Canvas for Love

by Charlotte Greene

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I had the gallery come pick up the new piece, giving them special directions on how to handle a wet painting. Even if it sold tonight, it would hang in the gallery for the duration of the show until the end of the month, which would give it time to settle and dry enough to go home with someone. I wasn’t sure anyone would buy it—it was a little more experimental than my other work, but I was proud of it anyway. I’d keep it in my own living room if no one else wanted it.

  A couple of hours before the show, Amelia surprised me with another treat: instead of doing my own hair and makeup, her stylists—Jean-Paul, Lizbeth, and Margaret—were coming over to help me. In the months since my first makeover, I’d gone to see Jean-Paul every month for upkeep on my haircut and had my hair styled and makeup done by the women for a couple of major events. I hadn’t seen any of them since a few weeks before our breakup, so after they came through my front door, they barraged me with friendly criticism and horror over my split ends and bushy eyebrows. The three of them led me into the kitchen to work on me, and by the time they were done, I was transformed. I went upstairs to change while they styled my aunt and Amelia, and by the time the three of us were ready, we looked like we belonged on the cover of a magazine. I invited the three stylists to the show, and they were more than happy with the invitation. They set off ahead of us.

  As the gallery was on the closer end of Royal Street in the Quarter, I’d wanted to walk, but Amelia insisted on using her usual car-service driver, George. I hadn’t seen him since before the breakup either, and he was all smiles when the three of us walked outside. He kissed my aunt’s hand and squeezed mine as we piled into the back of the Rolls-Royce, where we found a split of champagne waiting for us.

  “For nerves,” Amelia said, opening it. “Just a half glass for all of us. No need to get sloppy.”

  We clinked glasses, and the bubbles felt wonderful traipsing across my tongue. I closed my eyes to roll the flavor around my mouth, and when I opened them, Amelia was looking at me with clear yearning. I blushed under her gaze and looked over at my aunt. She was blushing and looking out the window, having witnessed our exchange. I was curious to know what she and Amelia had talked about all day while I was painting, but the result was clear: she and Amelia were easier with each other than I’d ever seen them. Not only were they chatting with ease, but I’d also caught Kate looking at Amelia several times with something like fondness. As we were almost at the gallery, I decided my questions could wait until later.

  The car pulled over and George got out to help us. He opened the door and extended a hand for each of us in turn, Amelia insisting that I exit last for show. The crowd began clapping when they saw me, and I was shocked to see how many people were here already. Generally an opening night for an art show for an unknown artists attracted perhaps fifty people over the course of an evening, but that many or perhaps more were here already, waiting for the doors to open. Jim stood next to Meghan and Zach, and several of my cousins were in the crowd as well. Teddy and Kit were standing nearby, next to a group of women around their age. My future dean was huddled in a group of some of my art-history colleagues from the college. Most of Amelia’s family was here—her dad, her brothers, Emma, and Billy. I was about to walk over and greet each of them in turn, but I heard a yodeling squeal behind me and was only just able to turn toward it before I was enveloped in a tight embrace. It took me a moment to recognize that it was Lana. Jess, her fiancée, was just behind her, looking happy but embarrassed to have the whole crowd staring at us.

  I was so touched to see Lana, I could hardly speak. “What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t make it.”

  She had tears in her eyes too, and she smiled widely. “A certain someone called me this morning and offered the use of her private jet. She said she could get me and Jess here and home again in a single evening. How could I refuse?”

  I turned to find Amelia looking happy and satisfied with her surprise and gave her a hug before kissing her soundly. The crowd erupted around us in cheers and applause, and as we stepped away from each other, both of us colored from the attention. She took my hand in hers, and we turned toward the gallery, ready to begin the night.

  * * *

  The show succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Not only did it sell out within a couple of hours, but the people who saw my work raved about it. My future colleagues at the university were especially pleased and impressed, my dean going so far as to compare me to a well-known contemporary painter whose work hung in just about every modern-art museum in the world. He was clearly overstating things a little to flatter me, but he and the others did genuinely seem to like my work, much, I think, to their surprise. My friends and family were pleased twofold—both by the art and by the attention it was receiving. I saw my aunt and Meghan in happy tears several times throughout the evening. I think they were as excited by the whole thing as I was.

  Several local arts magazines and newspapers interviewed me, and many of them suggested that I could expect enthusiastic reviews. I was also invited for a consultation with the Ogden Museum here in New Orleans. They were doing a special exhibit next year on female artists of the South and were interested in hanging one of my pieces.

  To say the evening was a dream come true is understating it by a monumental amount. I’d never been so happy and so proud of anything in my life.

  None of this would have happened without Amelia. She’d clearly pulled some strings to get all of these people in the room with me at the same time, and her confidence in my work was perhaps the most moving part of the whole evening. I would never have believed in myself enough to attempt a show on my own without her influence. She’d long thought my work was worth sharing with the world, and her genuine insistence on doing so had in part convinced me to try.

