The Masterpiece

The Masterpiece

Without it touching her, his palette knife skimmed the finest hairs of her neck, and she closed her eyes as she followed it down her spine. Her robe lay puddled at her feet, and she listened to him whisper to himself as he noted her form. Propped against an easel, a fresh canvas waited for his initial sketch, but when he moved around her body, his whispering stopped. His warm breath caressed her ear. He brought the knife under her chin, but his eyes were on her profile. As his gaze intensified, she closed hers and felt the bounds of her awareness mixing with his. It shouldn't have surprised her when he trailed a paintbrush from the well of her neck to her navel, but it did. She hadn't expected to become the canvas.

"You come to me every week. I've painted you half a dozen times, yet I still don't know you. Every time I see you, it's like I've never seen you before." He lifted his eyes to hers, and she smelled the sharp tang of the oil paint. "I should have your body memorized."

As he circled her breast with vermilion, her nipple hardened, and she watched as he crossed her chest to connect an infinity.

"Perhaps I need to taste you to understand you?" He bent his head, and the tip of his tongue lapped the underside of her breast before taking her nipple.

At his gentle sucking, her belly contracted, and she realized she had stopped breathing. "I..." Her mind blanked, completely focused on his mouth and breath. With both hands, she cradled his head, torn between pushing it away and pulling it closer. She wanted nothing more than to kiss his mouth, but she knew he didn't see a lover before him, just a body.

Through the window from the street below, a shopkeeper shouted a greeting to his neighbor. Afternoon light glittered across the pigments she had helped him grind and mix that morning. As if waking from a trance, he jerked away and shook his head.

"You have me under a spell," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a touch of red against chestnut.

"Should I leave?" Fearful of his answer, an invisible hand gripped her chest. She knew he should say yes.

"No."

The hidden flame in her heart suddenly flared beyond her control. "I think of you," she said. "All the time. You're in my every thought." All emotion left his face, and she realized her mistake. She had said aloud something that could only have continued to exist unspoken. Now, she had killed it. "We can have this. Just this. Can't we?"

"No. There is no this."

His words took the hand around her heart and twisted. Anger pushed tears from her eyes. Anger? She had no right to be angry. This realization didn't keep her from crying; it only compounded her embarrassment. They were both artists walking a fine line. She knew better.

Without another word, he left the studio, and she stared out the window. After a moment, she looked down at her chest, remembering the soft bristles and his enraptured face, his spirit mixing with hers. She hadn't imagined his touch or his words, but she had imagined meaning where there was none. Professional curiosity. Appreciation of beauty. Hadn't she done the same a thousand times before? And kept her soul to herself.

Behind her, the door slammed, and she resisted the urge to look at him, though she could hear him breathing and pacing.

"It's the oldest story-- look at Manet with Victorine. He's not even trying to hide their affair from his closest friends anymore. It's disgusting-- a painter and his model."

Piqued, she turned to face him. "Neither of us is married like Edouard." Then her voice rose. "And I'm an artist in my own right, as you very well know. So is Victorine."

He glanced at her and grimaced.

"Sure, my work isn't welcome in the Salon, but neither is yours. We both have a home in the Salon des Refusés." She bent to pull her robe to her chest. "And damn you, I'm not some cheap, half-whore taking her clothes off for money. I let you paint me because I am beautiful. We both love beautiful things. We see beauty everywhere and are compelled to capture it. To share. You and I are the same."

In three steps, he closed the gap between them, and when he took her face in his hands and brought his mouth to hers, she nearly recoiled from the suddenness of his movements. Instead, she melted against him, his warmth, his scent, his chest, his arms. His kisses moved across her cheek and down her neck.

"We can have this. And more," he said. "There's no reason we can't have more."

The spark in her chest reignited, and the last vestiges of anger and embarrassment flew from her mind as if they had never been felt. She fumbled at the ties of his smock until he released her to untangle the mess she had made. When he was free, she slid her hands under his suspenders, but abandoned them to unbutton his shirt. The barrier between them frustrated her.

"Stop," he said and took a step back to save his buttons.

Laughter lit his golden face, and she returned his giddy smile. She had never seen him naked; never painted him nude; all had always been proper between them-- as proper as things can be between two professional artists, even when she had posed unclothed for him countless times. As he unclasped his pants, his hands shook, which surprised and delighted her.

"Come to me," he said.

"No. You come to me." When he lifted an eyebrow, she added, "I've opened my heart to you, shown you its secrets, stood before you naked, in every way. You must come to me. Show me your heart. Am I just your model?"

"God, no," he said, concern creasing his brow. "No. You are everything to me. My friend. My muse. My very soul."

Despite her previous order and unable to bear even the smallest of distances between them, she moved to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, confident of the truth in his eyes.

"I think of you. All the time," he said as he pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes shut. "All the fucking time. I count the days until you visit, until we can paint together. Until we can laugh together and talk of weighty things and silly things. I hear your voice when I try to sleep, feel your touch when I wake."

