by Vivien Vale
“You’ve got that Cheshire cat smile,” she says. “You know, the one that says you’re just too pleased with yourself. Either that or you've won an obscene amount of money in the last thirty minutes. Which is it?”
I laugh, because she’s caught me. I am pleased with myself. Being with her makes me feel good, but I’m not about to tell her what I’m feeling.
Instead I look out the window and say, “Nothing. Really, it’s nothing.”
It’s easier for me to act like what just happened between us is no big deal. My typical M.O. is to have sex, lay next to the woman for exactly one minute and fifteen seconds (which I am very good at counting silently to myself), and then make my excuses and leave.
But both times with Katherine, last night, and just now, I’m not preparing my exit remarks and surprise, surprise, I’m in no hurry to get out her apartment. I’m want to show her what I brought.
“Whatever you say,” she interrupts my thoughts, “I’m not going to hold it against you. But admit it, you were thinking of something. Was it about your next appointment…after me that is?”
It’s obvious my lack of communication is making her have second thoughts about how utterly sexy and desirable she is, and that’s not what I intended. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her and I need to stomp on this line of questioning quick.
“If you must know,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, “I’m smiling because of you.”
There, I did it. Feelings out in the open, like a pair of perfectly ripped jeans on display in the main window at Saks Fifth Avenue.
“Me?” she asks in a way that’s devoid of any pretention, and then she reaches over and gives me a soft kiss.
“Hmm…” The woman’s got me purring, for fuck’s sakes.
I am what’s typically known as a romantic dilettante and a serial dater, but this woman has got me by the balls.
That’s why I want her to see what I’ve brought. I want her to understand what’s going on. That is if I can explain it, because I for one am baffled as shit. It’s better if I just cut to the chase.
“I’ve got something to show you,” I say, and move from the bed.
Pulling the sketch out of my shoulder bag, I hold it close as I sit back on the bed. I can tell I’ve piqued her curiosity.
“What's that?” she asks, sitting up.
“Listen, about this morning, I know I left in a hurry—”
“I’ll say you did. In fact, I was kind of surprised when I saw you at my door today. I thought your hasty exit was a way of saying, ‘see you later, bye.’
“No, that’s not it,” I say.
Katherine looks vulnerable, and a little hurt. It’s the last thing I want because I need her to understand what’s happened to me since I met her.
“You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. I’m a big girl. I know what I’m getting into with you.”
“It’s really not like that...I mean…awww, hell…”
How do I explain to her what I’m feeling when I don’t even know what I’m feeling? This is so completely new to me I’m at a loss for words, a rarity in my life. I need to move this thing along before it gets any more uncomfortable for us.
“Here,” I say, handing her the sketch.
I'm expecting a reaction from her, some form of expression, anything. A moan, a grunt, a sigh, but all I’m getting is silence. Ten seconds…twenty seconds…a minute…
“Say something,” I finally blurt out, with a hint of exasperation in my voice.
“I’m…I…I’m not sure what to say.”
“Well, do you like it?”
“When did you draw this, when I was sleeping?” she asks. And I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or elated because neither her voice nor her face register any emotion.
“Yes but, actually, it’s from memory. See, that’s why I didn’t wait for you to wake up. I was in the studio all morning.”
Katherine purses her lips and looks out the window and I feel as if I’m losing her. I reach out for her, putting my hand on her thigh because I want to keep this connection between us. I want Katherine, I want this, I want the painting to come to life, I want all of it. So I tell her the truth.
“You’ve sparked something inside of me that I thought was dead.”
She raises an eyebrow and stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“This sketch…”
I can see she’s searching for what to say.
“…it’s so personal.”
For a moment I don't know how to respond.
“It's what I see,” I finally offer. "You’re a beautiful woman. And I know that's like, the oldest cliché of all time, but it's true.
“So here’s the thing,” I look into her chocolate-brown eyes and I'm momentarily lost. “I've got to have you.”
Now she laughs in earnest. “You just did, and I’m not quite ready for another go.”
Smiling, I shake my head, “No, I mean I need you to pose for me.”
Katherine gives me a concerned look. “Hello, have we not met? Let me introduce myself, I’m Katherine. I’m a writer. Not a model.”
“Look at this,” I say pointing to my sketch of her, “I did that from memory, and we both know it’s damn good. But it’s just a start.” I run my fingers through my hair.
“How can I put this? You’re a writer, and I’m sure you’ve written dozens and dozens of outlines, but those outlines aren’t a completed manuscript. Well, this drawing isn’t a painting. It’s just an outline and I want – no…I need to bring it to life. Please, you've got to sit for me while I paint you.”
Katherine
My lips mechanically move to the mug, and my brain only kicks in when the liquid touches my lips. I cringe. I hate lukewarm or cold coffee, but it’s the only thing within reach.
I feel his eyes on me. They caress my face, my lips, hover at my v-neck tight fitting blouse and keep going. It’s as if he is slowly undressing me from head to toe.
