by Watson, Meg
“OK, then lead on. Where do we start?”
I began walking across the marble foyer and to the left, to my favorite galleries.
“Let’s just start at the beginning,” I suggested.
I didn’t feel like talking, and we settled immediately into an easy, comfortable silence as we entered the gallery with the oldest oil paintings. They were small, detailed likeness on wood with realistic skin tones and sad, attentive expressions.
“What are these?” he asked in appropriately hushed voice.
“They’re funeral pieces, like snapshots of the deceased. They were buried with the dead so that their faces would remain forever. And since they were in the middle east, the dry weather preserved them.”
“That’s an oil painting?” he said.
I nodded. “Pretty much. The process hasn’t changed a whole lot in 2000 years. There were innovations, of course, and styles… religious and political ideas about how and why something should be depicted… but the basic materials and process have been around for as long as this.”
“Huh,” he said. “I thought it was less old than that. I never would have guessed.”
I sighed deeply, trying to feel a connection with the displays of faces, each distinct and probably a tender recreation of someone beloved to someone else. “The history of Western art is usually taught from a thousand years later. But this is the very, very beginning of what I do. We use the same pigments made from sand and minerals, spread in oil to make something look like something. It’s all just dirt pushed around with fur on sticks.”
“Ha, that’s funny,” he said, and I could see how he would think that. But to me, it was downright miraculous.
As we walked through the galleries, combing our way through centuries, gradually following the thread to the 14th century, I began to feel more at ease. There really was something reassuring about being in a place with so much beauty and order.
We stood for a while in front of a lavish French floral, pristine in every detail and I could feel him breathing next to me. He seemed totally centered, as reliable and solid as a concrete pillar. I had the sudden urge to lean against him, hard.
As I looked at the floral still life, I tried to feel around in my memory for Edna’s words. Gingerly at first, as though testing a fresh wound in my mouth with my tongue, I prodded the memory to see if I could withstand it.
“You’re an extremely technical and precise painter,” she had said.
Why yes, I really am, I thought bitterly as I looked at the still life, noting its technical precision, the choreographed blossoms and each and every leaf in the best possible place. There’s nothing wrong with that. Being precise. Nothing at all.
“But if you’re unwilling to really expose yourself, then you’re leaving something out, don’t you think?”
Was I? I stared hard into the bundle of tulips and snapdragons, trying desperately to see what might have been left out. Or maybe it was just me? Maybe other people could use technique to express some connection, but I could only use it to cut the connection off?
And then something seemed to change. The painting began to look false, like a plastic bouquet of flowers.
That’s silly; of course it’s false, I thought. It’s not a real bouquet, after all. It can only ever be a painting.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling. There was something uncanny about it. Something too precise, like a wax model. It didn’t breathe. It was as lifeless as a beetle pinned to a board.
Oh my god, I gasped inwardly, flipping through all my mental images. Everything I had ever painted transformed in my memory all at once and I saw them all as wax dummies of the beautiful things I had intended to paint.
I thought I was a surgeon… but really I was a taxidermist.
“Holy shit,” I said aloud. Several tourists at the tail end of a tour turned around to look at me.
“Where?” Jackson chuckled.
I looked up at him, unable to really put it into words. “I just figured out what Edna was talking about.”
“Oh, don’t listen to her, Margot. She’s just one collector. I’m sorry we ever introduced--”
“No, no, it’s all right,” I said rapidly, reaching out to touch his arm to try to convey what I was thinking without having to make it make actual sense. “She was totally right. Totally. Everything I’ve ever done is just… so wrong.”
“Your work is beautiful,” he objected.
“No, don’t you see?” I persisted. “If I know what’s wrong, I can fix it. I can totally fix this…. Oh my god... Oh my god! Jackson, can we go?”
“Sure!” he said simply, and took my elbow. Excitement clenched in my belly like passion. I felt a serious case of the giggles threatening to bubble up and out of me and bit the inside of my cheek, hard, to keep my mouth safely shut.
