Chesapeake Blue
Page 60
"I don't paint for money. That's a handy by-product, and I leave it to my rep."
"I'm not a model."
"I don't want a model either." Dissatisfied, he shoved, dragged, pushed, until he'd changed the angle and position of the bed. "Professionals can give you a terrific study. But I find using regular people gives me more. Besides, I can't use anyone but you for this work."
"Why?"
"Because it's you."
She hissed between her teeth as he opened the first bag of petals. "What does that mean?"
"I see you." He tossed petals on the sheets in seemingly random patterns. "Just relax and leave it to me."
"I can't possibly relax when I'm lying naked on a bed strewn with rose petals and you're staring at me."
"Sure you can." He added more petals, stepped back, considered.
"We made love on that bed a few hours ago."
"Exactly." Now he looked at her, smiled. "It'd help if you thought about that when I'm working."
"Oh, did you have sex with me to put me in the right mood?"
"No, I had sex with you because I can't seem to get enough of you. But the mood's another handy by-product."
"Let me tell you where you can put your handy by-product."
He only laughed, then grabbed her before she could stride into the bathroom. "I'm crazy about you."
"Stop it." She seethed as he nibbled on her earlobe. "I mean it, Seth."
"Absolutely crazy. You're so beautiful. Don't be shy."
"You can't get me to strip with flattery or cajolery."
"Cajolery. Very cool word. How about appealing to your appreciation of art? Just try." He skimmed his lips down to hers. "Give me one hour. If you're still uncomfortable, we'll rethink this. The human body's natural."
"So's cotton underwear."
"It sure is, the way you wear it."
And of course, he made her laugh. "One hour?" She eased back. "And I get the painting?"
"Deal. Now is this music okay with you, or do you want me to put on something to strip by."
"Oh, you're very funny."
"Let's just take this off." He untied the robe, eased it gently from her shoulders. "I love looking at you. I love the shape of you." He spoke softly, easing her toward the bed. "The way your skin looks in the light. I want to show you how you look to me."
"How is seducing me supposed to help me relax?"
"Lie down. Don't think about anything yet. I want you turned on your side, facing me. Your arm like this." He lifted it, draped it low over her br**sts.
She did her best to ignore the sensation along her skin where his fingertips, his knuckles brushed. "I feel… exposed."
"Revealed," he corrected. "It's different. Slide this knee up. Keep this arm angled down. Palm up, open. Good. Comfortable?"
"I can't believe I'm doing this. This is not me."
"Yes, it is." He reached into the bag, scattered petals over her, letting some drift into her open palm before he placed some more deliberately on her hair, on the slope of her br**sts, over her arm, along the line of hip and leg.
"Try to hold that for me." He stepped back, ran his gaze over her in a way that made her skin flush.
"Seth."
"Just try not to move too much. I need your body first. I'm not too worried about the head and face just yet. Talk to me." He retreated behind the canvas.
"About what? How ridiculous I feel?"
"Why don't we go for a sail this evening? We'll bum dinner off of Anna and go out after."
"I can't think about dinner, and I certainly don't want to think about your sister-in-law when I'm…
People are going to see this, see me. Naked."
"People are going to see a painting of a striking woman."
"My mother," Dru said in sudden horror.
"How is she? She and your father still back together?"
"As far as I know. They went to Paris, but they're not happy with me."
"Hard to make everybody happy all the time." He sketched the curve of her shoulder, the stem of her neck, the slender line of torso. "When's the last time you were in Paris?"
"About three years ago. My aunt's wedding. She lives there now—outside of Paris, actually, but they keep a flat in the city."
So he talked to her of Paris, satisfied when he saw the tension draining out of her body. Then he began to paint.
The contrast of the red against white skin, the glint of light, the delicacy of the sheets with their deeper shadows in the soft folds. He wanted the elegance of her open hand and the strong muscles in her calf. She shifted slightly, but he said nothing to correct her pose. The conversation he carried on to keep her relaxed was in a different part of his mind. The rest was steeped in the image he created with paint and brush.
Here was his faerie queen again, but now she was awake. Now she was aware. She stopped thinking about the pose, her modesty. It was an incredible thrill to watch him work. An exhilaration. Did he realize, she wondered, how the intensity came over him? The way his eyes changed, took on a certain fierceness of effort that was in direct opposition to the casual flow of his words. Did he see himself? Surely he must. He had to know the fluidity and focus that were so much a part of his technique. The sexuality of it. And the beauty, the power, that made the subject he took along with him feel beautiful, feel powerful.
She forgot the time limit they'd set. Whatever fantasy he'd created in his mind, she'd become too much a part of it to break the spell.
Did the subject always fall in love with the artist? she wondered. Was it just the nature of things for her to feel this outrageous intimacy with him, and this stupefying need for him?
How had he become the first man, the only man, she wanted to give to? To give anything he asked. It was frightening to know it, to understand that love could mean giving up so much of self. What would be left of her if she yielded to it?
When his gaze moved over her, as if absorbing what she was, she shivered.
"Are you cold?" His voice was impatient. Then, as if he turned a knob, he spoke more easily. "Sorry, are you cold?"
