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."
