Absolute Pleasure (7 page)

Rashly adapting to the luxury, she abandoned any attempt at composure and leaned to the side, balancing an elbow on one of the pillows. Wanton comportment seemed to come naturally. A few more minutes and she'd be taking down her hair!

"Might I offer you a glass of wine?"

How utterly romantic, to be sequestered with him and sipping intoxicating beverages in the middle of the afternoon! Caution was definitely called for. "Will you be having any?"

"No. It dulls my senses when I need them to be sharp."

"I believe I'll pass, then."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

His gaze held hers, once again, then plunged lower, across her chest, pelvis, and legs. When he arrived at her feet, he started up, his perusal meandering, tarrying in spots, and so tangible that it seemed he was really touching her.

He dallied overly long on her hips, then deliberately worked his way higher. Brazenly, he lingered at her bosom, judging her breasts, her cleavage.

Determined not to be timid or abashed, she bravely endured his silent inspection, declining to flinch or hide herself. He could look his fill, and she wouldn't object.

With fastidious informality, he studied the size and shape of her breasts, plainly taking inventory of their weight and girth as though assaying them for future handling. Her loins stirred and she writhed against the sofa, trying to allay some of the intense perturbation occurring inside her torso.

"Does it disturb you when I evaluate you so precisely?" His scorching analysis left her breasts and swung to her face.

"No." Refusing to have him see her as fainthearted, she deliberately surveyed him. She was resolved that he would compare her to his other adept lovers—of whom she was persuaded he'd had many—and that he would perceive her to be mature and worldly.

"You have a fabulous body," he mentioned irreverently.

"Thank you." She replied casually, affecting indifference, as though receiving such compliments was customary.

"You'll be beautiful on the canvas."

"I'm glad you think so."

"I
know
so."

At his vehement affirmation, she nodded. "I bow to your superior artistic estimation."

He chuckled, the sound charming and captivating, and she nestled further into the fainting couch, deciding that she could sit there forever, watching him and hearing him laugh.

"We'll begin with my sketching you." He was deluged by a potent energy, and he grabbed a stool and placed it directly in front of her. "Top to bottom. Head to toe. Back, front, sides. I must capture every aspect that makes you unique."

Without giving her a chance to demur or reflect, he hurried to a shelf, rustled through his supplies, and retrieved a portfolio packed with blank sheets and a thick charcoal pencil. He returned to the stool, scooting it nearer to the sofa's frame, moving in so that his legs tangled with hers, their feet intertwined.

His behavior was shameless, intrepid, but then, from their first encounter, he'd acted unconventionally, and she was swiftly acclimating to his impertinent ways. He was unlike any person she'd encountered before, and she was enchanted by his audacity.

However, while she'd accepted his precipitous proximity with more ease than she'd ever imagined she could, she wasn't mentally prepared to have him progress.

With his materials at the ready, he placed the black tip of his pencil against the creamy page, and she oozed trepidation. While she'd dreamed of being alone with him, had vigorously fantasized about watching him draw and paint and work, now that they were about to embark on their endeavor, her courage lagged.

She didn't dispute his ability. He'd unerringly reproduce every trait, every feature, every flaw. The man had a critical eye; nothing escaped his scrutiny. How would she appear? Did she really want to know?

Her smile faded, and he immediately noticed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied.

"Not true, milady." He could discern her emotional state as no one ever had, and he pondered her exhaustively, as if he could deduce the problem just from staring.

Unfortunately, being in his presence stirred sentiments she'd previously neither perceived nor heeded. Since stumbling upon him at the theater, she was a spontaneously erupting jumble of hankering and regret, and she couldn't bury the feelings she'd habitually striven so hard to suppress.

He leaned in, adding a familiarity to the situation that she couldn't ignore. His demeanor was amiable, accepting, his mannerisms sincere and sympathetic. He inspired trust, and his frankness made her anxious to unburden her troubles.

"You can confide in me," he said. "I'll never tell another soul. I swear it."

"It's so difficult." She was disgusted to note that she was stammering and blushing as though she was an insecure adolescent, once more, and confused by her maturing figure. Her assertive disposition deflated, and she glared at her lap.

He reached out, laying a calming hand on top of her own. "Are you afraid of how I will portray you?"

"Yes." She hated that he could deduce her dilemma. "I've never cared much for my appearance."

With the admission, she peeked up, only to catch him contemplating her with what seemed to be earnest understanding and authentic fondness.

Oh, he's good,
she thought petulantly.
He's very, very good.

But even though she suspected that his expression was practiced, her heart fluttered at the prospect that she might be winning his regard—even if it was slightly falsified. If she wasn't cautious, what an easy mark she'd be!

"I want you to remember something," he said.

He was soothing, cajoling, and she was desperate to credit any outrageous comment he might utter. "I'll try."

"Our time together will create a special bond. We're going to be friends. More than friends. We'll be confidants, companions; it's the way of these sessions. A personal attachment will thrive and flourish. There's no reason to fight it." He gently squeezed her fingers, his unguarded demeanor encouraging confessions. "Why are you apprehensive? Haven't I told you—over and over again!—that you are very beautiful?"

Yes, but I don't believe you!
As she could hardly verbalize the opinion, she admitted, ''It's just that this is so different. Being alone with you. Posing. I'm a tad unsettled."

"That's normal, but tell me the truth: Do you question my talent?"

"No." His genius was the one factor of which she had no doubt. She had only to glance around the room to see it abundantly displayed.

