The Unveiling (Work of Art #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “You have the sexiest legs. I want them wrapped around me.”

  He removes his glasses and carefully sets them on the side table. The desire shining in his vivid blue eyes burns into me. “Do you remember that knit dress you wore the night we met? It hugged every curve. God, I wanted you then. I knew I had to have you.”

  When he kisses me again, he slides his hands along the insides of my thighs and over my hips. He pulls me toward him, which pushes my skirt up and exposes my delicate panties.

  “That lavender color is perfect against your gorgeous pale skin. Open your blouse, Ava. I want to see the rest of you.”

  I slowly undo the buttons and open my shirt. My nipples are hard and straining against the delicate netting of my lavender bra. When I sit up, he kisses me and cups my breasts, circling my nipples with his thumbs as he lets out a low moan. When we part, I fall back onto the chaise, deliciously aroused.

  He runs his hands over my panties and smiles up adoringly. “You’re even more perfect than I imagined.” He slides his fingers down between my legs and presses against my center, and I moan, tilting my head back against the cushion.

  He leaves a trail of kisses along the inside of my leg from my calf to my knee as I slide my trembling fingers through his hair.

  “Aren’t you glad we waited to come here to make love?” he says, as he gently spreads my legs open. When he gets to the top of my thighs, he kisses me between my legs and gently bites the panties, tugging the delicate lace aside with his teeth.

  My wetness surges with his hot breath on me as he pulls the fabric away. I love his focused attentive gestures and his sense of total control.

  “Can I help you with that?” I shimmy the panties down my hips and he slowly pulls them down to my knees, so I can pull my legs out of them one at a time.

  He spreads my legs so that I’m naked before him. His hooded eyes full of overwhelming desire.

  “Jonathan,” I whisper. “Are you going to have your way with me or just tease me?”

  “Both, beautiful, in due time. There’s no reason to rush this.”

  He runs his fingers across me, and I’m so aroused and sensitive that I shiver from the contact. He slips his fingers inside me and takes a sharp breath. “You’re already so wet…so ready.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, and notice his erection straining tightly against his pants.

  He lifts his finger to his lips, slowly rolling it into his mouth. “So sweet, but I want more than just a taste.”

  This time, he kisses along my other thigh until his face is between my legs and his mouth is on me. His tongue swirls against me with a perfect blend of hot pressure and feather light touches. All the tension surging through me forces my legs even further apart. I groan and weave my fingers into his hair and pull him closer.

  “Jonathan,” I moan, and he slides one hand up my body, caresses my breast, and pulls gently on my nipple, his tongue never missing a stroke in its unrelenting rhythm.

  “Oh my God.”

  He lifts up for a moment and looks me in the eye. “Am I making you feel good, gorgeous? Tell me. I want to hear.”

  “So good,” I gasp. He’s pushing me over the edge far faster than I thought possible. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man. My hips rock as his tongue works me into a frenzy. His hot mouth, able hands, the pampering, the adoration, the atmosphere, and his technique become a mythical force that unravels me and pushes me over the cliff.

  As the orgasm tears through me, I fall back against the chaise, moan, and call out his name so loudly that I imagine the gardeners working nearby and the birds in the trees bow their heads in reverence.

  Jonathan’s clever, because the result of such an orgasm is complete surrender. I’m now loose as jelly and so blissful that he could ask me to do almost anything of a sexual nature, and I’d do it.

  As I try to catch my breath and calm my pounding heart, Jonathan sits back onto his knees on the chaise and unfastens his slacks. He pushes his slacks down and rolls on a condom. I watch him surreptitiously, because I don’t want to give away how curious I am about how this will go.

  When he finishes, he looks at the chaise and then looks towards the French doors that open to our room. “Why don’t we move inside?”

  I nod.

  He pushes himself back and steps off the chaise, but loses his balance. His pants pushed halfway down hinder his movements, and he twists and falls sideways.

