The sun is going down in the background, the sky—and the water—lit up with reds and oranges and purples. And to the left of the painting, about to sail right off the canvas, is a single sailboat. The Cora Lee. I still remember standing there, desperately trying to get the sketch down—the colors down—as she sailed straight past me into infinity.
I find it all the way in the back—it’s been a while since I’ve looked at it—and start to pick it up to hand to him. But Hunter is already there, those deep green eyes of his contemplative as he studies every detail of the painting.
He takes so much time that I start to grow nervous even as I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to like the painting, doesn’t need to get what I’m trying to do with it. But then, when he finally does speak, he says something that has me standing at attention.
“This one’s older.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“Your brushstrokes are really unique. You have a strange kind of pattern to your crosshatching, like right here.” He points to the edges of the painting, where I bled the colors together. “But it’s more tentative, exploratory in this one than it is in the San Francisco night one. Like here, it feels like you were trying it out. You’re torn between the traditional methods you learned in school and the one that feels most comfortable to you. By the time you get to the other one, there’s no hesitation. You’ve embraced the style, and have learned to do more with it.”
Okay. So my mouth is open as I stare at him, shock radiating through me. “How do you—”
“I’m not just a dumb jock you know.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You know what? You don’t get to be offended by this. A lot of people who aren’t dumb jocks don’t know enough about art to discuss brushstrokes.”
“I guess I should have said, I’m not just a dumb jock. I’m a classics major. With a minor in art history, so…”
“So you actually know who Charles Baudelaire is.”
He grins. “I do.” And then he puts the painting down and turns to me, a predatory gleam in his eyes. I’ve been trying to rush him into bed since we got here, but now I can’t help but take a cautious step back. Then another and another.
He watches my retreat, then matches it step by step. “You know, I’ve always been a little bit of a frustrated artist myself.”
“You are?” I’ve made it halfway across the room now, but so has he. For the first time in my life, I know what it feels to be prey stalked by a sleek, powerful jungle cat.
“I was,” he stresses. “Back in school.”
“Oh, yeah?” I’m starting to babble now but I can’t help it. Having him look at me like that makes me nervous. Very, very nervous. “What kinds of things did you like to draw? Do you still have a sketchbook around? What style did you—”
He stops me with a look. “Take your dress off.”
“What?”
“Take your dress off,” he repeats. “And I’ll show you.”
“Show…me?”
He nods, then waits for me to do what he asked. Or, rather, what he ordered.
For long seconds, I don’t move. I just stare at him, the tension ratcheting up between us as I try to figure out what just happened.
Hunter stares back, waiting to see what I’m going to do.
He doesn’t push me, but then he doesn’t have to. The sense of urgency inside me is as powerful—more powerful—than any trepidation I might have.
And so I do what he asks, bending over slightly to reach the hem of my dress. It’s tight and I wiggle my hips a little to get it moving up my legs to my thighs, my hips, my abdomen.
My eyes are locked on Hunter’s the whole time. I expect him to look away, to follow the progress of the dress as I slowly slide it over my head. But his eyes never waver from mine until I’m forced to cut the connection as I pull my dress over my head.
I drop it on the floor, then stand in front of him in nothing but the lingerie I picked out just for him when I got dressed this evening. I don’t have a lot of sexy lingerie sets yet, but this is my favorite among the ones I do have. Black and lacey and see-through in most places, it’s delicate and beautiful and revealing. So revealing that I feel myself start to shake a little as I stand here, the object of Hunter’s scrutiny.
Maybe it’s ridiculous—after all, he’s already had his fingers and his tongue inside of me. Already given me numerous orgasms. Already made me want like I’ve never wanted in my life. But he’s never seen me like this before—stripped down and all but begging for his favor—and it’s harder, perhaps, than it should be.