Riding Wood

by Abigail Graham

  He spears one of the pieces with his fork and gives me a look. “How did you know where everything was?”

  I shrug. “Sixth sense, I guess. You’re great at organizing.”

  He laughs. “You haven’t seen the mess in my living room?”

  “That’s not a mess, that’s an art studio. Believe me, I know how it is.”

  “Do you?” Still the note of suspicion.

  “Of course. It must be great having a private place you can call your own.”

  “Not so private, as it turns out.”

  I blush, but he gives me a smile and wink that makes my stomach flip. Why the hell did he have to be so perfect?

  “I built the cabin for that reason.” He makes a face. “I had to get away from all the chaos in the city. All that noise. The adulation and the awards—all of it meant nothing the moment I couldn’t put my charcoal to paper. Don’t you ever get stumped?”

  Shaking my head, I watch him as he cuts the egg in half with the edge of his fork. “My career has barely started. Calling it a career is probably generous at this point, but when you’ve seen so little of the world it’s hard to get bored, you know?”

  “You are so young. So innocent.”

  Then it’s my turn to grin. “I’m not that young. Twenty-three isn’t exactly jailbait.”

  “What we did last night…” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have done it, Alexa. I apologize.”

  “For what? I loved modeling for you. Besides, it shouldn’t matter how old I am if it’s strictly professional.”

  “It’s different with you,” he says, eyes cutting at me. “You’re a beautiful young woman, and I’ve been alone too long.”

  Yes you have. “Then what are you waiting for?”

  His nostrils flare at my suggestion. “We can’t. I’m practically a mentor to you.”

  “I don’t know who you are!”

  “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you.”

  “I might be a virgin, but that doesn’t mean I’m innocent.” I stand from the chair and walk to his side as he remains seated, his fists clenched on the table. Christ, if he knew the dirty thoughts I had about him in the shower and how I touched myself in those sheets. “Do you even know why I’ve saved myself all these years?”

  His mouth parts, eyes trained on me like a beast seconds from pouncing on its prey.

  “I didn’t know at the time, but I was looking for a man like you.”

  Warmth catches my wrist. I look down and see him lightly grasping my arm. An electrical shock runs up into my heart, which pounds so loudly I think he can hear it.

  He stands. The chair groans. All I can think about is his hip, bumping into mine. His hand curving over my shoulder.

  Kissmekissme.

  His breath billows over my mouth. “I fucking want you.”

  Oh my God. I think his cock is digging into my thigh. It feels like a gun, so thick and hard. I look down, but he catches my chin and forces me to meet his gaze. “I want you, too.”

  “You want the man who impresses you. Who makes the art on these walls.”

  I snap my mouth shut because it’s true, isn’t it? “Please, Lucas.”

  “No.” The quick word blows across my lips. “Let’s get you home.”

  All the way back to town, I kick myself for how badly I screwed up with Lucas. After years of frustration I finally meet someone amazing and he won’t kiss me. Won’t even touch me. Maybe I’m not his type after all.

  No, I refuse to believe that. Not when only minutes ago I felt his cock against my leg. I wished I looked at it, grabbed it through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He almost kissed me—again. I can’t take much more of this teasing.

  Lucas is as cool as a cucumber. He drives his pickup with one hand, the other lying casually on his thigh. A swell of heartache builds inside me when I imagine linking my fingers through his, and his answering smile. I’m not going to be one of those girls who cries and acts pathetic when the man she wants turns her down.

  Even when that man is only trying to do the right thing.

  “Where did you say your friends were staying?”

  As it turns out, Jessica and the others couldn’t hack it in the cold. She texted me this morning before my battery died to tell me that they were bunking in a motel in town for the rest of the weekend, and I should join them there.

  “At the Motel 6. Jess got two rooms, I think. I’ll have to share one with Bryan, I guess.” I cringe at the thought.

  “Bryan?”