I tried to keep the sensation in my mind as we rushed out of the building, into the sunlight and down the marble steps. I couldn’t look directly at the image in my mind, just obliquely like something glimpsed in a dream. But I couldn’t stop looking at it either. I didn’t want it to fade away.
Jackson was like a man on a mission. He got us back to the car in record time but still dashed to my door and opened it before I got there like a gentleman. I sat in the leather seat all excited, my fingertips pressed between my knees and stared at him adoringly.
“What?” he asked me sheepishly as if my cow-eyes expression was making him uncomfortable. I knew I should stop, but at that moment I was too overwhelmed to remember to act demure.
“You’re pretty OK,” I said, as though that explained anything.
One side of his mouth curled up in a happy grin.
“Well, good. That’s what I was going for.”
***
It was late afternoon by the time Jackson pulled into my driveway. He parked next to my Saab which Raul must have returned as promised. By the shiny, pristine look of it, he’d had it washed too.
My hands were sweaty from pressing them together during the drive. I still couldn’t quite see the image in my mind directly, but I knew what it felt like. After turning it over and over in my imagination, I had an inkling of what it would take to get there and I was excited to get started.
“You’re OK?” Jackson asked me as he turned the engine off, and I realized suddenly how rude I had been. I hadn’t said a word on the ride back, just alternated between chewing my lip and grinning stupidly as I concentrated on my painting problem.
“Gosh, yeah, I am great,” I nodded fervently. I wished I had words to describe the optimism that was foaming through my brain, but I had never really learned how to translate work into words. “So, do you want to come in?” I asked, hoping he would say No.
“I’d love to,” he nodded and left the car to swing around and open my door.
OK, be nice, I reminded myself silently. Don’t do your psychotically anti-social artist thing around him. Try to act normal.
As we walked to the entryway, I noticed the crate of paintings was near the front door, in the shade, and silently blessed Raul for his thoughtfulness. A cream colored envelope was wedged under one of the slats.
Well, at least I’ll have money to move, I thought as I keyed open the front door.
Jackson set the crate inside the foyer and I led the way to the living room, seeing it all with fresh eyes. I tried to imagine the ghost of a thirty-five year old Marlon Brando relaxing on the green L-shaped sofa in the sunken living room and it made me want to giggle.
“What?” Jackson said, sensing my mood.
“I guess Edna and Aunt Winnie used to really trip the light fantastic in here,” I said. “I’m just trying to imagine it all, you know? Would you like a drink?”
“I would,” he smiled.
Get him a drink. The painting will wait, I reminded myself. Try to work on that emotional exposure thing Edna was talking about.
Yeah, I have no idea how to do that.
While I cast about in my imagination for a sort of mental h
alloween costume to put on, Jackson circled the perimeter of the room. He touched the top of the mantle as he looked at each of the framed photos, then put his hands on his hips and stared at the small still life by the window.
“You painted this?”
“Yeah,” I answered, walking up behind him and holding out a bottle of some craft beer.
He nodded. I watched the back of his head bob and the thick muscles bunching under his creamy, light gauge silk sweater. He lingered in front of the painting like he was really looking at it, and I couldn’t help but bite my lip when he shifted his weight to one hip in a perfect contrapposto, like a Greek statue.
“It’s good,” he nodded. I didn’t answer but inside I squirmed like a kitten under his praise, even while I made a mental list of twelve things I would happily change about that painting. He moved to the window and looked out at the pool, and I distractedly imagined drawing him with long, undulating marks of velvety charcoal against thick paper.
“So… We should talk?” he said, and it sounded like a question.
“Oh!” I blurted. Now? Right now? “Well, sure, OK,” I said agreeably, hoping he had prepared a speech because I sure hadn’t.
I walked over to the sofa and sat, curling one leg under myself and leaning against the back. Look, Edna! I called silently. Check out my emotionally available posture!