  As if in slow motion, our legs tangle and I reach for him, but he slips out of my grasp and crashes to the ground, landing on his side.

  I twist toward him. “Oh no, Jonathan! Are you okay?” I sigh in relief that he didn’t fall far before hitting the ground. My next inclination is to laugh, because he looks so comical twisted in a ridiculous pose with his pants bunched around his knees and his raging hard-on angling toward me like a heat-seeking missile.

  His expression and the fear in his eyes instantly sober me, and I quickly slide off the chaise to his side. He’s panting and moaning, but not in a good way.

  “What is it, Jonathan? Are you okay?”

  “My back, I think I’ve thrown my back out,” he growls between gritted teeth.

  “Oh no,” I say with a groan. My dad had a bad back and he threw it out at least once a year, and when he did, he was completely incapacitated.

  “Has this happened before?”

  He nods, still gritting his teeth. His eyes are tightly shut. Not a good sign.

  I run my fingers through his hair. “What can I do? Can I help you up?”

  He tries to lift up on his elbow, but the strain is too much. Things are looking worse by the second.

  “Look, I’m going to call for help, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “No, wait!” he barks, as his gaze lowers to his crotch.

  “Oh yeah, here let me help you.” I awkwardly shimmy his pants up, and with a lot of effort, I finally get them over his hips. I remove the condom, tuck in his now semi-flaccid cock and fasten his pants.

  “Okay, I’m going to get help now, okay?”

  He looks up and nods once. There’s so much anger and frustration in his face, and I feel horrible. What a nightmare to lose all mobility and be racked with pain when you were only moments away from supreme pleasure.

  I call the front desk from inside and quickly explain that my “friend” has fallen on the patio outside our suite, and I need a doctor and a couple of men to help me lift him immediately. The front desk manager assures me that two bellmen will be there in a few minutes, and he’s phoning the doctor they have on call for the hotel guests as we speak.

  I suspect their super efficiency may have something to do with a fear of litigation. The phrase falling on their property is fearsome to anyone in hotel management. Of course, far be it from me to explain the only reason he fell was because he was trying to screw his date on furniture clearly not designed for such shenanigans.

  When the fresh-faced college boys in their pressed Biltmore uniforms show up, we decide to move Jonathan to the bed. We hurry to the patio, and when they attempt to lift him, I notice that the cute bellman is standing on my forgotten panties. As soon as he moves, I quickly reach down, scoop them up, and deposit them in my purse.

  Not that I can blame him, but Jonathan’s cursing a lot and not being a very pleasant patient. I, at least, had an exquisite orgasm before he took a nosedive. He, on the other hand, got short-changed on this deal. The doctor soon arrives and gives Jonathan some muscle relaxants and painkillers to hold him over until he can see his regular doctor.

  When everyone’s left, I sit down on the chair near the bedroom fireplace and face him. He’s still and stares straight at the ceiling.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No.”

  “I’m so sorry about your back. I wish I could do something.”

  Silence.

  “I need to get home,” he finally says.

  “Are you sure you can handle the car ride? I’m happy to
take care of you here.”

  “I don’t want that. This is humiliating enough without you having to take care of me.”

  “Well, I don’t see it that way. It’s not your fault your back went out.”

  He doesn’t respond, just narrows his eyes and presses his lips together.

  “Are you mad at me? If my legs hadn’t been in the way, you probably wouldn’t have fallen.”

  He tries to smile through his grimace and then extends his arm. I walk over and take his hand.

  “No, I’m not mad at you, Ava, just the situation. I just can’t believe this happened and screwed up our weekend. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Of course.”

  “I really need to get to my acupuncturist and start physical therapy immediately, because I have a very important meeting in New York on Friday that I can’t miss. The sooner I start treatment, the sooner I’ll be up and about.”

  When the pills kick in, I call the front desk and they bring a wheelchair to the suite to help load Jonathan into his car. I sit for a moment, familiarizing myself with the dashboard before pulling out of the driveway.