Overcome, she pulled him into a deep kiss. She wanted to fill her lungs with his breath, touch every inch of his strong chest. The next moment, he tucked an arm under her bottom and lifted her to wrap her legs around his waist. When he swept the worktable clean with his free arm, she broke off the kiss.

"The paints!"

"Fuck the paints."

She had never heard such a deep timbre to his voice. His growl lifted the hairs on the back of her neck and shot a bolt of pleasure straight to her womb.

Gently, he lowered her onto the tabletop and then spread her knees. "The only part of you I've never seen." As his fingers explored her folds, circling her clitoris, and skirting her interior without entering, she shivered. "You're so wet," he said.

She could feel it herself, a drip rolling towards her anus. "Come inside me."

"Not yet. I want to taste you. I want to understand you." When he lowered his head and ran his tongue between her inner and outer lips, she threw her own head back. She had never felt anything like it. He sucked on her clitoris, explored her depth with first one, then a second finger, and his warm breath covered all. Sensation built, and she squirmed. It was too much with no release.

"Please," she said, her voice cracking, and her words barely above a whisper. "Please. Come inside me. I can't wait. I need you."

Her plea had an effect, and he rose from her with a deep inhale. He caught her nipple between his teeth on his way to her mouth, and when he bit lightly, she squealed and pulled on his ears. His low chuckle ended abruptly when he kissed her, and she tasted herself for the first time.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Don't make me beg."

A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Not yet."

As he eased his velvety head between her inner lips, she watched, fascinated by his beauty, by his size. Sweet tears pooled in the corners of her eyes when he entered her, inch by inch, connecting with the part of her that had longed for him more months than she could remember, stretching her, filling her. She had never been with a man before, only a boy from her village. How right this felt. Her soul finding its lost half, whole again for the first time. She wanted to laugh and cry and pull him into herself.

Above her, he rocked his hips, each stroke reaching a place inside her she didn't know existed. She dug her fingernails into his buttocks, holding him to her, and he groaned. When she finally released him, he thrust harder.

"Yes. Faster," she said. "Please."

At her command, he met her pace, then bent to kiss her again, but her mouth opened as waves pleasure overtook her. As she eased down, he wrapped an arm under her back and held her. Sweat beaded his temple, causing his hair to curl, and she turned his cheek to place her lips at his hairline. "I love you," she said, whispering into his ear.

He pushed up from her, and she stared back into his black eyes. For a moment, she wondered if he hadn't heard her, or maybe she had misunderstood the depth of his feelings until he simply said, "I love you, too." Unsmiling, his voice was so low she could barely hear him. She lay transfixed under his gaze. "You fit me," he said. "Tailor-made."

The thought of being created just for him caught her breath and squeezed her heart. With a soft hand, she placed her palm on his chest, and as if reading her mind, he covered her heart with his own long fingers. Their chests rose and fell together.

After a time, he slid, still hard, from her, and she mewed a complaint at losing the connection.

"Don't worry; I'll come back," he said. "But first, I want you to come in my mouth. And this time, you will have to be patient. I'm not going to stop, even if you beg."

A thrill ran through her at his words, half promise, half threat. When he settled between her legs again, she gasped under his first touch, finding herself much more sensitive than before. Again, he explored her, and she felt his fingers gliding over and around her slick opening. When his warm breath caressed her, she sighed, then immediately craved a stronger touch. She reached down to push his fingers deeper. Instead, he took her hand and guided her to touch herself, to join him. As she relaxed further into his strokes, he lifted her hand to his mouth and sucked each finger clean, one after another.

He lowered his head to taste her directly. This time, his gentle sucking pulled her higher, and each of his finger strokes matched the rhythm of his tongue. Slowly, imperceptibly, he increased the pressure. She threaded her fingers through his dark curls, no longer a separate being from his mouth, and all her thoughts concentrated on the way he was making her feel. When the pleasure became too intense, she arched her back. "Please. Come back to me."

In answer, he shook his head and gripped her thigh with an iron hand. His refusal made her whimper with need, and she felt him grin against her. His pleasure at her desire for him only intensified the gnawing ache. She opened her mouth to beg, but at that moment, his touch opened her completely and sent her over the edge. Her "no" morphed to cries of ecstasy.

Just as the wave began to pass, he entered her with a single thrust and sent her higher. She forced her eyes open to watch his face; she wanted to see the truth of his heart. His scent enveloped her; the clean musk of his body, his breath, the distinct minerals of the paints they had ground. When he sensed her eyes on him, he met her gaze and held it. Within moments, they came together, the windows of their souls peering at one another.

As they stilled, he settled on her chest, and she wrapped her legs around him, unwilling to let this moment end.

"More," she whispered.

With a grunt into her hair, he said, "Don't worry. I will be ready again very soon." She smiled at his words, content for the moment, at home for the first time, and unwilling to leave his fireside. He seemed equally reluctant to move from her, but after several minutes, goose flesh rose on his arms, and he sighed with resignation.

When he lifted from her, she looked down at the smeared paint across both their chests and bellies. "I liked being your canvas."

His teeth flashed, and he winked at her. "It's the most important work I've ever made."