As he walked to the couch, I tried not to see his eight-pack abs under his thin sweater or his hips working underneath his dark-washed jeans. It was like watching an animation in wireframe: my brain was stubbornly in Art Mode and I couldn’t seem to turn it off.
He sat on the far corner from me and started to talk. I know he did. He began to say something very mature and rational about our situation and normal ideas of propriety and whatnot. But all I could do was watch the exquisite shadow of stubble on his jaw as it caught tiny fire lights of sun. He was all aglitter, and my fingers ached to trace his outlines.
“You know what I mean?” he concluded, spreading his hands palm-up.
Nodding, I bit my lip and tried to hide the excitement in my ribcage. I knew exactly how to make that shade of blue that shone in his hair. I could almost hear the sound the charcoal would make if I were drawing him. The thought of drawing him mingled with the memory of tasting him and my tongue itched as I imagined that texture in my mouth
“Margot?” he said softly. The tenderness I could hear in his voice made my heart jump in my chest. The sunlight burned red through the back of one of his ears and I felt my cheeks crinkle in a smile. The sunlight made him look like he was made of candy. My collarbones went all hot and humid.
I could tell by the way he cocked his head like a puppy that I was not reacting the way he expected. Taking a deep breath, I was suddenly aware that I could smell his cologne. I had four senses saturated with him so far, and my body started crying out for a good, thorough run at sense number five.
You know, one time was forgivable, but this was supposed to be a professional relationship, I scolded myself.
Bridget seems to approve, a voice reminded me.
Yeah but Bridget is a crazy bitch, another voice piped in.
But how much more trouble can I really get in? I am already screwed.
My mind started to race ahead to consequences. What would we do tomorrow? How could this possibly go well?
But I found myself shaking my head, rattling the thoughts of tomorrow aside in favor of only seeing what was in front of me: the beautiful, hard, blue-eyed god sitting on my couch.
Dropping my shoes off one by one, I got up on my knees and kneel-walked closer to him. His lips parted in surprise as I advanced. His gaze tracked over my lace-trimmed pink tank and the small strip of my exposed belly to the hemline of my flirty knit skirt. His nostrils flared slightly as he took one deep breath after another.
“Touch me,” I whispered, not sure if he would. Honestly, I was terrified he would, and terrified he wouldn’t. My heart began to pound loudly in my chest.
He closed his eyes. A small smile curled the edges of his lips. I saw it, and relief flooded me. Relief and a sense of power.
His hand lifted from where it had rested on his knee and it hung in the air for a few moments, like a bird floating on an updraft. I waited, watching him, begging him silently. Shivers rushed over my body as my skin yearned for the warm contact of his skin.
He glanced up at me, his expression thick with desire. I held absolutely as still as I could and watched his hand hover in the air. Was he still considering it?
Suddenly, he slid to kneeling on the couch and was right in front of me. I almost flinched in surprise. He moved so fast, so gracefully. His hand brushed up my thigh, under my skirt and slid over my bare hip. His thumb hooked through the string band of my thin panties. My breath caught in my throat and I looked up into his sky blue eyes, their gaze steady and burning. His breath fell sweetly onto my lips and I could taste his scent, all musky and dense.
Slowly, he dragged my panties over my hips. I was desperate for his kiss, but I held back. I didn’t want to be the initiator. I wanted him to take me. I wanted him to own my body, to lavish me with sensations.
I didn’t have to wait long. As his thumbs dragged my panties down and off, he pulled my hips toward his and I felt his beautiful, thick cock, ready and hard against my belly. As soon as his manhood touched me through the fabric of his jeans I gasped, and my open lips were all the invitation he needed. He bent down and covered my mouth with his, finally offering me the sweet, masculine taste of his mouth. I kissed him hungrily, holding my arms out, letting him have whatever he wanted.
