by Margot Scott
I had no idea what we were to each other now.
Even if I tried not to think about what I’d witnessed, there was still the late-night phone call to consider. The information Mason had unwittingly revealed: my mother, believing I was in danger, had told my father to leave me, and he’d agreed to go.
As awkward as I felt, I was desperate for answers, and right now, Mason was the only person who could give them to me.
I found his studio unlocked and unoccupied. The layout was identical to his apartment across the hall, but with less furniture. Four easels had been positioned around what would’ve been the living room, all facing a futon that sat open in the center, layered with green and blue cloth. A plastic bin filled with more colorful shrouds stood off to the side. Nearly every surface lay strewn with brushes, palette knives, and tubes of paint.
I walked the perimeter of the room. On the table closest to the wall of windows, I found Mason’s sketchbook wedged beneath a set of canvas stretcher bars. Carefully, I freed the sketchpad and went to sit on the futon.
The first dozen or so pages contained sketches of random body parts: arms, hands, shoulders, calves. Some crossed out, others so faded they could’ve been made years ago.
I stopped flipping when I came across the model I’d seen him talking to in the hallway last night, splayed out on the futon, naked, with her hand between her legs.
“Whoa.” My fingers twitched against the paper. I turned the page and there she was again on her stomach, then on her side. Pages upon pages of her masturbating in various poses.
My breath stalled. I didn’t want to think about the circumstances surrounding these images. Apart from my suspicion that this woman had to be more than just a model to him, seeing the drawings only served to remind me how badly I missed being his muse.
Not that I’d ever posed for him like this. Not that I’d wanted to...
The door swung open and Mason stepped inside. He wore jeans and a green T-shirt that brought out the green in his eyes. His calm wavered for the briefest of moments when he saw me.
“Hey.” He smiled. “When did you get up?”
“A while ago.” My pulse kicked into overdrive. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Did you see my note about the eggs? You should eat some protein with your muffins. I don’t want to send you off to college malnourished.”
“I’ll have two for lunch,” I said, more than a little touched by his concern for my health.
He set the plastic bag he’d been carrying onto the counter by the sink, then proceeded to unload the contents—chalk, in various colors by the look of it.
I tapped my finger nervously against the sketchbook in my lap, struggling to come up with a natural way to talk about last night’s phone call.
“Your mom called last night,” he said, beating me to the punch. He turned his back on the sink, the heels of his hands braced against the countertop. “She knows you’re here.”
I feigned surprise. “How?”
“Apparently she called your friends.” If Mason wanted to confront me about eavesdropping or spying on him, it was now or never.
A few seconds passed.
“Did she say anything else?” I asked when the silence became deafening.
“She’s not happy you lied about where you were going.”
I had to laugh. “How very pot-meet-kettle.”
“She just wants to know that you’re safe.”
“Well, I am. Aren’t I?” I flipped to a different page and struggled to keep my expression neutral while staring at a pencil rendition of a vagina with two fingers in it.
I felt Mason’s gaze like a hand gliding down my arm to the image in question. He cleared his throat. “You know, sketchbooks are kind of like journals. You shouldn’t go through them without the artist’s permission.”
“Sorry.” I closed the book. “I just wanted to see what you’ve been working on.”
He lifted the sketchbook from my lap. “Krista’s supposed to come by for a session this afternoon. I’ll let you stay and watch if she’s comfortable with it.”
“I’d like that,” I said, curiosity overriding my jealousy. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Who, Krista?”
I nodded.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Mason returned to the sink to get a glass of water.
All at once, my curiosity condensed to a stone in my throat.
“Dad, I’m sor—”
“I should give you a tour of the studio,” he said, cutting me off. “The sooner you’re familiar with the space, the faster you can make use of it.”
He offered me the glass he’d just filled. I took it, meeting his gaze over the rim.
All at once, a current of understanding passed between us. He wasn’t going to ask about what I’d seen or heard last night. In return, he wouldn’t mention the glass or how it wound up in my room. I could keep my dignity and my place in his home for the summer. All I had to do was commit to an unspoken truce: I saw nothing. I heard nothing. There was nothing to discuss.
As he must’ve suspected, my embarrassment over what I’d seen was rapidly eclipsing my immediate need to know the details of his late-night phone call.
Closing my eyes, I tipped the water into my mouth and swallowed.
Mason’s studio was unlike any classroom I’d ever worked in. He had all the best-quality paints and more brushes than an artist could ever use in a lifetime. He gave me a spot at his drawing table and my own easel, and permission to experiment with whatever tools and supplies sparked my interest. If I’d ever doubted the authenticity of his interest in my art, his encouragement and willingness to share his workspace killed it dead.
I parked myself in front of the window with a massive sketchpad and some charcoal and started drawing clouds. That was my favorite way to warm up. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fuck up clouds. You could only make them stormier.
“You pout your lips when you draw,” he said.
