The Seduction of Suzanne

by Amelia Hart

  She squirmed lightly, and felt him respond, his eyes coming open, hand tightening on her waist. He surveyed her as she stared down at him, wide-eyed and solemn. With a sigh he rolled again, tipping her off gently onto the mattress.

  “Probably best to get up and get going,” he said ruefully, banked desire clear in his admiring glance over her where she lay, blinking. “Otherwise you’re going to be sore.” He turned away, came to the edge of the bed and stood, unabashedly naked. Feeling bereft, and suddenly highly conscious of her own nudity, she made a belated scramble for her towelling robe. Wrapped in it she still felt vulnerable and unclothed, though Justin’s attention appeared to be directed out of the window. He was right, she did feel tender, a little abraded. Though not enough to have stopped her experimenting further if he’d given her encouragement. But she wasn’t bold enough to stalk him and toss him back into bed.

  She searched for words to say to him. She wanted to tell him how cherished he had made her feel, how precious and beautiful. That she felt somehow changed, transformed from the woman she had been. But that would sound awkward and gauche.

  She wanted to tell him she loved him, but that would ruin everything. And maybe it was just the effect of what they had shared. Maybe it would pass, this feeling that she had set him at the centre of her inner world and never known it until now.

  Moving toward the door, she quietly said, “I’m going to go have a quick rinse.”

  She saw him start to turn, and fled out of the room before either of them could say more.

  In the bathroom, she surveyed herself cautiously in the mirror. There was a hectic flush along her cheekbones and her mouth was pink and swollen from kisses. But that hardly reflected the intense inner experience. Pulling her hair quickly back into a ponytail at her neck, she turned on the shower.

  As she shifted her weight, the pull of small, stretched muscles made her wince.

  The water warmed quickly, her robe was discarded, and she stepped in under the gentle spray. It took only a few moments to clean away the signs of her response to him, the wetness between her thighs.

  She knew the inner change would last much longer. She felt light as air. Free. Bonds broken, fresh and intriguing possibilities laid out before her. She had done exactly the right thing. Making love with Justin could not have been more different from her last experience. . . they shouldn’t even be classified together. The one was a celebration, the other a travesty.

  She hoped fiercely she would never think of that night again, never be ruled or influenced by it. She was done with that now. It was history, no part of her life today. Her life now.

  With a half-smile, she tilted her head back under the flow of hot water.

  She barely registered the cool draught that the opening door made on her wet skin. However she certainly noticed when Justin’s arms slid around her torso from behind, cupping her breasts as his mouth descended to sip water from the curve where neck met shoulder. She gasped, her hands flying up to grasp his crossed forearms.

  “Sorry,” he murmured in her ear, his voice holding not a trace of apology. “I was out there, imagining you in here, wet and naked, and I just couldn’t resist the temptation.” He took a gentle bite from her nape, and she squirmed against him, making him groan helplessly.

  “I know I said we shouldn’t, not for a while, but there are other things we could do together,” he rumbled raggedly.

  “Really?” she asked, not trying to hide her interest.

  “Oh yes,” he said, and first he described them to her, making her heart beat fast and hard, and then he proceeded to show her, with hands and fingers and tongue. At some point they made it back to the bed, uncaring that their wet bodies dampened the sheets. He brought her to climax again and then again, savouring her pleasure, and when she shyly asked, taught her how to please him in turn.

  Chapter Nine

  They had spent the morning on a blanket in the garden behind the house, near where her hammock was strung up. Having had their usual discussion about whether or not he would wear SPF 15 sunblock - he insisting that he wouldn’t think of it unless she was the one to rub it in, everywhere, a condition which inevitably led to most of it being rubbed right off again, on the blanket and on her - they were casually sprawled full length, half in the shade. He lay on his back, and she was on her side, facing him, her head propped up on her elbow. She wore one of his faded T-shirts, the threadbare cotton extraordi-narily soft and smooth against her skin. No wonder he had worn it to holes. It was so comfortable. Underneath it she was naked.