His hands flew over my skin, pinching, grabbing, grasping me to him as he tore the tank top over my head. His kisses exploded with urgency and I felt the flood of desire through his body. It was as though I could feel his heart racing through his skin. His body instantly misted over with animal, primal sweat as he pushed me back onto the cushions.
I fell back spread-eagled with him over me, flattening me deliciously beneath his weight. I wanted to feel him everywhere, and I submitted completely as he crawled over me like a beast, kissing my mouth, cheeks, neck, shoulders, and back again in a flurry of bites and licks that took the breath out of my lungs.
Snarls grumbled in his throat and he began to bite me with more urgency. His hands covered my wrists as he wandered frantically, covering as much of my body as he could reach with kisses and love bites. My back arched eagerly, offering him every inch of me, wishing desperately to feel his lips against my tenderest parts.
His hard cock strained against the front of his jeans and I snapped the button open, unzipping and pushing them down, down. In one move I had them down around his ankles, freeing his erection. He gasped and stared at me in happy surprise. I shrugged demurely.
Leaning back, Jackson kneeled in the sunlight and whipped his sweater off. I gaped at his beauty. He looked like he was carved out of marble. Every muscle knit precisely into every other like a perfect anatomy diagram. I could name and count them all, and the list began in my mind. Deltoid, trapezius, pectoralis major… I had never realized how sultry those words really were.
Licking his lips he surveyed me, displayed before him. “Can I?” he asked politely.
“Yes!” I breathed. Please! my mind screamed.
His fingers barely had time to pull the bow loose on my lace bra before he fell on me again, covering my naked body deliciously with his taut, athletic form. He lined himself up with his hand and stared into my eyes as he dragged the head of his cock along my wet furrow.
My breath caught in my throat but I couldn’t look away from his eyes. The blue was so clear, I felt like I could hear his primal, thundering thoughts. My fingers laced behind his broad shoulders and I pulled him closer, bucking my hips against his.
He hesitated a moment longer, almost longer than I could stand, then pushed himself into me. He was thicker than I thought he would be, almost thicker than I could bear. The feeling of stretching to take him was exquisite. I h
ooked my ankle over his hips and dragged him deeper into me.
Jackson stared into me and clenched his jaw, stroking all the way in and all the way out, slowly, burying himself to the hilt while I bit my lip. His jaw clenched in concentration. My fingers wandered over his back, kneading the muscles as they flexed and rolled in succession. I wanted to tattoo him onto the palms of my hands.
As he surged and rocked his cock deeper, harder, I touched every part of him I could reach. When I pinched his nipples he sped up to a gallop and I pinched harder, kissing him, sucking on his lower lip to remind him of how I sucked on his cock the night before. I felt him throttle past the point of no return almost instantly and he began bucking furiously. He grabbed the tops of my shoulders for counterbalance and rammed his cock into me over and over. I tried not to laugh with delight. His arms were so strong around me, I felt like I was turning to jelly in his hands. Every inch of me submitted to his desires. I didn’t care anything for myself, just wanted to let him come inside me, as hard and fast as he could.
And he did. Breath exploded from his nose in short, animal bursts as he pounded me unrelentingly, then finally he yanked my shoulders down and buried himself as deeply as he could, roaring into my hair as he came in shuddering spasms.
I held him deeply in me as his body lurched and rocked, trying to feel all of it through him. Finally he fell, leaden and panting. He kissed my jaw and behind my ear and untangled his hands from my hair.
“Ohhhhh baby,” I sighed happily, kissing his sweetly dampened hairline.
My limbs felt like silly putty, but I still wanted to touch him all over. The sensations continued to ricochet in my brain back and forth like ping pong balls, turning into bright visual trails and back to sensory memories, tracing their crazy paths as though they created a logical pattern. I felt like I was breathing inside a live, throbbing painting. My crotch pulsed brightly as he slowly fell out.
He chuckled shyly. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
I shrugged. “You’re not what I expected either. Bridget said you were fat.”