by Kitsy Clare
“I feel like a cat burglar,” I say.
“We’re allowed in here,” he reassures. “I’ve painted here lots after hours.”
With who as your model? my insecure mind wonders.
Erik pauses on the way upstairs. “Before I set up my own studio in my apartment.”
I feel a wash of guilt. “Listen, we could’ve gone there. You didn’t have to jump through hoops for me.”
Erik meets my gaze and holds it. “I want you to feel totally safe. I want you to know I’m a gentleman.” That line floors me as much as it did when he first said it. It’s proof beyond a doubt that he’s a gentleman, through and through. But has he also been a gentleman with Taffy and the others? Women like guys with old-fashioned manners. Maybe that’s why the ladies are all lined up for him. I don’t know what it will take for him to prove to me I’m the only one. Somehow, asking him this won’t prove it. I think I need to see it in action, but I’m not sure what it’ll look like.
Once upstairs, we slip into the live-drawing studio, and Erik flips on the lights. Suddenly, even with my clothes on, I feel exposed. “Ooh, they’re so bright,” I exclaim. How will I ever be able to strip down and pose under this glare? But Erik has all that figured out too.
“Voila.” From his paint bag, he pulls out a table lamp. Plugs it into a floor outlet by the compact stage.
“Ah, much better.” I sigh. Soft golden light beams out, similar to the Chanel ambers that I’ve been transfixed by all afternoon. He starts to set up his easel in front of the stage. “So, um, where should I change?” I ask him. “Do you have a dressing room, I mean an undressing room?”
We laugh. “Sure, I’ll show you.”
It sucks at how awkward I feel. Under my skirt I only wore the black panties, not the top eyelet bikini set. I decided to save that for our date at his solo show. And now I’m worrying about how my breasts will look to him—too small, one perkier than the other? Normally, who thinks about such things? It’s for art, I keep telling myself.
He leads me behind the curtain, which has a chair and a small vanity. “You can put your bag there, and your clothes. I’ll stay on the other side until you’re ready.”
I strip, slowly, first my shirt, then my pants; then finally I unhook my bra. With each garment, I imagine Erik is undressing me, and it makes me less awkward and more turned on. The tension is almost too much, and I start to feel like I did when I was painting him before—my thighs tingling, my loins getting moist, my heart beating hard against my ribs. I face away from the opening of the curtain so when he comes back through he’ll see the slope of my waist widening into my hips and butt first. “M’kay, come on back,” I call.
I hear his footsteps as he mounts the stage and then the swoosh of the curtain as he pulls it open. With his approaching footsteps, my heart pounds harder. “Sienna,” he whispers, “you’re absolutely beautiful from the back.” Still not venturing to my front, he hands me his silky bathrobe. “Here, put this on. You can take it off when you’re ready.” Again, I realize the glaring contrast between Erik’s encouragement to spend as much time as I need and Dave’s warning to hurry before time surges on. Dave would’ve dashed around and ogled me in a flash.
From behind, Erik helps me ease into the robe, and his light but firm touch has me fantasizing about those warm, wide hands slowly circling my breasts, stroking my thighs, gently parting them and pressing his hardening self between them. My pulse gallops, and my breath grows ragged and fast. He surprises me with another light kiss, this time on the nape of my neck, before he makes his way back to his easel.
His tenderness builds my confidence. I give it a few seconds and then, wrapping the bathrobe around me, I burst through the curtain and dance to the front of the stage. “My debut appearance,” I sing.
He admires me as I whirl around. I love the way his whole face lights up and he laughs with his eyes. As if I’m the purest form of delight.
And then it’s time. “Okay, getting into my Aphrodite pose.” I lower myself onto the leopard-skin rug. Aphrodite’s was the one we both liked at the Met’s Greek exhibit. It’s a side-leaning pose, with my head slightly upward, tilting and boldly observing the viewer.
In an instant, the mood changes from light hilarity to a sexually charged firestorm as I do a slow reveal. I hear his sharp intake of breath as I let the robe slip to the stage floor. My triangle is bared in all of its furred glory. I press my legs together as I arrange myself in order not to moisten the floor with how excited I’m getting as he gazes at me. I like how his expression is determined but spellbound, as if the sight of me has him in an altered state.