  His arm was outstretched, hand hidden in the cloth as he absently stroked the sensitive skin a few inches below her breasts. Looking at his lashes, crescents against the taut curve of cheekbone, then flicking down to follow the strong, clean lines of tendon and muscle which moulded his neck, shoulders and torso, her hands suddenly itched for a brush.

  “Could I paint you? Would you mind? Modelling for me, I mean,” she asked abruptly.

  He tilted his head towards her, lifting a forearm to shade his eyes from the sun.

  “I thought you only did landscapes?” he said, looking a little surprised by the request.

  “Well, yes, usually I do. Only I just, well, I’d really like to have you as a subject. If it wouldn’t bother you.”

  “On the contrary: I’d be flattered,” he said, a slow smile breaking out.

  “Oh good!” she said happily.

  “So when do you want to start? Now?”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  “Inside or outside?”

  “Inside. In my studio,” she said firmly.

  “Clothed or nude?” he asked, a wicked twinkle in his eye

  “I guess, ah, well nude would be best. I mean, I’m not used to painting people, and it would help me to get the musculature right. And everything. Um,” she blushed helplessly.

  “You’re the boss,” he said easily, unconcerned. “Only you have to realise that it’ll mean an increase in my fee.” He stood and took a corner of the rug, tugging gently on it. She obeyed his unspoken request and rolled sideways so that he could gather the woollen blanket into his arms. She stood and contemplated him warily.

  “What fee?”

  “Every model needs to be paid,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her.

  “Of course,” she said, becoming businesslike. “How much do you think is reasonable?”

  “I have to admit that I haven’t had much experience in the field,” he said contemplatively, as if giving the matter serious consideration. He took a couple of steps closer to her, so that she could feel the gentle scratchiness of the blanket’s wool against her belly. “I’m sure that we’ll be able to work out some equitable exchange.”

  Meeting his gaze, she saw the heat. There was no mistaking his meaning.

  Three days ago she would have been tongue-tied and nervous. Now she met his eyes boldly, giving him stare for stare.

  “I’m sure we can,” she replied smoothly. “I’m perfectly willing to be . . . accommodating.”

  “Good,” he said with some satisfaction. “In that case I am at your command.” He gestured her towards the house, and she swept past him, head held high and excitement clenched in her chest. Perhaps as much from his words as from her impromptu art project.

  In her studio she took the blanket he still carried, and spread it out so it lay under a skylight. Now that it was so close to midday, the sun shone almost directly down. Usually she chose not to work around noon, when the light was bold and harsh. However this time she wished to make an exception, for a stark, high key image. “Now if you’ll lie down there and make yourself comfortable, I’ll get things set up. Then we’ll make any necessary adjustments to your pose.”

  Without demur he obeyed her directions. She went and fetched a small prepared canvas from its rack, set it on her easel, collected a range of brushes and began putting oil paint on her large, flat plastic palette. Slow-drying oil would give her longer to work, to blend tones describing the rol
ling curves of a body.

  Pausing to take a long look at his pose, she decided that there was nothing which needed changing. In the strong sunshine every detail of his body and the wrinkled grey rug was picked out clearly, the contrasts between light and shadow sharply delineated.

  Lying on his stomach with one arm outflung and his head turned towards her, face still and eyes closed, he looked like a young god, or an angel, pausing for a moment’s rest on earth.

  Then he spoke, his matter-of-fact tone breaking the illusion. “Do you want me to move at all? If so, you’d better tell me now, before I fall asleep.”

  “No, you’re fine. Go to sleep if you want. I don’t mind.”

  “I shall,” he said without hesitation, and she smiled slightly.

