his lips. “Interesting… yes, you are very much influenced by Picasso, I think.”

  He’s making fun of me.

  “I think it really works for you. Keep up the good work,” he adds with a smirk.

  Trish is laughing as he leaves. “You know, he’s right. You kind of have this cool abstract thing going on, and the colors are great.”

  I study my painting again. It is kind of cool. I can almost imagine it matted and framed on my wall.

  I drain my sports drink as we pack up to go eat lunch. Alex tells us we’ll meet again at this spot in an hour. I hope Trish has got someplace picked out already because I’m starving.

  But just as we’re ready to go, Alex surprises me by taking me aside and asking if I’d like to accompany him for lunch. My whole body heats up, and a delicious pressure builds at my core as I imagine what he might have in mind.

  Trish tells me she’s having lunch with Julie and Chantale, two lovely older ladies in the class. I’m happy to hear I won’t be leaving her alone. She shoots me a wink as I head off with Alex.

  We walk side by side, not saying much. I observe the busy scenery and all the energy around me. When he smiles at me and reaches for my hand, my insides become even more chaotic. The gesture is sweet, and at this moment, I can’t quite be convinced that he’s cheating on a girlfriend.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I’m not hungry anymore. Suddenly, all I want is to find a secluded little corner where I can kiss him and touch him and have my way with him.

  He smiles. “There is a spot I want to show you.”

  I perk up, wondering what he has in mind. “I would like that.”

  His eyes brighten, and an impish smile stretches across his face. Whatever he has in mind, I suspect it might be naughty. Suddenly, his stride becomes long and swift, and I can barely keep up with him. We dash through the tourists, knocking over a lady’s oversized bag. We apologize profusely as we rush to our destination.

  Finally, he halts right in the middle of the sidewalk, breathless. My pulse is racing as I study the display windows and large colorful sign hanging overhead—it appears to be some kind of vintage thrift shop. I love it.

  “My cousin owns this store,” he tells me. “I wanted you to see it. I thought you might find it interesting.”

  So it’s not the naughty rendezvous I was hoping for, but I’m thrilled nevertheless—t
he place looks ace.

  I’m dazed as I walk in—so many interesting things to look at, so much color. My eye is drawn to a large Coca-Cola vintage sign and an old barber’s chair.

  “This is so cool,” I tell Alex as I press the tip of my finger against the keys of a vintage typewriter. “This place is so Mad Men. I love it.”

  As I get lost in the vintage pieces, Alex chats up the lady at the counter. They make their way to me.

  “This is my cousin, Sylvie,” he tells me as he turns to her. “This is my friend, Samantha.”

  She beams as she offers her hand. He says something to her in French, and she nods.

  “Take your time,” she tells me in broken English. “Feel free to look at everything.”

  He takes my hand as we walk down the long narrow store. I get even more excited when we reach the back. Sylvie has a whole collection of vintage wear straight from the fifties, sixties, and seventies: dresses, jackets, hats, shoes, and even menswear. I want to touch everything, run my fingers along the thick fabrics and beautiful buttons. I feel as though I’ve stepped into another era as I caress the silky evening gowns.

  “Try one on,” Alex suggests. “They would look beautiful on you.”

  I get so excited at the thought of wearing one of these fabulous dresses, I feel like a kid with a Happy Meal. I pull at all the silky fabrics, my eyes taking in all the details and sparkle. My heart stops when I reach a lovely dress with a sparkly corset and a flowy pink tulle skirt. A dress fit for a princess. And it looks about my size.

  “This one,” I announce, flinging the dress into the air.

  He laughs. “I did not realize you were a princess.”

  “I am.”

  His gaze travels slowly along the length of the dress. “I cannot wait to see you in it.”

  I’ve been so preoccupied by the stuff in this store that I almost forgot I’m standing next to the sexiest man I’ve ever known.