He makes a show of mixing paints. And then, when he’s mixed enough, he sits back and again fixes those gorgeous green eyes on me, taking in every curve and hollow. “God, Sienna, you’re so incredibly sexy, I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
“That’s a good thing,” I jibe, “because you need to study me to be able to paint me.”
“That’s a great thing, lovely muse.” He leans forward, takes in another whopping eyeful, and finally puts brush to canvas. He makes a series of wide gestures and then finer gestures to sketch in my outlines. After about fifteen minutes of this, he fills his brush again and begins to fondle the canvas with slower, more soulful strokes.
I know what that kind of painted caress feels like. He’s making love to me just the way I’ve been making love to him all week with those sleek, smooth oils. By studying the movement of his eyes, I know he’s stroking my breasts and then my belly and making his way to my thighs.
I can tell by the glazed expression on his face and the gleam of sweat that he’s getting as heated as I am. His mouth is open, and his tongue is playing at his lower lip. I imagine his tongue slipping in and out of my mouth, licking my nipples until they’re taut, and moving down to work his tongue around my soft thighs. My cheeks flush, and he grins at me, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
It almost seems as if we’re both having trouble resisting the inevitable—pressing together, two hungry lovers, sweaty and arching, in a lusty lovemaking session. But Erik’s devotion to the painting itself is impressive. Clearly, he’s forcing himself to stay focused no matter what.
As if he feels the need to break the unbearable tension, he tosses out a question while he loads his brush with an olive shade. “So, what’s your family like?”
I breathe with relief at a chance to chat. “Oh, I have a disorganized but nice mom.” Disorganized? Understatement of the century. “She runs an on-line eGreeting card business. Um, I also have a dad in another state and two stepdads, none of whom I’m close to.”
“Must be hard. Where do you get your talent from?”
“Hmm. Not from my parents. I started doing art as a way of dealing with my screwy family—my mother’s husbands coming and going. Art has its way of soothing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“When I do geometric graphics with sharp, crisp lines the world seems more orderly, you know? How about you? Where does your talent come from?”
Erik pauses to change brushes. He jiggles the first one in a jar of turpentine and then wipes it clean on a sheet of paper towel. “Well, not from my dad. He’s a construction hardhatter, all the way. A good man, a kind man, but a guy who enjoys pool games, dark ales, and football, not any kind of art.” Making detailed strokes with the new, smaller brush, Erik continues, “My mother’s a good person too but not artistic. She’s into her book group and her friends.”
“Then who?”
Erik toys with a lock of his hair. “My sister Liza. We were always drawing together—in the car, in the yard, in our kitchen. She would draw flowers and trees, and I would draw her. She always told me I had talent, that I should pursue art if I wanted to.”
“That’s nice. Are you close now? Do you see her a lot?”
He puts his brush down. “No, she passed when I was fifteen. Meningitis took her in two days. We were all in total shock.”
“I’m so sorr
y.” I want to get up and hold him, but I’d lose the pose.
“It’s okay. I’m over the sadness.” His face relaxes into a nostalgic smile. “I swear she’s with me. Sometimes I feel her presence, urging me on. Whether it’s real or not, it helps me. Is that silly?” His eyes are raw, vulnerable, as they gaze at me.
“No, it’s wonderful,” I murmur. “You’re wonderful.”
“Thanks.” We’re quiet for a time while he concentrates. His hands move feverishly as he tries to get all he can in the last hour. I never get tired of watching his shifting expressions, and how his corn-silk hair inches lower on his brow before he sweeps it back.
“I never realized how hard it is to stay still,” I admit. “My legs are falling asleep.”
“Modeling isn’t easy. It’s very athletic, in a funny way. Let me see what I can do.” Erik wipes his hands off and stretches, showing a section of toned torso under his sweater hem.