  Is it wrong that his grating tone makes me happy? Well, it does. “Yeah, we’re in the same photography class. He’s harmless, but really not my type.”

  Lucas recoils. “Why the hell didn’t she get you separate rooms?”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  He makes a sound that’s halfway between a growl and a shout. “You shouldn’t be sleeping in a motel room with a guy you have no feelings for. It’s not right.”

  “Relax, I’m sure Jess will switch rooms around if I tell her I’m uncomfortable with it.”

  The tension slackens his shoulders, but his knuckles are still white when he pulls into the parking lot of the motel. He gives it a grim look and then turns toward me. “So.”

  “Can I get your number?” I ask, keeping my voice innocent. “Just in case something happens.”

  He heaves a sigh as though I’m demanding something unreasonable, but he reaches in his back pocket and programs my number into his phone. I do the same when he rattles off his number. Then I almost grin because Lucas has no idea I have no intention of giving up on him that easily.

  Feigning indifference, I shrug and reach for the doorknob. “Thanks for the hospitality, Lucas. It was wonderful meeting you.”

  “Wait,” he says, and joy erupts in my chest. I expect him to start the car and drive away, to tell me he didn’t mean it, that he doesn’t want me to leave. It’s all over his face.

  “Be safe,” he says.

  Be safe?

  My jaw drops as he shifts the pickup into reverse—my cue to leave. And I open the door, stumbling into the blinding sunshine. I hold my arm above my eyes, and he gives me a perfunctory wave as he pulls out of the parking lot.

  Be safe.

  That’s what you tell a little girl before she walks to school. Where is the man who said he fucking wanted me? I feel like dust on the side of the road as he drives into the back toward the small, winding path that leads to his secluded cabin. Be safe. Fuck that.

  I’m so angry I don’t know where I’m marching off to, but apparently my brain has a mind of its own because I walk toward the nearest gas station. It’s a small operation, and suddenly I see a man in overalls leaving a bathroom. The steel door slams shut. I rush forward and wrench it open. Squalor greets me as I step inside the damp bathroom. The rank smell of piss saturates the confined air and there’s graffiti, violent whorls of black all over the doors. There’s no toilet paper. The mirror behind me is cracked and dirty. It’s no place for me to relieve myself, let alone get naked, but that’s exactly what I do.

  I undress. I let every stitch of clothing fall on my bag, which sits near my feet. Only when I’m naked and shivering do I take the cell phone from the pocket in my shorts. I swipe it open and search for Lucas’ name, and then I open Messages.

  God, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  I take photo after photo of myself standing naked in this dirty bathroom, a thrill running through me every time one goes through. I imagine him alone, curled up on his couch. His phone dings with an alert, and he lazily picks it up, not expecting to see me. I wonder if he’ll touch himself, and just the thought of that makes my pussy clench. Reaching down, I slip a trembling hand between my thighs and part my petals. Snap. Another picture. My fingers slide inside. Snap.

  My fingers won’t stop. I can’t. I’ve been riding a wave my whole life, waiting for it to come crashing down. It builds inside me as I wipe my wetness over my clit, rubbing ha
rd. My cheeks blaze. All I have to do is think of him, standing next to me. Lucas. Touching me. Then the crescendo hits, and my pussy clenches hard around my fingers. A wave of pleasure shudders through me as I open a new text bubble and write: For reference.

  Chapter 6

  Lucas

  This is a mistake.

  Leaving her behind is the right thing, and the right thing has never felt so completely wrong.

  I’ve been in the woods too long. I’m having conversations with my pickup truck. Now that Alexa is gone, I have no one to talk to.

  Not gone, though. I can see her in the rearview mirror, standing there on the sidewalk, watching me leave. As if to mock me, the wind picks up a little and brushes her hair away from her shoulders so it catches the late-morning sunlight.

  Sketching her only once would be a waste. Every moment of her could be art.