  That’s the shortest hotel stay I’ve ever had, I think, hitting the gas. I tune the radio to a classical music station to drown out the heavy silence in the car. Jonathan has his eyes closed, but with his features scrunched up, he looks like he’s just trying to deal with the pain.

  As the minutes pass, I wonder what this experience means for us. Something has shifted, and I’m not sure what.

  I consider the possibility that Jonathan’s been a flirty fantasy. It may seem selfish or shallow, but after being the focus of his powerful alpha presence, watching him crumble inserts reality into the equation. Perhaps fate has presented me the simple answer to my uncertainty about getting involved with Jonathan.

  Because, no matter what, every relationship is a package deal. You have to take the pretension and bad back with adoring Jonathan, and the mercurial temperament with brilliant Max. If there isn’t a solid foundation for a relationship, like a steel armature reinforcing the core of a sculpture, the thing will crumble the first time a hard wind blows.

  Chapter Four / The Bright Light

  I had reservations about making art a business, but I got over it.

  ~ Mary Boone, Gallery Owner and Collector

  I am pissed and it’s no wonder why. My magical Santa Barbara weekend was a comedy of errors that culminated in my injured date dropping me off on the curb in front of my apartment. What the hell? I should’ve, at the very least, been able to drive him home, but he became belligerent at the idea of my trying to take care of him. I know he’s short-tempered because of the pain…but really?

  As I stand and watch, he hobbles around to the driver side, painfully lowers himself inside the car, and guns off toward Sunset Boulevard.

  I climb the stairs very slowly. My heavy carry-on bag feels as if it’s full of rocks and hangs low on my shoulder. It’s still a bit early to surrender the evening and go to bed, so I decide a nap is on the top of my agenda as I open my front door.

  The first thing I see is Riley perched on the edge of the dining room table naked, her legs wrapped around Dylan’s waist while she’s splayed on the table like a scrumptious party platter. She arches her back in such a way that her breasts are within Dylan’s reach, proving that her years of Pilates have paid off. Even from a distance, his lips teasing her breast are pretty damn erotic. I try not to notice what a great ass he has, but it’s pretty hard to miss, considering how it moves with each thrust.

  I’ll never be able to eat a meal at that table again.

  My unwelcome committee can hardly be blamed for the graphic exhibition, since I wasn’t supposed to return until Sunday evening. Regardless, it’s unsettling to witness. I’m not even sure if they notice me as I quietly walk by on my way to my bedroom. I gently close my door, strip off my clothes and pull on an old T-shirt. A pout comes on. I feel sorry for myself, wishing I had a devoted boyfriend who could make love without injuring himself. I crawl across my bed and collapse. Fortunately, sleep comes quickly, blacking out the performance now in its second act in the front room.

  On the way to work Monday morning, I feel untethered. I’m done with the book project that has all but consumed me. And although it’s a huge relief to be finished, I’m hit with a bit of the letdown blues. It’s good to have something to look forward to.

  I have no idea what to think about Jonathan or, at this point, Max, with whom I’ve had no contact. It looks like I need to find a new hobby or something, because I think I was getting a bit hooked on the drama.

  Halfway through lunch, Jonathan finally calls to touch base. He lets me know that he was too out of it to call yesterday, but he’s making progress after his doctor and acupuncturist appointments this morning. It looks as if he’ll be able to go to New York on Thursday after all. He sounds relieved, but his disappointment over our weekend still lingers. He assures me that he’s planning another getaway that will more than make up for the Santa Barbara fiasco.

  At this point, I have to admit that a getaway with Jonathan is no longer appealing, and whatever we do next time I see him, it definitely won’t be on a chaise lounge.