“Do I?” I asked, not the least bit self-conscious now that I was in my element.
Mason, seated in a nearby chair, had been watching me work for almost an hour in comfortable silence. He shifted, the motion making the chair squeak. “Your mom used to do the same thing. Must be genetic.”
That made me pause. “I didn’t know Mom could draw.”
“She preferred photography. You were her favorite subject. We were constantly stepping on each other’s toes. Me with my sketchpad, her with her Nikon.”
“She never told me she took photos,” I said, not that I was surprised. Every secret talent was just another piece to the mysterious puzzle that was my mother. I resumed dragging a charcoal-stained finger along the underside of a foreboding cumulonimbus.
“Your mom had a knack for capturing nature. I prefer people. All the little private rituals we perform when we think no one’s watching.”
“I know.” I met his gaze. “I’ve been following your work for years.”
His smile betrayed a twinge of sadness.
A soft buzz disrupted the quiet that had settled between us. Mason drew his phone from his pocket, thumbed at it, then frowned. “Well, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Krista has the flu.” His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “This is going to set me back.”
I laid the sketchbook on the floor. “Can’t you find someone else?”
“Sure, but that would take a few days at least. I was hoping to finish the preliminary sketches this afternoon.”
An idea surfaced like a bottle in the ocean, a message borne from the deep.
“I could do it,” I said.
He took in my face, my posture, my folded legs, then shook his head.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“It’s not like I don’t have experience,” I said. “Come on, it’ll be like old times.”
“This is different,” he said, his gaze hardening.
Technically, he was right. I’d seen the conceptual drawings in his sketchbook. This project was inherently sexual. He was trying to turn an intimate moment inside out, to take the most private activity in which a person could partake and make it public. If I did this, I would be laying myself bare for his and everyone else’s perusal.
The thought of it scared and excited me. It made my toes curl.
“Dad, you’re letting me work in your studio and stay in this incredible apartment for free. Let me do this for you.”
“You’re here as my guest, Jett, not as a tenant. You don’t owe me rent or favors.”
“It’s not a favor.” The offer was as much for my benefit as it was for his. Maybe more so. “I want to do it.”
Mason scrubbed his jaw, his expression dubious. The chair creaked as he stood. He crossed the room and entered the walk-in supply closet, then brought out a blue terrycloth robe.
He presented the robe to me, his stare daring me to flinch.
“You can change in the bathroom.”
I took the robe and rose from my chair. I was halfway to the bathroom when I heard him say, “You don’t have to do this, Jett. I can find someone else.”
I stopped. The words resounded in my ears, deafening. He could find someone else. Anyone else. Like he had scores of hopefuls lined up around the block, desperate to model for him. Like I was replaceable.
He hadn’t meant it that way, but that’s how it felt.
I draped the robe over a stool. He offered a kind smile, like he’d anticipated me changing my mind.
Grasping the hem of my tank top, I pulled my shirt off right there in front of him.
Mason’s eyes rounded with stark surprise. Letting my shirt fall to the floor, I unzipped my jeans and shucked them along with my underwear. I stood naked before him, hips squared and shoulders pulled back to accentuate breasts that stood quite proudly on their own.
A breath fell from Mason’s lips as his gaze caressed me. Goose bumps skittered along my arms and legs. The man could’ve wrapped me in burlap and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. As far as most of the world knew, I was Mason Black’s daughter. I had his name as well as his love.
He couldn’t replace me.
“We’re going to need a lot of black.” He reached into the bin overflowing with fabric and proceeded to pull out yards and yards of midnight-colored cloth.
Chapter Eight
I waited as Mason readied the scene, my nipples gathering to points in the cool air of the studio. He stripped the futon, replacing the vibrant fabrics with the darker ones he’d selected.
“Too much color detracts,” he said, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking to himself or to me. “You don’t need color. Just light. Lots of light.” He arranged the materials, scrunching some pieces and smoothing others. He raised the shades on two of the windows, then turned to me.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the futon.
Breathing deeply to temper the nerves I didn’t want him to see, I lowered myself onto the tangle of fabric.
Mason circled the futon, then stopped in front of me, tall as a mountain. He’d shifted into artist mode, eyes tuned to the finer details, as he compared and contrasted what was in front of him with the image in his mind’s eye.
“Pull your knees up to your chest,” he said, and I did. “Cross your ankles. Good. Hold them.”
He swept a lock of hair behind my ear, and I fought the urge to lean into his touch like a cat. He tipped my chin up, then down, then he took a step back, arms folded.
“Lie on your back,” he said.
Slowly, I eased onto the futon but kept my ankles crossed. My breasts splayed slightly to either side of my ribcage as my heart pounded against my sternum. I studied the ceiling and its highways of exposed beams and piping to distract myself from my nerves, listening for the sound of Mason’s footsteps as he moved around the room.
“Slide your foot out,” he said. “No, the other one.”