  I grunt and choke the steering wheel too hard for just a moment. The old vinyl creaks under my hands. Better to forget and move on. She’s inspired me. I created something for the first time in God knows how long.

  The ride back up the mountain always feels longer than the ride down. I make the trek every other month or so for supplies and to stop at the café to check my email and bank accounts before I return to the welcome seclusion of my own little world I’ve carved out in the earth. I visit the town but don’t know it, and it doesn’t know me.

  The mountain does. Once I leave the paved road for a dirt one and then the dirt road for a trail, the concentration needed to avoid flipping the truck squeezes the rest from my mind. I always liked driving. Didn’t get much of a chance when I lived in the city.

  When I finally kill the engine and open the door to step out into the chill, the hot puff of mist in front of my lips is like the ghost of Alexa, so close. I shouldn’t have let myself do that. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of her, the buzzing anticipation of her mouth a breath away from mine. The promise of a kiss twists like a knife in my chest.

  It’s silly. She wouldn’t want what I want.

  I throw the door closed and step away from the truck, hands thrust in my pockets. It’s going to be a cold one today. I hope she has the sense to wear, well, pants, to start with.

  This is what I mean. A girl her age wants the excitement of midnight trysts, fooling around with other people in the room, the irreplaceable joy of a first kiss, a first touch, a first…everything. I can’t help but smile at the thought of Alexa’s half-baked attempts at seduction, one moment all smoldering seduction and the next blurting out that she’s a virgin. She probably thought that would rev my engine like I’m some inexperienced boy.

  She wasn’t wrong. The thought is like icing on the cake. I would be her first. She would be mine, totally, utterly, irrevocably. If I were a lesser man, I would take pride in knowing that she’d compare everyone after to me, and no fumbling amateur could compare to what I’d do for her, to her… But I’d never let her have another.

  The idea, the image, keeps creeping back into my head. There is something past picturing her naked, although I can’t keep myself from that either. I envision her on the couch. There’s a kitten in her lap; I bought it for her, and her belly is big and round. My son is curled there, waiting to join the family. She’s wearing a sweater she knit for herself and I have a matching one. It’s hideous but I wear it anyway. The fire and the wool make me hot, but I wear it because she wants me to.

  I top off my silly little dream with a decorated Christmas tree in the corner and the smell of pumpkin pie.

  Family.

  Sometimes you don’t know how badly you need something until you realize you’ll never reach it. I need her like a drowning man needs the safety of the shore. With water in your lungs, wet sand under your hands is paradise.

  This cabin was my refuge, the shore I clung to when I was drowning. Now the sand is cold where it should be warm, and it sucks me down and crushes my lungs.

  It’s empty. Fucking empty. I’m going to erase the evidence of her. I’m going to clean the dishes she dirtied, banish the smell of the bacon she fried, and it won’t help. The ghost will still be here. I won’t be able to see the counter without picturing her leaning against it, or the stool in my studio without thinking of her bare skin resting on it.

  I close my eyes and shudder then go about my daily chores. I hew wood. I clean. I climb up to the larder and bring down tonight’s meal.

  I left my phone on the counter. I probably seemed old to her when she saw it. The phone is just a plain one that’s barely capable of receiving pictures. I needed a lifeline just in case, but I didn’t want any Internet or contact with the outside world.

  Except her. She texted me.

  I sigh. I should toss it in the fire and grab another one on my next trip to town. End it now, put her out of my head. Except I catch a glimpse of my sketch of the beautifully innocent wood nymph and open the damned phone anyway.

  The newest text comes before the others: For reference.

  What follows sucks all the blood out of my brain, along with all the sense. A series of artfully composed nude selfies, and I don’t mean that ironically. She knows how to use even the bad lighting of a dingy bathroom. Only her outstretched arm ruins the effect of the best one.

  She put the light behind her so it haloes her head. The harsh glow of bare fluorescents becomes a corona, glowing in her soft, luscious hair. The subtle red streaks give her a playful air along with her lustful smirk.