  After that, all was silent except for the occasional faint whisper of palette knife against canvas. She worked quickly, her exceptional eye for colour making the transition from portraying landscapes to portraying human flesh easier than she had anticipated it would be. Falling into the familiar trance of painting, she didn’t notice the broad beam of light from the large overhead window moving until it began to fall away from her subject. Then, with a muttered imprecation, she emerged from behind her easel, and stooped down to grasp the edge of the blanket in both hands, disregarding the paint marks she left on the worn grey material.

  “I’m just going to relocate you a bit,” she said to Justin, who stirred a little and murmured an unintelligible inquiry.

  “Stay still.”

  He subsided. With a determined effort she pulled him bodily across the floor, blanket and all, only the polish on the wooden floorboards and the full application of all her own bodyweight making the endeavour possible. She rearranged his limbs slightly, strictly forbidding her hands to linger on his sun-warmed skin. Then, satisfied at least aesthetically, she went back to her work.

  It seemed only a short while before the moving sun again interrupted her. Yet by the ache in her feet, she knew it had been much longer. With some surprise she realised that the painting was nearly complete. Usually it would take upwards of a week to finish a project to a stage where she was satisfied with it, and that was after she had made several sketches and preliminary paintings. However on this occasion, she hadn’t had the patience to prepare more thoroughly, and for once her lack of discipline had paid off. Apparently nearly three days of observing her subject minutely beforehand had helped matters. She was pleased with it. A piece of his beauty captured for the years.

  With a competent ease she cleaned her palette and brushes, and set the easel to one side of the room where it would be out of the way. It would be worked over later when she could view it more dispassionately, after the first rosy flush of creation had worn off.

  Yet she had a feeling that very few changes would be made.

  Everything put tidily away, she went and stood over Justin. Tempted as she was to let him lie (God knew he’d been getting little enough sleep lately) if he slept on he was going to wake up very stiff from being too long on the unyielding floor. She squatted at his side and shook his shoulder gently. He awoke with a start.

  “You can get up now. I’ve finished for the day.” He grunted sleepily in acknowledgment, and then winced as he began to move.

  “I thought you might be a bit sore. I’ll be happy to give you a rub-down,” she said generously, knowing that she would enjoy it as much as he.

  “Is that a service you offer to all your nude models?” he inquired, coming slowly to his feet.

  “Oh yes,” she said enthusiastically, her eyes wide and her gaze innocently sincere. “Especially the good-looking ones.”

  That got his attention.

  “Say what?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her forbiddingly.

  With interest Suzanne surveyed the promising beginnings of what looked like jealousy. It was not in her nature to deliberately provoke anyone, but the idea of Justin being jealous over her was too tempting to resist.

  “It’s one of the perks of the job. All that naked male flesh . . .” she trailed off as she saw muscles all over his body clench in rejection of her words.

  “Oh yes, all one of my nude male models arouse this incredible depth of passionate lust in me. I really just can’t help myself,” she went on blandly.

  She saw the moment that the meaning of her words penetrated, his face abruptly wiping clean of all expression, as if he had flicked a switch inside his head. She marvelled at his control. The slightest of urbane little smiles emerged.

  “Glad to be so appreciated,” he said. Was his tone a little stiff? She couldn’t be sure.

  He abruptly turned, appeared to see her newly created painting, and started towards it.

  She bit her lip, already regretting her words, and followed. Coming to stand behind him, she placed at tentative hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry. I only meant to tease,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine,” he replied dismissively. Then he changed the subject. “I like this. It’s simple and powerful.” He didn’t seem at all self-conscious about examining an image of his own naked form. But then he’d never shown any signs of shyness, so Suzanne realised that she shouldn’t feel surprised. She knew she wouldn’t be able to be so dispassionate in similar circumstances. She’d be bashful at the least, probably embarrassed.

  “I haven’t tried to paint people in a long time,” she said, subdued. “I can remember my mother saying something about it being better if I stuck to scenery, because at least I didn’t make such a mess of that.”