  When we made it back to my place, long after midnight and long after a barrage of good wishes and good-byes from friends and strangers, I was still dazzled by my success, lost in thoughts of future shows I wanted to run. I closed the door behind us and turned to find her looking at me with a strange expression.

  I looked down at myself. “What is it? Did I spill something on this dress?”

  She took a step closer and held out her free hand for mine. “It’s strange.”

  “What is?”

  “I always knew you were talented, from the moment I first saw your paintings. But until tonight, I was afraid no one else would ever be allowed to see your work, in public, I mean. Yet they did, and they loved it as much as I did.”

  I laughed. “Does that surprise you?”

  She shook her head and stepped closer, close enough to kiss. “Not at all. I was just realizing that you recognize your own talent now, too. You believe in it.”

  I mulled over her comment for a long moment. While several of the people that had been at my show were friends and family, most of the ones who attended the show over the course of the night had been strangers. Everyone, whether they knew me or not, seemed to love my work.

  I met her eyes and nodded. “You’re right. I believe now.”

  Her face lit up from inside. From her reaction, you would have thought I’d told her the best news in the world. Her joy was infectious, and the warmth of it spread through me. I was relieved at my success, to have the show over with, to have sold out, but this feeling—making her happy—was the best part.

  We kissed then, delicately at first. It was an exploratory kiss, both of us testing the waters. We’d kissed with more and more frequency since the wedding, but we hadn’t let it get to us the way it had then—we were still cautious. This kiss, delicate though it was, had a smoldering fire behind it, on both sides. I drew her into my arms, letting the heat rise a little, putting some strength behind it. She kissed back with the same fierceness, and a new tension settled between us. After I broke away from her lips, I met her eyes, looking for the answer to my question, and saw the same one in hers. I nodded and she grinned, happily. I stepped away from her
and held out my hand for her free one, but when I turned away from her to go toward the stairs, she stopped. I looked back at her, confused.

  She motioned with her cast. “I don’t know how this is going to work with this thing.” She looked so despondent, I almost laughed.

  “We’ll manage.”

  She nodded, still looking uncertain, and I turned again. She followed me, and I wanted to race up the stairs. I made myself go slowly, letting the tension and anxiety build as we climbed. I detected a slight tremble in her fingertips.

  The bedroom was pitch-black. It sits at the back of the house, overlooking a small yard, and the trees out there block the streetlights. I flicked the switch, which lit three small lamps, and then I turned off the two brighter ones. Amelia was still standing in the doorway, still looking a little uncertain, so I began to undress. Despite the dim light, I saw her eyes light up with pleasure, and as I took off each piece, I stepped closer to her. By the time I’d removed my bra, I stood just in front of her, clad only in my underwear. I held out a hand, and she took it eagerly before following me over to the bed. We sat down on the edge, and I let her simply look at me for a while. Finally, as if she could no longer help herself, she touched one of my breasts.

  I couldn’t help but moan and close my eyes. Ever since the wedding—and even before that—I’d yearned for her touch with the sort of desire I had to ignore if I wanted to get anything done. Alone after we’d parted every day, I had to touch myself just so I could get to sleep at night. But it was like a sip of water in the desert—never enough. It took the edge off, but my body was still hungry—famished, even.

  I opened my eyes and looked at her, and her expression was one of dazzled joy. She seemed to hardly believe that we were here together again, after all this time. The expression brought tears to my eyes, and I pushed her back onto the bed, kissing her as if to make up for all the kisses we’d missed out on while we were apart. We were already flushed with heat and longing, and the passion simply built the longer we kissed. Eventually I wrenched my mouth away from hers and kissed her throat, and she tilted her head back to give me room. I sucked at the delicate skin over her pulse, and it quickened under my lips. She moaned, and the sound nearly drove me wild. Suddenly, as if she couldn’t take it anymore, she was sitting up and moving on top of me, and our positions reversed. I writhed underneath her as her lips touched my throat, and I ached for her with every breath. She continued to kiss me but was having difficulty keeping herself stable with only one arm. I used this handicap to my advantage, pushing her back and pinning her beneath me once more. She let out a little surprised yelp, and I grinned at her.

  “I’ve got you right where I want you, Amelia. You’ll stay there until I tell you to move.”

  She grinned and nodded. “Understood, Doctor.”

  I started kissing her again and let my hands begin to explore, first on the outside of her shirt, and then, as if daring her to stop me, I slid one underneath. As my fingers hit the hot skin on her stomach and chest, she hissed against my mouth, and her whole body arched up to meet my hand. I slid it up to her breast and squeezed, hard, and she cried out in surprised pleasure. The sound sent fire racing through my veins, and my kisses became rougher, harder on her mouth and neck.

  Then suddenly, as if she couldn’t stand it anymore, Amelia pulled on the arm underneath her shirt. Thinking I’d gone too far, I immediately stopped and slid it outside again, and then she grabbed my hand and put it between her legs. She was wearing a skirt, which, during the furious activity of the last few minutes, had been hitched up over her hips. My hand met her underwear, and for a moment I was so startled I didn’t do anything. She writhed under me, clearly desperate. Instead of doing what she wanted right away, I kept it there, completely still, though I put a little pressure behind it by leaning into her. She thrust against me, up and down, pushing against my palm, and I held it there for her a moment longer before taking it away. Her eyes opened wide, the expression on her face something like anger.