Not now, I tell myself, but lust is creeping through me like weeds creep through the garden. How can he do this to me?
Part of me wants to rip my own clothes off before doing the same to him. But we can’t be having sex all the time, can we?
“You don’t like it?”
Was that worry in his voice?
I smile. “Don’t be silly. I love it.”
Words, I’m an expert with words, and here I’m struggling to come up with the right ones. Maybe I should write to him.
The idea is so silly I laugh.
I catch his eyes and see he is not sure what to make of my reaction.
I put my coffee down and walk over to him. A dangerous move, I know, but I feel like reassuring him the only way I really know how.
When my lips move off his, his hands stay on my hips.
“I know I’m a writer and words should come easy to me,” I hesitate. “I just don’t know what to say.”
Something moves across his face. Hurt? Anger? Disappointment? I’m not sure.
“The way you have captured me on paper,” another hesitation as the genius in me gropes for something to say to make him feel how I feel when I look at the artwork, “No one, and I mean no one has ever looked at me like this.”
I take the picture and move away from him. It takes great effort to resist his physical charm, but I must let him know how I feel about his work before things get out of hand.
“Look at the tiniest of a hint of a dimple in my right cheek. Only someone who had looked at me really closely would be able to reproduce it.” I continue to stare at myself on the paper. For some reason, tears well up and I quickly bite my bottom lip.
Tears are the last thing Blake will want to see.
I feel him beside me again and I glance at him.
“I think I almost look beautiful the way you have captured me.” I pause again. “I look serene. You’re an amazing artist.”
My emotions tell me to stop talking and get on with kissing him and rippin
g his clothes off so my hands can get creative with his body.
His left hand reaches under my chin and lifts my head, so I have to look at him. His touch is so gentle. A wave of desire engulfs me.
As I struggle with my emotions, he leans in toward me and kisses me ever so lightly on the tip of my nose.
“Did you see I even captured the lonely freckle on the right side of your nose?”
His hand is stopping me from turning my head. I have to take his word for it. I had not noticed it.
“And,” Blake continues, his hand still holding my chin and his index finger caressing my cheek. “You are one of the most beautiful women I have seen.”
His words, spoken with utter sincerity, release millions of butterflies in my stomach and leave my heart galloping wildly in my chest.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I manage to whisper and I wonder how much longer before my legs will simply give way underneath my own weight.
Blake chortles. His other hand now cups half of my face.
“Katherine. Kath.” The way he says my name melts the last of my resistance from me. “I mean every word I just said.”
This time his lips come for my mouth. His kiss is soft.
Slowly, his tongue pushes past my lips to find mine. A groan builds deep down in my throat.
Fling. It’s a fling , I try and remind myself.
When he pulls back, I want to protest.
“Every time I look at you, inspiration washes over me in great big waves.” He points at the picture. “This is just one of a few I’ve drawn of you,” he confesses.
“I don’t know what to say.” It’s true; Katherine the author is suffering from some form of communication block. It’s almost funny.
“From the first time I saw you I knew I needed to draw you.” Blake continues.
My eyes move from the painting to Blake and back again.
Something is still stopping me from giving in. Posing nude is such a personal thing. I cannot imagine myself parading around in front of Blake without any clothes on as he is standing, fully clothed, in front of easel and canvas, paintbrush in hand.
“Since I have met you,” Blake’s words bring me back to the here and now, “I’ve felt so inspired. I’m filled with ideas. I can’t stop painting.”
I feel the heat and color rise to my cheeks.
“Katherine,” he has taken hold of my hands. “You are my inspiration; you are my muse.”
“I don’t think Dale ever said I was beautiful or pretty.” The words are out before I can stop them.
To my surprise, Blake laughs. “Dale’s an asshole and a prick who doesn’t know when he has possession of a real diamond.” Blake plants another kiss on my mouth.
“He does not deserve what he does not value. He does not deserve you.”
I’m not sure exactly what has my wall of resistance crumble, but crumble it does.
“Okay,” I say and this time I give him a little kiss on the cheek. “I will pose for you. Nude.”
Blake smiles then, his whole expression changing.
“You won’t regret it.” He promises.
“Make sure you make me look good.” I say only to say something.
Now he pulls me into his arms and whispers into my ear.
“I can’t fix perfection.”
Blake
Before Katherine arrived this afternoon, I put a bed into the studio and covered it with white Egyptian cotton sheets—a thousand thread count. They’re expensive and they feel damn luxurious.
My mind’s eye has been working overtime, imagining Katherine on that bed.
My muse.
She’s finally here, and now all I need is for her to lie quietly as I take care of the rest.
“I’m ready,” Katherine says, and she comes out of the dressing room.
She’s smiling but I can see the death grip she's got on the towel that’s covering her. Katherine’s nervous and I have no idea why; it’s not as if I haven’t already seen and touched every square inch of her.
“Just get comfortable,” I say as reassuringly as possible.
I need her to relax, so I pour a glass of champagne and hand it to her.