“Then depend on me to depict you as you are. "We’ll get through this, and I promise you'll be thrilled with the result." He turned their hands so that hers was lying atop his, the white of her glove pristine and chaste when contrasted with his darker skin. "Let me show you how we'll commence. You'll be more comfortable."

His thumb traced slow circles across her palm. Though no skin was touching, the thin fabric rendered scant protection, and he generated a heat that seared up her arm. The glove was held together by a small row of buttons along the edge and, steadying her wrist, he unfastened the first one.

"May I?" He advanced to the next before she could formulate a response and, in a matter of seconds, the glove was gone.

She couldn't recall when a man had last seen her uncovered hands. Exposing them was a societal prohibition she'd invariably deemed ridiculous but with which she repeatedly complied.

How exciting to have him unveil what was forbidden! The titillation was extreme!

Meticulously, he scrutinized the extremity, tracing the bone structure, the lines, bumps, and nubs. Rubbing and petting, he persisted until the appendage tingled and burned. Just from his palpation! The remainder of her arm was shielded by the sleeve of her dress. What would it be like to have more skin exhibited? How would she endure the agitation?

He snatched a pillow and slipped it onto her lap, resting her fist on it. Then he situated his supplies and, with a few broad strokes—they transpired so rapidly, she could barely follow the movements—he'd drawn her hand. He shifted it, and sketched it again. Then again. He kept on, until the empty pages were overflowing with variations on the same theme.

By the time he flipped to a sixth sheet, he was including her arm, then her shoulder and neck. With subtle pressure, he adjusted her position then continued on, incorporating a profile of her bosom and abdomen.

Mesmerized and impressed, she observed him, his slender, tapered fingers folded around the charcoal, his abundant, luscious hair flopping over his forehead. She'd never witnessed another so totally absorbed in his enterprise. No wonder he was so skilled!

He was immersed in his task, scarcely cognizant that she was in attendance, and there was something elegant and divine about beholding him.

Eventually, he was illustrating all of her, and she was forced to conclude that he was correct: Through his eyes, she was quite pretty, shapely, curvaceous and extremely feminine.

Was this how he really saw her? How glorious if it was!

From somewhere far off, a clock chimed, and she sighed. Their appointment was wrapping up when it seemed as though she'd hardly spent any time with him at all. How had four o'clock arrived so quickly? Prompt, dependable Mary would be waiting impatiently at the main house.

Would her hours with him always elapse in a blink? If this trend persisted, the entertaining engagements would pass so fleetly that, when their contract was terminated, she'd hardly have any memories to carry with her.

With the fourth bong of the clock, the reverberations penetrated his concentration. He peered toward the window.

Dazed and disoriented, he inquired, "Is it four already?'

"Yes." She was happy to discover that the minutes had progressed hastily for him, as well.

"Will your friend be punctual?"

"Aye."

"Then I suppose we must be done for today."

"I suppose," she concurred, sad all over again that it had ended so soon.

He scowled at the page upon which he was currently working, his engrossment gradually waning. The pictures he'd drawn were scattered about him on the floor, and he peered down at them as though he didn't recognize them. Then, he focused on one in particular—a silhouette of her upper body—and he picked it up, analyzing it, and her, as if comparing, her to the finished product

"How fetching you are!" he ultimately pronounced.

He submitted it to her, and she contemplated it as thoroughly as he'd just done. Amazingly, she looked pretty and young, innocent and pensive.

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. This is truly you." He retrieved the sketch and tossed it on the pile with the others. "You're too hard on yourself."

"Perhaps," she allowed, and she pointed to the stack of amazing pictures he'd executed with so little effort. "May I keep them?"

"Not yet. I'll want to review them extensively before I begin with the actual painting."

She'd hoped to be given a token of the magical interlude, but she hid her disappointment, reminding herself that there would be other meetings, other lazy afternoons that would enchant and beguile as this one had.

"When would you like me to come again?"

As he considered his answer, he examined her so tenaciously that she was certain he would invite her back the next day, so she was greatly mystified when he said, "How about Friday? I'm free then."

Four days away! An eternity!

Yet she masked her displeasure, once more, despising how the intervening period loomed, a gray, barren void, where she would have nothing to do, and no responsibilities to oversee. Their imminent session beamed like a beacon on her individual horizon, the sole bright spot in her otherwise dreary universe. Her anticipation for me pending event only underscored the pitiful level to which her life had sunk.

"Friday will be fine," she graciously responded. "At two?"

"How about one?"

An extra hour!
"Marvelous. What will we do?"

"I'll carry on with my sketching." The meeting adjourned, he stood, then assisted her to her feet. "Next time, I want you to dress differently."

"How so?"

"I need to see more of your arms. Your neck and back."

He cupped her shoulder, kneading the fleshy section just above the blade, startling her with the strength in his fingers. No one had ever stroked her similarly, not even when she was ill as a child, so the gesture was strange, but also pacifying, and she pondered what it would be like to have him caress her more exhaustively.

"I realize it's February," he mentioned, cutting into her reverie, "but might you have a summer dress available?"

'They're packed in my closet but easily located."

He perused her again, in that punctilious fashion at which he excelled. His right hand resumed its seductive massage, but his left trailed down her brow and chin, across her nape, coming close to, but stopping before, he caressed her breast.

She was paralyzed with expectation. Her heart skipped several beats, her breathing arrested, as she waited for him to slip lower, but he didn't. Instead, he simply gestured horizontally across her bosom, the motion nonchalant, as if he hadn't intended any naughty conduct.