  Even in pictures like this, she knows composition intimately. She shows just enough skin, covering her breasts with her arm, to drive me wild. I feel like she’s just learning what she doesn’t show can be as alluring as what she does. A little modesty is as enticing as the bold display she gave me last night.

  Before I realize it, I’m hard as a rock and unbuckling my belt. I fall back on the couch with the cell in my hand, all the lamps in the cabin unlit so there’s nothing but the phone’s light.

  The images she sent are only the first steps. As I stroke my cock, my eyes go lidded and the phone drops out of my hand. I use everything at my disposal: the memory of my hand on her wrists, her tits brushing my chest, and the enticing scent of her hair. I think of her under me on a bed of clean grass, her body opening.

  I see it. Feel it all. The smoothest skin of her stomach caressing mine as she arches, gasping in shock and satisfaction as I fill her for the first time. I can’t stop thinking about claiming Alexa, taking her, making her mine. I pump my hand faster, imagining her walls gripping me. Her eyes open wide as we kiss, begging me in a silent plea to fill her up and make a baby with her.

  The thought of lying with her after the deed brings me over the edge. Her body presses against mine as I lie on top of her. I’m still inside her when I weave vines around her finger to make a ring. She glows as my seed takes root inside her.

  My shuddering, wordless cry echoes in the empty cabin. I’m alone again and cold. I wash up and take a quick Navy shower with a burst of very, very cold water to slow the racing of my blood and shove Alexa out of my mind.

  The logs clatter as I make a pile in the hearth. The flames give me good light to work by. I set up a canvas on the easel and start preparing my tools.

  In minutes I’m painting so frantically I swear and strip off my shirt. My strokes are sure, quick, precise, like the canvas is covering the image and I’m slicing it away with bold cuts and scrapes.

  I don’t realize I’m painting her until she appears in the landscape I’ve created, a wild, fantastical exaggeration of the scenery around the cabin. There are rocks, a stream, tall trees, and flowers everywhere. It’s an explosion of color. Even the small image of Alexa standing on the ridge commands everything around her, turns the splendor of the wild into a setting. She becomes the center of everything. I draw a wreath of flowers in her hair. The blossoms are so small they’re just daubs of color and shadow. They curl around her toes.

  I step back, breathless. I haven’t worked so fast in years. The image just exploded
into being on the canvas, passing through me as though I were a door to wherever it came from.

  Gently I set it aside and start a new one. This composition is more intimate, focused on the way the stream eddies around a rock about a thousand yards before the cabin. I have no intention of painting Alexa into it.

  Then she’s there, taking shape in creamy porcelain before light and shadow build her into the center of the image again. She sits on the boulder facing away, the water sweeping around her dangling toes, as naked as the day she was born. Her long, silky hair drapes down her bare back as she turns to peek over her shoulder, a hint of the outer curve of her breast complementing the sweeping shape of her back and hips. I mean to make her pout, but she smiles instead. A knowing smile.

  My hand is trembling. Am I ever going to paint anyone or anything else again?

  I resist the urge to smash both paintings and throw them into the fire.

  They’re good. They’re the best I’ve done in years, maybe in my entire career. But they’re not right. I can’t capture her unless I can paint from life. I want to make her a goddess, immortal, perfect, and preserved on the canvas forever. A lasting statement of beauty.

  I want that as much as I want her belly to swell with my child, to cook her breakfast, hold her and laugh at her jokes.

  Two paintings in one day. They’re sloppy and don’t capture their subject. A third would drain me. I set them both aside, lean against the wall, and throw more wood on the fire to warm my little domain before I crawl into a cold bed that will never be warm enough.

  How long will it take for this to fade? Will I have to burn down this cabin and build a new one to find a place where she doesn’t haunt me?

  I sleep and dream of Alexa. I wake with the taste of her on my tongue, the feel of her in my hands, the warmth of her on my skin, and the desire for her straining my cock. It throbs with need.