“Here.” There’s a slight tremble in her hand as she takes the glass. “Take your time, and when you’re ready, just lie on the bed.”
“Thanks.” She smiles and walks over to it. “Nice sheets.”
“You might want experience them up close. Why not have a lie down?”
“Yeah, I’m getting there,” she says, and takes a deep breath, throwing back the champagne in one swallow.
“There. Much better. What’s to be nervous about?” she says, smiling.
She drops the towel to the floor, and crawls onto the bed, lithe as a lioness. “You know me, I know you. Let’s do this.”
“Damn, you’re gorgeous.”
Katherine throws her head back and gives a throaty laugh. “Come on Blake, you’re making me self-conscious again.”
“All evidence to the contrary,” I say, because there’s nothing shy about her pose.
This is a woman who is meant to be naked. All the time.
I gotta get my mind on work. I’m here to paint. Period, I say to myself. Because right now, what I see in front of me is the perfect picture.
The bed seems to be floating in the center of the room, as the late afternoon sunlight filters in from the tall windows behind her. I like that she’s backlit. It gives the scene an almost dream-like quality.
Katherine’s back is arched, her knees are bent, and her feet are planted on the bed. She looks so damn sexy, I’m almost coming…undone.
I take a breath and say, “That pose is one-hundred percent working for me, but I’m afraid you may not be able to hold it for as long as I need you to.”
“Oh, no?” she says licking her lips, “then how about this?”
She turns her body towards me and puts her hand between her legs. I’m a little surprised at how uninhibited she is. Just a moment ago she seemed tense and fragile. Now she’s showing me a side of her I haven't seen before, and I’m definitely digging it.
But I’m torn. While it’s obvious she’s signaling an all-out invitation to take her right this minute, I have work to do.
Shit, when did I become the guy who’s too busy for sex?
I shake my head and walk toward the container holding my brushes, “Just get comfortable,” I call out, “you’ll need to stay in the pose for a while. If there are any adjustments that need to be made, I’ll let you know.”
“I could use a little adjustment right about now,” she says in hoarse whisper.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” she says laughing.
She’s playing with me, but I need to concentrate. “Katherine, there’ll be time for that later on. But I need to get something down on this canvas.” My tone has taken on a mock annoyance, but she’s not buying it.
“Well, if you want to get down…” she says leaving the sentence hanging.
“Katherine…” and this time I am a touch annoyed, “the colors are waiting.”
When I turn to face her, my muse is perfectly posed, the light is where I want it, and my fingers have the creative itch. Since that itch has been missing of late, I intend to scratch it, regardless of the fact that a sexy, beautiful and obviously aroused woman—who I am immensely attracted to—is lying on a bed screaming to be messed up.
Yes, despite all that, I’m going to get down to business and paint.
I make a conscious decision to concentrate on my palette, and it calms me as I begin.
“I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass,” Katherine interrupts, “but there’s something missing.” She pouts.
“The only thing that’s missing is the absence of any paint on this canvas,” I say in an effort to just get on with it.
“Nope, I’m sure there’s something missing. We need a little something-something.”
I have no clue what this somethin
g is that she’s referring to.
“Blake, you get to have all the fun, while I just lie here.” She brushes her hand across her breast.
“I rather thought you’d enjoy lying around since you seem to do it so well,” I counter.
She gives me a ‘come hither’ look with hooded eyes and in a low voice says, “How ‘bout some music. Then I won’t be bored while you’re busy playing with your...canvas.”
And there it is again, that pout. The way those luscious lips press together sends blood from my brain to my… Damn, I need to get on with this.
“If it’s music you want, then it’s music I’ll play. What’s your pleasure?” I ask.
“Are you asking me what music I want to hear? Or are you asking me what’s my pleasure ? Because those are two distinctly different questions.”
Katherine is really working me. From every angle. But I can’t let myself be dissuaded. I need to focus.
“How about a classic?” she asks.
“Fine, Beethoven, Brahm?” I ask.
“No, silly,” she’s now genuinely laughing at me. “I’m talking a classic, like Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing,’ I love that song and I have no doubt it’s on your phone. So plug it in and play. Please.”
She’s right. It is on my playlist. I set it up and it's slow suggestive beat flows out of the speakers.
“Satisfied?”
“Not yet,” she teases.
She’s staring at me; her naked body is glorious. She’s slowly moving her hips to the beat of the music and I’m mesmerized.
Katherine is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. I’m not that strong. I can’t help but stop and watch.
“Hey,” she says, “I thought you needed to paint. I don’t see any strokes happening. Stop gawking and work. I don’t have all day.”
There’s no doubt, she’s working me. The entire time she’s talking she continues to slowly move those hips, making it almost impossible for me to do anything else but watch. Oh, hell, blood is definitely rushing south.
“Katherine…” I reprimand, “You’re bad. Very bad." Her pout turns into a lascivious smile as I put down my brushes.
"It seems I have no choice.”
And I really don’t. I want to be inside her right this minute and these paints, well, hell, they’ll be here when we’re done.