He pads over, and in his catlike way, he sits. When he takes my feet in his hands, I flinch. He’s so close to my nakedness. Figuratively and for real. Do I dare let him get any closer? Am I ready for this? I’m scared, and I need him all to myself.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently as he lifts his hands off me. The hurt is evident in his tone. I feel his energy retract, and I hate that I had a part in it.
The last thing I want to do is hurt him. I just need things to be clear, and ordered, and to know how it’ll all end up—that I’ll be okay and won’t get wounded either. It’s more than having my shoes or desk items aligned; it’s needing my heart and emotions in order. Is that pathetic or what? “Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, suddenly needing his touch more than anything. “Please, keep going.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!” My voice sounds so needy. I feel dangerously exposed.
Again, he takes my feet in his hands and starts to massage them. His touch is incredibly reassuring. Warm, loving. He doesn’t have a judgmental bone in his body, he accepts me in all my flaws. The pressure on my arches drives shafts of feeling up my whole being. He works his way along my legs, spending a delectably long time on my calves. I relax, inch by inch, groaning with pleasure.
“Better?” he asks.
“Mmm, better.” I sigh.
After about ten minutes of this, he slides his long body down next to me and folds me into his strong arms. I’m not as tall as he is, but I am long and lean. We fit so well. With his fingers he draws designs on the small of my back. Getting a foot massage was amazing enough, and this new pressure just behind my feminine core, sends ecstatic pulses through me. I moan, low and long. Now I take a turn sketching circles on his back, and he lets out a sexy growl of pleasure.
“Sienna, you’re amazing,” he whispers.
“You too.”
Our eyes fix on each other—his green to my brown. We simmer in each other’s molten heat. “I need to kiss you, muse,” he murmurs.
“Kiss me, muse,” I echo.
His lips find mine, and oh, Lord, his are firm yet delectable. His tongue flicks out tiny kisses of fire. It caresses my lips, parts them masterfully. In deeper explorations, his tongue meets mine. The pressure of it, in and out, drives deep pulses of pleasure down through my entire body.
His hands stray to my breasts. He strokes them as softly and lovingly as he did the canvas he’s just worked on. “Your skin’s like velvet,” he whispers.
I slide my hand under his sweater and rub his back, his well-defined shoulders, and then slip around to the front, to his firm abdomen and the mysterious and dangerous line of hair that disappears down his pants. My fingers linger on his zipper, inch it down, and then travel boldly to the firm bulge below, which makes him moan.
My closed eyes roll up under their lids as his hands trace the top of my dark triangle.
We’re so immersed in each other that when the thunderous footsteps come and a harsh light is flicked on, we’re startled. Erik flings his bathrobe over me before he winds the leopard-skin rug around his unzipped pants and hides the hard evidence of how turned on he is.
The superintendant, push broom in hand, is as startled as we are. “Oh! So sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” He spots Erik’s easel and canvas. “It’s 11:00 p.m.,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch. “You’ll need to pack up. I have to lock the building.”
How did so much time go by? We scramble to our feet.
“Sorry to scare you like that,” Erik tells him. “We’ll clear out of here, if you’d uh, just give us a few minutes to ourselves?” He wags his head toward me, as if to say “the lady needs privacy to dress”.
“Of course.” The man scampers out. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
No full-on love connection for us tonight. Just as well it didn’t happen in a paint-spotted studio on a grubby leopard-skin rug. And I need to know for sure that I’m the only one before I go and totally lose my head over him. Erik and I embrace on our way out, and he gives me a lingering kiss before we go our separate ways. Savoring that kiss helps me stay calm on the subway ride home when I remember my upcoming meeting with Dave tomorrow.
7 CHAPTER SEVEN
On the way to Dean and DeLuca’s, I swing by the art store for a dose of pleasure before the pain of dealing with Dave. Nothing more healing than immersing myself amongst shelves of colorful paints, rolls of cotton duck canvas, and bins of piney wooden stretchers, all the way from cute five-inchers to strapping six-foot beams.
I grab a bottle of linseed oil good for mixing layering varnishes and then weave down the crowded aisle to pick out the perfect new sable brush. Sable brushes are big deals. They can cost upwards of fifty dollars, but it feels like the right time for a treat.