"No. Yes. Maybe a bit. A little stiff."
"I'm not a model."
"I don't want a model either." Dissatisfied, he shoved, dragged, pushed, until he'd changed the angle and position of the bed. "Professionals can give you a terrific study. But I find using regular people gives me more. Besides, I can't use anyone but you for this work."
"Why?"
"Because it's you."
She hissed between her teeth as he opened the first bag of petals. "What does that mean?"
"I see you." He tossed petals on the sheets in seemingly random patterns. "Just relax and leave it to me."
"I can't possibly relax when I'm lying naked on a bed strewn with rose petals and you're staring at me."
"Sure you can." He added more petals, stepped back, considered.
"We made love on that bed a few hours ago."
"Exactly." Now he looked at her, smiled. "It'd help if you thought about that when I'm working."
"Oh, did you have sex with me to put me in the right mood?"
"No, I had sex with you because I can't seem to get enough of you. But the mood's another handy by-product."
"Let me tell you where you can put your handy by-product."
He only laughed, then grabbed her before she could stride into the bathroom. "I'm crazy about you."
"Stop it." She seethed as he nibbled on her earlobe. "I mean it, Seth."
"Absolutely crazy. You're so beautiful. Don't be shy."
"You can't get me to strip with flattery or cajolery."
"Cajolery. Very cool word. How about appealing to your appreciation of art? Just try." He skimmed his lips down to hers. "Give me one hour. If you're still uncomfortable, we'll rethink this. The human body's natural."
"So's cotton underwear."
"It sure is, the way you wear it."
And of course, he made her laugh. "One hour?" She eased back. "And I get the painting?"
"Deal. Now is this music okay with you, or do you want me to put on something to strip by."
"Oh, you're very funny."
"Let's just take this off." He untied the robe, eased it gently from her shoulders. "I love looking at you. I love the shape of you." He spoke softly, easing her toward the bed. "The way your skin looks in the light. I want to show you how you look to me."
"How is seducing me supposed to help me relax?"
"Lie down. Don't think about anything yet. I want you turned on your side, facing me. Your arm like this." He lifted it, draped it low over her br**sts.
She did her best to ignore the sensation along her skin where his fingertips, his knuckles brushed. "I feel… exposed."
"Revealed," he corrected. "It's different. Slide this knee up. Keep this arm angled down. Palm up, open. Good. Comfortable?"
"I can't believe I'm doing this. This is not me."
"Yes, it is." He reached into the bag, scattered petals over her, letting some drift into her open palm before he placed some more deliberately on her hair, on the slope of her br**sts, over her arm, along the line of hip and leg.
"Try to hold that for me." He stepped back, ran his gaze over her in a way that made her skin flush.
"Seth."
"Just try not to move too much. I need your body first. I'm not too worried about the head and face just yet. Talk to me." He retreated behind the canvas.
"About what? How ridiculous I feel?"
"Why don't we go for a sail this evening? We'll bum dinner off of Anna and go out after."
"I can't think about dinner, and I certainly don't want to think about your sister-in-law when I'm…
People are going to see this, see me. Naked."
"People are going to see a painting of a striking woman."
"My mother," Dru said in sudden horror.
"How is she? She and your father still back together?"
"As far as I know. They went to Paris, but they're not happy with me."
"Hard to make everybody happy all the time." He sketched the curve of her shoulder, the stem of her neck, the slender line of torso. "When's the last time you were in Paris?"
"About three years ago. My aunt's wedding. She lives there now—outside of Paris, actually, but they keep a flat in the city."
So he talked to her of Paris, satisfied when he saw the tension draining out of her body. Then he began to paint.
The contrast of the red against white skin, the glint of light, the delicacy of the sheets with their deeper shadows in the soft folds. He wanted the elegance of her open hand and the strong muscles in her calf. She shifted slightly, but he said nothing to correct her pose. The conversation he carried on to keep her relaxed was in a different part of his mind. The rest was steeped in the image he created with paint and brush.
Here was his faerie queen again, but now she was awake. Now she was aware. She stopped thinking about the pose, her modesty. It was an incredible thrill to watch him work. An exhilaration. Did he realize, she wondered, how the intensity came over him? The way his eyes changed, took on a certain fierceness of effort that was in direct opposition to the casual flow of his words. Did he see himself? Surely he must. He had to know the fluidity and focus that were so much a part of his technique. The sexuality of it. And the beauty, the power, that made the subject he took along with him feel beautiful, feel powerful.
She forgot the time limit they'd set. Whatever fantasy he'd created in his mind, she'd become too much a part of it to break the spell.
Did the subject always fall in love with the artist? she wondered. Was it just the nature of things for her to feel this outrageous intimacy with him, and this stupefying need for him?
How had he become the first man, the only man, she wanted to give to? To give anything he asked. It was frightening to know it, to understand that love could mean giving up so much of self. What would be left of her if she yielded to it?
When his gaze moved over her, as if absorbing what she was, she shivered.
"Are you cold?" His voice was impatient. Then, as if he turned a knob, he spoke more easily. "Sorry, are you cold?"
"No. Yes. Maybe a bit. A little stiff."
