Page 23 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Fourteen
At His…Our…Studio
My heart is slamming in my chest as I walk up. I’m reciting what I’m going to say: “Why didn’t you tell me you were married all those times you wouldn’t make love to me?” “So, blonde, huh? Really?” “You have got to be fucking kidding me!! You’re married?! You son-of-a-bitch. Do you not have a heart in that chiseled chest of yours, all glowing in the candlelight, all sweaty and sexy and …”
Shit. No. Not one of those are adequate.
This is the first time I’ve worn a dress to the studio. My hair is wild like he likes it; I made sure it looked great before I left. This lip-gloss was necessary, to show him what he’s missing. These heels – these were all for me. To stand as tall as I can while facing him.
Because it is over. I’ll find another studio.
Anxiety grips me. How am I going to find another studio? I’m still living off the inheritance my momma left me, and soon I’ll need to sell some paintings in order to survive. Or go get a job. And that’s not going to happen. There is no plan B. But I sure as shit am not ready to have a show yet. What am I going to do? But I know I can’t keep using this studio with Michael. I can’t.
As I turn the key in the lock, I think, this is the last time I’ll let myself in. Tonight, I’m giving him back my key. The second I think it, a cold fist punches me in the chest and I can’t breathe. I’m going to miss him so much. Choke it back, Nicole. Go in… and show him what you’re worth.
Inside, his voice wafts down to massage my ears, “Well, you must have read my mind…”
“Oh?” I call up, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the hook. I want him to see this little black dress without anything blocking its impact.
“Yes. I was just thinking that it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. I missed you.”
My hand shakes. I hold onto the railing to help my legs not fall out from under me. He missed me? Steady steps. Take steady steps. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say,” I call up, my tone smooth as cream on a summer’s day.
When I walk into the studio, his eyes glance over and he does a double take, straightening up and taking a long drink of me.
“You’re stunning.” His voice is deep and quiet. His look sets fire to my skin, and wilts my resolve more and more with every step.
Looking over to the table, I see there’s an open bottle of red wine on it. With my head held high, I go to it and pour myself a glass, letting him look at the low cut of the back, how it hangs open, gently just above my tail bone. I peek at him over my shoulder and yes, he’s watching.
“Nic. I can’t tell you how… you look incredible.”
“You think so?” I ask, my back to him.
“Let me paint you.” His voice is husky with need. I’ve heard him sound that way before. Many times. But it’s stronger now, stronger than it’s ever been. So, since you can’t fuck me, you want to do the next best thing…
“I like to be on the other side of the brush, you know that.” I turn, the elegant glass held gracefully in my hand, my eyes locked with his. “And didn’t you already paint me. Isn’t that portrait… of me?” He knows the one I’m speaking of. A flicker of acknowledgment is the only answer I get.
“Sit on the stool.”
The authoritative, confident order makes me melt, sends tingles all over me. My mind is glazing over as my legs glide to the stool in long, lazy strides. After I take one more little sip, I lean down and put the glass on the hardwood floor. I straddle the stool, my back straight, my hands in front of me to hold my dress down and make sure I stay modest. For now.
He hasn’t stopped watching me. I can’t help but hold his gaze hostage. With our eyes locked, he sets down the brush. He pulls his t-shirt over his shoulders and off, his chest muscles moving and flexing as he tosses it aside. He’s wearing a tribal necklace on his naked chest, over black slacks that hang perfectly on him. No shoes. He walks over to get another canvas, and when he returns to the easel, he picks up the canvas he was working on and tosses it onto the floor, violently, making me gasp from surprise. He shoots a glance my way that says, don’t move.
A new palette gets paint squeezed onto it and he starts working, his eyes lighting me up every time they shoot to me. Sometimes he uses his fingers, mashing their thickness into the colors and smoothing them into the fabric in front of him. My chest is falling up and down, heaving, and I can hear myself… breathless. I feel dizzy with desire for him and I want so desperately to rub myself on the stool to abate the arousal that’s hot and won’t turn back now.
He looks up and meets my eyes from beneath his eyebrows; his body hunched over two paint tubes, his mouth firm. He says nothing for a few seconds and we stare at each other. The energy is thick and tense. His eyes are like hands that caress every part of me. Sweat forms on his chest, near his temples, and he’s breathing heavily, as I am. His hair flows as he moves to look at me, and then at the canvas. The muscles of his shoulders shift and turn with each frenzied stroke he makes.
“Put your arms above your head,” he whispers, just loud enough to reach me.
My lungs expand with a short quick breath and my eyes dart to several places on the floor, never landing completely.
He stops painting and stands erect, looking at me. Waiting. He shifts his brush to his right hand, the one holding his palette, and walks to me. With his left hand he slides his fingers around the back of my neck in a feather-soft caress, barely skimming the smooth surface beneath my hair, the paint gliding onto my skin. I feel the sharp hum of desire build and my eyelashes drop.
“Release yourself to me,” he growls. I look at him and raise my arms and hold them above me, crossing wrist over wrist, bound by an invisible string. My breasts rise up, ribs opening as they spread. “Good.” He walks back, leaving me here, vulnerable. Or so he thinks.
Watching him scan and paint the curves of me, smearing the canvas with both his brush and hands – I awaken to everything he sees. My skin is hot. I feel dull throbs pulsing between my legs, begging to be touched. He becomes absorbed in the canvas and doesn’t look at me. Now is the time. I’ve orchestrated this perfectly, and here he thought he was in control. Looking at him, fueled by jealousy and anger, I lower my hands, tuck my fingers underneath my dress and into my lips, so wet and slippery and excited that I shiver and gasp.
Arrested by the sound, he looks up and grabs hold of the canvas, stunned by the sight. His breath quickens as he watches me lift up the fabric to reveal myself to him for the very first time, spreading myself so that he can see it all. I know he can’t touch me. I know now that he has been forbidden to, this entire time. But that hasn’t stopped him from making me a fool.