There are sketches of me from the shoot, the night at Nuova, on the pillows here at dawn. There are oils and watercolors still on the easels of partial faces, the curve of my neck into my shoulder, and holy fuck, even what looks like pink lace discarded on a hardwood floor.
“Jesus Christ,” I utter.
“I’m sure that you’re familiar with the term ‘muse’... I’ve found mine, Petal. Ever since the night that I saw you dancing, art has been exploding from my fingertips. I’m finding you in everything, even before we spoke again after that night. Before all of it. Before you allowed me to touch you, to kiss you. So no, I’m not teasing you when I say that you’ve taken over my head. You have in spades.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I walk slowly around the room, looking at each piece of work, and my heart begins to race because I like what I see. I like how he sees me.
“Would you do something for me?”
I answer him honestly, because at this point, there is only one answer to that question.
“Anything.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He just walks around the room, gathering supplies and placing a brand-new, bright white canvas on a paint covered easel.
“Make yourself comfortable in any way you’d like. I’d like to paint my muse in person.”
“Right here? Now? I mean…the food is coming. I’m not…dressed right.”
“Petal, you could be in a towel or a gown. You could be in my jogging pants and a university sweatshirt and would be sheer perfection. You can stand or sit. Be in the pillows if you wish.” I can see the wheels in his head begin to turn. “Just be you.”
My shoes are already off. My dress only leaves a little room, but I’m able to settle in the sea of cotton and down, tuck my legs back, and curl up like a pup in a warm bed. “My heart is racing.”
“Your cheeks are flushing red. It’s lovely.”
He opens a variety of paints and places small dots on a round palette on the table next to his stool that he’s only leaning against rather than sitting on.
“I’m nervous.” I admit, shifting myself just a little and pulling my hair around and over my shoulder.
“You pose for the camera all the time.”
“That’s different. This is…more intimate.”
“Don’t be nervous, love. You’re in good hands.” He smirks from around the canvas.
His smile. My God.
I have no doubt that I’m in really good hands, amazing in fact. Which, to be honest, scares the hell out of me.
Over the next hour, we don't speak. He just focuses on me, and lets his hands do their work. He only leaves for a brief moment to get the food from the delivery person who brought it up, but he leaves it on the table.
“Come here for a moment,” he motions for me with his finger, “I want you to see something.”
I had sunk into the pile of pillows so perfectly that I wondered if I’d dozed off for a moment. I’m so comfortable, I nearly whine when he asks me to move, but I carefully unfold myself from my comfy pretzel and pad over to see what he’s been working on.
“Oh my God.”
The canvas is beautifully covered in shades of green. Some that match my dress perfectly, others are a bit darker and there I am, right in the middle, arched in pleasure with my hair cascading down my back.
“That curve here.” He runs his finger along my skin from my ear to my shoulder. “That’s my favorite part of your body… so far. I had to showcase it.”
The path his finger leaves on me is like fire. It feels like a delicious match was struck and he’s tracing a permanent line on my body. I want to remember this feeling forever.
“That feels good.” I tip my head more, giving him even more access to my neck.
“That’s all I want you to do, Petal. I want you to feel good. Say yes to me. Don’t deny your mind the opportunity to be challenged and your body to feel exactly how it does right now.”
I can feel his lips settle over my pulse. My body is too close to giving in. I hope the shaking of my body isn’t visible to him. I don’t want him to know he could have me if he presses hard enough.
“Where…will you hang it?”
“I’m torn, Petal. I think the world should see what I see—the beauty and eroticism of you because it needs to be shared—however… I feel very possessive over you. I want to keep you for myself and hang this on my bedroom wall so it’s the last thing I see before bed and the first thing I see when I wake.” Tristan stands silent and motionless staring at the piece. “On second thought, I’d like you to have it. I’d like you to see how I see you. Also, it serves as a thank-you. ”
“Thank you? What do you have to thank me for?”
“For not leaving the other night. For listening to my confession. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken about it with anyone fully, even Adrianna.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Tristan, and…I want you to keep it here with you.”
What I really want to say is with an image of me on the wall, I will be here with you all the time. I wiggle my fingers and curl my hands into fists to calm my quaking nerves and to keep myself under control. I feel like a bomb with its fuse burning dangerously close to the end. I can feel his breath on my ear when he leans in close and pushes the strap of my dress off my shoulder.
His fingers feel like the paintbrushes and I’m the blank canvas. His strokes make my brain misfire. Part of me wants to lay him down and have him fuck me right here, right now. The other part, the one part of me who has any common sense, is yelling at me to say what I’m about to.
“Tristan, maybe I should go.”
I swear, I can hear the war waging in his head. Once again, he’s fighting the same urges and wants that I am.
“Petal, saying this hurts me more today than it did yesterday, and honestly I can’t believe it’s about to come out of my mouth.” He readjusts the strap he moved from my shoulder. “I should take you home before we take this further than you’re ready for.”
I sigh and rest my head against his chest. “Will you let me take the Pad Thai with me?”
He chuckles a bit. “Of course.”
Tristan
I leave the studio just as we left it. The pillows will still have her shape. The new piece of her will remain drying on the easel. Her fingerprints are still on the glass of my violin case. Her voice hangs in the air, as well as her perfume. She’s now not just present, but she’s woven into the fabric of my existence.
On the ride home, she winds noodles around a fork and carefully feeds herself. Fuck if I didn’t wish I was that damn utensil entering in and out of her mouth.
“You’re staring again, and this time, I think you’re supposed to be driving instead,” she says with the most perfect grin.
“Are you enjoying your dinner, Petal?” I reach over and carefully wipe a bit of sauce that had splashed up on her cheek when she slurped up a noodle.
“Very much, thank you. Even if it's slightly cold, it’s delicious.”
“You never answered me, by the way.” I have one hand on the wheel, the other placed carefully on the gearshift. This is the only time I’ll rue the day I bought a manual transmission vehicle. I’d much rather keep my hand placed on her thigh.