  It was only when he didn’t react, that she realised she’d been expecting his sympathy. Instead he said, as if thinking aloud: “I suppose that if you’d been to art school, you would have spent a lot more time studying things like that. People.”

  “Yes. I’d have been better at it then. This,” she indicated the painting, “would have been better.”

  “Maybe it would have been. This is pretty damn good, but maybe it would have been better.”

  As she thought about it, she liked it that he didn’t flatter her. It was something special to know someone who was so truthful she could really rely on what he said. It felt solid. Real. Bit by bit she was really coming to trust him. And it was a good feeling.

  Chapter Ten

  The first quiet click woke her. There was a long pause as she muzzily sorted through her memory to identify the sound. A minute later there was a second click. This time she jack-knifed in the bed, pulling naked limbs together then leaping to her feet in the middle of the mattress.

  She stood over a surprised Justin, and a red haze of fury descended over her vision as she caught sight of the slick little black rectangle in his hand. The sound of a camera shutter. The thin, tinny sound that emanated from a mobile phone as it took a picture.

  The lens still pointed at the spot where she had lain sprawled over the top of rumpled sheets, completely nude and asleep.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked. “You utter, unprincipled bastard!” She bent down and snatched the phone from his unresisting hand, and in a single motion swept it high then dashed it with all her strength on the hard wood floor. There was a splintering sound on impact, and little black pieces scattered around the room.

  “Get out of my house, you slime, you piece of filth.” She swooped to pick up a pillow by its corner and swung it at his head without letting go. The force of her blow rocked his head sideways. He scooted backwards across the bed, coming to his feet with his hands held out in front of her in the same gesture a man might use when trying to calm a savage dog. His expression was confusion, but she barely saw it. Superimposed over him was an image of teenage boys laughing coarsely as she fought not to retch.

  “Suzanne? I don’t-“

  “I said get out! Get out get out GET OUT!” She leapt from the bed, lithe as a panther. He wasn’t braced for her shove and he stumbled as she cannoned into him from a height, recovered, turned to her again hunched over, broad shoulders pulled in as he tried to m
inimize his threatening size, defuse her aggression.

  She shoved him once more, scooped his clothes off the floor where he had casually shucked them the night before and hurled them at him.

  “Wait just a sec-“

  “If I had a gun I’d SHOOT you, you miserable excuse for a sick pervert!” He was giving ground, a spark of indignation starting to burn in his own eyes, his ever-smiling mouth drawn tight and grim.

  She pushed him again, rage lending her strength. They were in the hallway now, only feet from the open front door, and she hooked a foot around his ankle, crouched to engage her powerful quadriceps, set the heel of both hands on his sternum and tripped him so he fell out onto the verandah.

  He rolled as he fell, coming to his feet in a swift motion, but she had already slammed and locked the door. With angry strides he headed for the French doors off the kitchen, but she ran and got there first, throwing the deadbolt in his furious face. Then she locked all the windows, leaving the highest one – the bay window off her bedroom – till last and dropping out his clothes and gym bag.

  He had circled the house with her and was there to catch his gear as it fell.

  “Suzanne,” he said in stormy-eyed reproach, “This is hardly rational. Let’s just talk-“

  She interrupted him with a lurid string of words she had never used before in her life, heaping scorn on his head, his naked body a cipher to her. “Get out now or I’m calling the police,” she finished, with no trace of hesitation in her tone. Only a fool would believe she didn’t mean it, and Justin was no fool.

  “Consider me gone,” he said through gritted teeth, turning on his heel to stalk away without bothering to clothe himself, possessions clutched forlornly under one arm.

  He opened the car’s unlocked door, threw his gear into the passenger seat and got in with sharp, jerky movements, finding the keys and revving the engine before pulling out and peeling away with a puff of dust left hanging in the air behind him.

  Suzanne took one deep breath, and then another. The third caught on a sob, coming from deep in her gut. It emerged like the moan of some wounded animal, full of raw pain.