His face hovered into view as he knelt on the mattress.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Just relax.”
His hand circled my ankle. My breath stuttered. Carefully, he drew my right leg out straight. My skin had never felt so sensitive, so conscious of its placement in relation to everything around it. He positioned me, guiding my limbs to where he wanted them to go. I closed my eyes, letting his adjustments lull me into a state of suspended detachment. I was a marionette with nerve endings for strings, and the man I had once called my father conducted the show.
He brushed my nipple in the process of draping my arm across my chest. I gasped at the jolt of pleasure that echoed in my hips.
“You okay?” He pressed a hand to my stomach.
I nodded yes, though I was far from okay. I was on fire, in spite of the gooseflesh that pricked across my skin as though I were cold. I was a tangle of string, threads of embarrassment and arousal and a yearning to be made and unmade by this man, this maker of beautiful things.
Mason turned his attention to the fabric around my shoulders, and I used his distraction to restore my mask of calm. The skin on my stomach was still warm from where his hand had been. I inhaled deeply, filling my head with the scent of chalk and paper, paints and thinner—comforting smells, classroom smells.
Without warning, he grasped my ankles, bent my knees, and spread my legs.
Last night’s fantasies that felt far too much like memories flashed across my mind: the image of my father’s hands gliding down to stroke my clit.
A whimper caught in my throat as his very real fingers parted my pussy lips, exposing me to the air.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was unmasked.
“Beautiful.” He exhaled the word, his gaze centered between my thighs.
Heat rushed to my face. I flinched at the sense of loss I felt as he withdrew, my clit throbbing in time with my rampant pulse. He guided my arm by the wrist, resting my palm over my mound, then left to gather his supplies.
“I know this is awkward for you,” he said, dragging a chair closer to the futon, “but I want you to touch yourself just like you would if you were alone. You can close your eyes if it helps.”
I didn’t know if it would help, but there was no way I could touch myself and look at him without having a nervous breakdown. My eyelids fluttered shut. I listened to the pounding of my heart, felt the throbbing of my pulse in my throat.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t sigh or tap his feet.
Still, I could feel the minutes stretching like over-tuned guitar strings. When they snapped, would he send me out? Hand me my clothes like a pink slip and say, Nice try, kid?
The first time I masturbated for my ex over webcam, I almost couldn’t come. I was afraid of making weird faces or funny sounds. When I realized how quickly all of that faded into the background as soon as I began to touch myself, I was able to relax and let go. My arousal was sexy. My staccato moans and clenched teeth, the light from the screen reflecting off my slick fingers.
I began to draw small, imperceptible circles over my clit with my fingers. Wracking my brain for a fantasy, I reached for handsome celebrities, cute boys from school, chance encounters with sexy, mysterious strangers.
Knowing Mason was there and that he was watching made it hard to concentrate on anything else. It wasn’t until I pictured the man himself tossing down the sketchbook and coming to kneel on the bed that my body started to respond.
I imagined him climbing over me, bending to take my nipple into his mouth. I saw him slide his tongue down to my circling fingers, where I spread my lips and let him kiss my clit, just like he’d kissed my mouth.
Groping for my breast, I rolled my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, then dipped the first two fingers of my other hand the slightest bit inside me to wet them. I was sopping, embarrassingly so.
Somehow, the knowledge that Mason had a front-row seat to my shame only made it hotter. I pretended my slick fingers were his tongue, that the
hand around my breast was attached to his arm.
My legs trembled. My lips parted. I moaned.
Daddy...
“Stop,” he rasped, his voice like honeycomb dipped in gravel.
My eyelids floated open and my fingers stilled. I glanced at him. He squeezed the arms of the chair, knuckles glowing white, his gaze scalding.
The look on his face was not unlike the one I’d seen him don last night, lustful and penetrating. I could still picture him with his cock in his hand. The thought sent a rush of molten pleasure through my veins.
“Stay just like that.”
He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook and began drawing.
I lay still, my heart thumping in my clitoris as it pulsed against my fingers.
Nothing about this was normal. What we were doing, or how it made me feel. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was finally where I belonged.
He drew me for forty minutes before he laid his pencil down, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers.
“Do you need a break?” he asked.
My limbs prickled from lying in the same position for so long. “Maybe a short one.”
“We’ll take ten,” he said.
I wondered if I would have to touch myself again when we resumed, not that it would take much to get me going. I was still humming like an engine left to idle, easily revved to life.
Mason uncrossed his legs, resting both feet on the ground. His sketchbook slid to the side. I sat up to stretch and caught sight of what looked like the ridge of an erection braced against his thigh through his jeans.
I sucked in a quick breath and my inner muscles tightened.
How long had he been aroused? A few minutes? Since he’d spread my legs? Since I started touching myself?
I flicked my gaze away. When I looked up at his face, he was eyeing me as though he knew exactly what I’d seen—and wasn’t sure how he felt about my seeing it.