  The next few days move slowly. I spend hours in the print shop assisting Sean as we lay down the colors for Max’s print. A large area of the lightest yellow is printed, which allows other colors to intentionally bleed through. A blazing dark red is screened next. There are slivers of the color lying along the edges—a trail of lips looking for someone to kiss. I run my fingers along the red line, cutting through the art dividing the dark area from the light.

  I refuse to actually execute the screen work, because I still can’t do it without imagining Max pressed behind me and kissing my neck. Instead, I load and unload the drying racks until my arms ache from the repetitive motion.

  Katherine has generously offered to shoot my headshot for the book, so on Thursday, I leave work a little early and head up Beachwood Canyon to the Kester’s. Like many hillside homes, it’s built on levels and tucked into the mountain, and even though it’s a Richard Neutra design and decidedly modern, it still feels welcoming.

  Katherine opens the door and gives me a warm hug. Her wavy auburn hair falls around her shoulders and frames her lovely face. Her clothes are simple—fitted jeans tucked into boots and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The only embellishments are a long, amber and crystal necklace and a wide antique silver cuff bracelet. She always looks polished, but that woman could look elegant in shorts and flip-flops. Katherine is a marvel, the epitome of what I want to be like in thirty years.

  As I step inside, I smile as I notice the large vases of flowers throughout, soft music on the stereo, and glass doors wide open to bring the spectacular view of the city inside. I’ve always loved the feeling in their home.

  Her studio is a large room with high ceilings located on the bottom level of the home. Like most of the house, the studio has a wall of glass that faces the view and is equipped with blackout blinds she can draw if needed.

  Already draped behind the stool where I’ll sit is the background for the shot, a huge sheet of canvas that’s been washed repeatedly with shades of translucent gray paint, creating a rich layered depth. Facing the stool are lights on stands that have softboxes of translucent white attached. When she turns them on, the light is milky soft.

  She leads me to the stool and talks me through particulars such as sitting up straight, flattering angles of the face, and the best way to lean into the posing stand. She then takes a brush and moves it through my long hair, sweeping some forward and pushing some back before brushing her fingers along my cheek.

  “You’re so lovely, Ava. I’m sure I can’t take a bad picture of you.”

  I grin, grateful to be in such good hands.

  Once she starts shooting, we try different expressions and poses. Katherine doesn’t so much direct me, but shows me, and her comments while she works make me smile. She also
takes plenty of pictures when I’m not expecting her to, such as when I’m laughing or just staring off to the side thinking she’s changing film. By the time she finishes shooting three or four dozen pictures, I’m confident there’ll be at least one that’ll work for the book.

  She made me feel relaxed and beautiful, which is part of her talent and why people travel great distances to work with her.

  As she shuts down the studio, I ask how she got into photography. The conversation leads to her experience with Adam in college.

  “Was it love at first sight?”

  “Not exactly, but close. You probably remember hearing that we met at art school.”

  “Yes, Art Center in Pasadena. Brian took me to a show there once and told me you two met there as students.”

  “I was a photography major and dating one of my classmates. We were always buried in the labs or shooting in the studios and rarely came out to see the light of day.”

  “How did you meet Adam then?”

  “He was in the fine art program, but he also worked in the student store part time to help pay for his supplies. When I’d stumble out of the labs or the studio to buy film or printing paper, he’d often help me, and I thought he was both good looking and charming. He later told me he usually couldn’t stand the photographers because they were always stressed out and in a bad mood, but I was always kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Well, yes. He said he thought I was sexy and beautiful too, but I left that part out.”

  “Don’t leave out the good parts!” I tease her.

  “I had an assignment during my fifth quarter to shoot a portrait of an artist in their environment, and I thought about him. I’d seen his work in the student gallery, and I really liked it. Of course, he was handsome and charismatic, so I knew he’d be a great subject. I asked him one evening when I was buying supplies, and he agreed, as long as I agreed to pose for a painting.

  “Mitchell, my poor boyfriend, didn’t stand a chance. If only I’d known I was setting off on a course that would change my life.”