  When she spoke, a hint of warning sounded in her voice. “Chloé…”

  I grinned at her. “Do you want something?”

  I was playing a dangerous game. For the first time in our relationship, she was asking me to do exactly what I’d wanted to do to her since we first became lovers. A part of me worried that if I hesitated, she would have second thoughts. Another part of me, however, the part I decided to heed, could feel her desperate desire. She wanted me to touch her, and touch her I would. But in my own time.

  “Y-yes.” Her voice was hoarse and she stuttered a little.

  Her eyes, dark blue, were pools of anguished yearning, and the power I suddenly felt sent something hot and wicked thrumming through my veins. Now I understood why she always made me wait. Torturing her like this was delicious.

  “What do you want, Amelia?”

  She swallowed, clearly at a loss. She didn’t know what she wanted—that was obvious. She did know, however, where she wanted it, and she put her hand on top of mine. Then she was pushing both of our hands down into the space between her legs.

  “Touch me,” she said. “Please. Please, Chloé. I-I want you to touch me. Here.”

  It was enough—I was done teasing her. Even had she not begged me to, I would have started soon enough, but hearing her plea sent a kind of wild madness racing through me. I sat up and ripped off her underwear, exposing her for the first time since we’d been together.

  While I’d seen her completely naked in passing once or twice, this was the first time she’d let me look. I sat marveling at her for a long, quiet moment. She was beautiful. Like the dark hair on her head, the curls were dark, almost black. She kept the area trimmed but, like me, didn’t believe in shaving. Her trimmed pussy looked so appealing, I could have cried.

  I finally wrenched my eyes away and gazed up at her, and she was staring at me with something like dread. I put all of my feelings into the smile I gave her.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I told her.

  Her face lost her previous expression, and in an instant she was beaming at me, clearly relieved. I climbed on top of her for a kiss, her cast pinned between us. Her shirt was unbuttoned almost fully, and I took a moment to remove it before I returned to her lips. Her cast rubbed my stomach and chest, and I tried to keep as much weight off it as I could. I left my hands on her sides for a long moment and then set one of them on her thigh. She began writhing underneath me again, and a little rumble of frustration came from her throat. I smiled against her mouth and finally moved my hand between her legs.

  Her hot wetness was a revelation. Based on explorations of my own body, I’d always expected that touching her would feel something like touching myself. It wasn’t. In fact, she felt so different, it was a brand-new, thrilling experience. What made it especially pleasurable, however, was watching her react to my touch. Her entire body wriggled under me, not just her legs. She became stiff and rigid one moment, and then she was writhing against me with incredible strength. Her face expressed a mixture of pleasure and torment, her body clearly in a state of extreme need. Her eyes were pinched shut, and she was biting her lower lip, but every time she bucked her hips, a low groan emanated from her throat. It was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard.

  I ran my hand up and down her slit, briefly touching it before skipping over her clit and moving back down toward her hole. She was incredibly wet, and getting wetter, and her entire body, including her sex, was scorching hot. It was as if her desire, bottled up for so long, was erupting out of her in one go. I toyed with her a while longer, and then, as if she couldn’t stand it anymore, she put her hand on the back of mine again, pushing at it as I passed over her hole. I looked up and met her eyes.

  “You want me inside you?”

  She nodded, obviously incapable of words.

  I gave her what she wanted, and her head whipped back in pleasure, exposing her long, pale throat. I kissed it and bit down a little, and she reared up u
nderneath me, crying out. The tension in her body told me that she was going to come and soon, and I was tempted to drag this moment out a little longer. She must have sensed my hesitation, as she looked at me again, her eyes almost angry.

  “Don’t you dare stop.”

  I grinned and stopped, and she looked so startled and upset, I chuckled. “Just wait a little longer, Amelia. The longer you wait, the better it will be.”

  “Please, Chloé,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  “That’s what I always say to you, so I’ll tell you what you always tell me: you can wait. You will. You have no other choice—I’m the one in control here, not you.”

  Almost as if my words had set her off, her orgasm built up inside her. A tremor shook my fingers, and her eyes started to glaze over. Knowing her climax was inevitable, I began to move my hand again, and it was all over. She threw her head back, and her body arched into her orgasm as it crashed down on her.

  At first she was silent—she didn’t even breathe. A moment later, however, she was screaming, the sound rising and falling as she writhed against my hand. The strength behind her struggles was significant, and it took a lot of work to keep my hand where she clearly wanted it to stay. Her orgasm went on a long while before she finally collapsed onto her back, moving my hand away from her once the sensation became too intense.

  I shifted to her side and lay down next to her, resting my head on her free shoulder. A long while later, she lifted her arm, and I snuggled into her, my face resting on her chest. We said nothing, did nothing, for a long, silent pause. Finally, as if sensing what she was doing, I looked up and saw her crying.

  “Are you okay, Amelia?”