Seems as if the whole of Manhattan’s art set is in this store today—from a recognizable, semi-famous sculptor who comes in to buy big jugs of resin, to regulars with purple, spiky hair and paint-spotted backpacks, to obvious newbies asking what brands of pastels and drawing tablets are the best quality.
My hands are busy sampling the enticingly soft sable brushes when I hear a husky female voice on the other side of the aisle. “Wow, I can’t believe I ran into you here. You paint too? Really?”
I can’t see them through all of the rows of sketchpads, but I know I’ve heard that catty, treacherous voice before. It fills me with a wrenching anxiety.
“I do. I paint portraits.” I’d know that low voice anywhere—it’s Erik’s. My heart thuds to a stop as my ears prick like a suspicious she-wolf’s.
“I can’t believe it!” the husky-toned girl exclaims loudly enough to stop traffic. No doubt in my mind now that it’s Taffy. “Our model paints. Too great,” she chirps. “You want to come hang out? Hey, we can pose for each other.” She emphasizes the word pose in a way that makes it clear there’s more on her mind than mere drawing. My stomach lurches with a tarred black hatred as I wait for Erik’s answer.
“Um, thanks, but um…”
The store around me blurs. Blood pounds hard between my ears. Say the right thing, Erik, my mind screams. Please.
“I’ve got to get some things done. Maybe some other time.” He laughs—uncomfortably? Geez, it’s pretty much the right answer, except for the ambiguous follow up: Maybe some other time. Knowing Taffy, she’ll misread that as a complete come-on. Is this just Erik’s typical polite, gentlemanly way of blowing her off? Which is it? I need to know!
But I can’t exactly swing around to their aisle and ask him. I refuse to seem weak in front of Taffy, who would surely go in for my jugular. My cheeks must be as red as my favorite old shirt I’m wearing, and I can’t get in a good breath. I’m way too flustered to stay here any longer. I hastily toss the brushes back in their various bins and clamber to the front of the store, stepping on some guy’s toes in the process. Stuttering out an apology, I beat it to the door.
Behind me I hear Erik call, “Sienna, is that you? Sienna?” But I’m so out of there. In loitering around, eavesdropping, I’ve made myself late for Dave.
“So, what’s on your mind?” I ask Dave as I take a seat across from him at Dean and DeLuca, where he’s impatiently tapping his fingers on the table.
“You’re late,” he mutters, glaring at his expensive wristwatch.
“Sorry, slept through my alarm. You know, Saturday.” I giggle lamely. Glancing around, I see the place is full of shoppers buying organic fruits and specialty baked pastries and folks who are lingering over their lattes and fancy cappuccinos. I’ve carried over an iced tea, and I stir lemon into it.
Dave takes a gulp of his coffee and frowns at me. I never realized how long his face is and how off-putting his eyes are when he’s mad. They seem to swell and almost vibrate. He must get that from his aunt. He’s wearing a typical Dave outfit: neatly pressed khakis, snug pinstriped shirt, those fancy Ecco shoes. On top of all I know about Dave now, these accoutrements only accentuate his pretentious side, though I’m sure Harper would disagree.
“What’s up, Dave? Better be good to get me out of bed early on Saturday,” I tease.
He’s not amused and starts in with a bang. “I really don’t appreciate you telling my aunt that we weren’t even dating. You made me look like a darn fool.”
Okay, if he wants to get into it. “Well, we weren’t dating.”
“What did you call Buddakan? To the tune of 420 dollars.”
“Wow, that’s crass, Dave. Do you always tell your date how much the dinner cost? Or only when it goes badly?”
“Just sayin’, I’d call that a date. You just called it one,” he says, neatly sidestepping my question. “And it was especially cold since I was doing you a huge favor. Do you know how many artists at Museum School would do anything for a show at Studio Hightower?”
“Do something outlandish like…date you?”
“That’s cold, Sienna.”
“Sorry, but you asked for it.” It’s absolutely not my regular MO to retort with rude comebacks, but I won’t just sit there while he lobs one after the other at me.