by Vivian Wood
“What am I doing?” she whispered aloud to the empty kitchen. She still didn’t know what she’d do about the baby. Why get attached to something that might not even survive? Her body was so fucked up, so malnourished, it wasn’t exactly the ideal environment for new life.
It wasn’t a surprise that so many celebrities had trouble conceiving. Why even young models opted for IVF or, better yet, surrogates. At 900 calories a day, she shouldn’t even be able to sustain herself long-term—yet alone someone else.
It would be better to just get rid of it now, she told herself. What was it, the size of a peanut, if that? She could get over an abortion at this point. But at the second trimester? The third? A miscarriage at that point might do her in. Even though she was aware of the life within her, without any bumps or kicks, she could still play pretend.
“You busy?” Sean popped his head into the kitchen. He glanced briefly at the chicken breast in her hand. “I want to show you something. I mean, if you’ll let me.”
“No, what is it?” she asked, eager for an excuse to walk away from the chicken. She ran her hands under hot water and scrubbed briefly before she followed him.
“This way,” he said over his shoulder.
She was uncertain as she followed him into his bedroom. Now? This is how we’re going to restart things?
“Oh my god!” she gasped. “What is this?”
She didn’t know when he’d done it, but the entire bedroom was lined in white butcher paper from floor to ceiling. The windows were covered and sunlight pushed through the paper. Every strip had a drawing of a person on it—and they were all her, each done in incredible detail. She’d forgotten how talented he was, how he took to human skin as canvas with a needle in his hand. About the stunning mural in his old, small apartment.
Harper went from drawing to drawing, each perfectly to scale. In some incarnations, she was dressed in one of the couture pieces she’d borrowed from her old housemate Molly. In others she was folded in a seated position, wearing her favorite wornout sweats. He’d depicted her both in full-blown glam makeup, and barefaced with a sloppy ponytail.
“I don’t understand,” she said. Harper shook her head as she traced the outline of one of her copies. He’d used various mediums from charcoal to acrylic paint and watercolors. Some of the pieces were still mildly damp.
She looked to him, but he just shrugged. There was no expression on his face. “I just want you to see yourself how I see you.”
“This … these are beautiful,” she said.
“Exactly.” She tried not to let him see how she compared herself to her standing figure. Was her waist really that small? It couldn’t be. In the drawings, they seemed exaggerated, almost a caricature of an hourglass body. This can’t be right. But as she sidled up close to it, she had to admit that the dimensions lined up.
“My calculations are perfect,” Sean said.
She blushed, thankful that her back was to him. Even if he did get the measurements right, and it seemed he had, it was easy to gloss over flaws. Simple to exaggerate the few good qualities she had. How could someone really see me like this?
Harper continued along the wall until the images changed. Suddenly, Joon-ki stared back at her, his almond-shaped eyes warm and deep. “It looks just like him,” she said.
“That’s kind of the point.”
“No, it’s more than the details. You captured his essence in this.” The creation was so lifelike, so spot on, she couldn’t fathom how he could do it all from memory. There were elements of Joon-ki she would have never remembered herself until she saw them. How he had that tiny freckle below his right eye, nearly obscured by the black lashes.
“Who’s this?” she asked, and her nose wrinkled when she came to a vaguely familiar figure. Then she saw the raven nestled in flowers on the figure’s neck. “Is this supposed to be you?” She looked at him with curiosity.
“It is me,” he said.
“No … this barely looks like you,” she said. “I thought artists were supposed to be good at self-portraits.” She walked along a series of so-called Sean images. But they were all wrong, off somehow. Most were far shorter than he was, and some were close to ugly. The eyes were too wide apart, the hairline too low, the royal nose squat and flat as a mushroom. “Is this how you see yourself?” she asked.
He gave her a curt nod.
She felt her heart crack and crumble into pieces. I know how that feels, she thought, but she couldn’t get the words out. Instead, she circled back to the first images, the ones of her. The woman who stood before her was simultaneously familiar and a stranger. It was like one of those exaggerated caricatures you could get of yourself along the Seine in Paris. The artists only dared to highlight your ugly features if they thought you could handle it. For the most part, they picked the elements you might like about yourself and blew them up. Was that what he’d done to her?
But, no. She could see it wasn’t a caricature. The woman who was represented before her was easily a real person. “Is this really how you see me?” she asked softly.
“Yes, but it’s not just how I see you,” he said. “It’s how you really are. You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”
Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. She wanted to tell him she both knew it and didn’t. Obviously, there was something about her or she wouldn’t have had such a successful career. She knew her height, the broad shoulders and unbelievably small waist were built not just for modeling, but for being a supermodel. She’d never fit in with the runway waifs who weighed eighty pounds without even trying. Once, a director had told her she should have been working during the heyday of the 1990s supermodels. Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, that’s who she was built like. But she’d started her career when heroin chic was in hot demand. And that was a skeletal ideal she could never fully attain. “Thank you for showing me,” she told him. It was the most she could get out.
She turned to leave, but paused at the door. Her hand rested lightly on the thick wood trim painted a steely gray. Harper turned her head. “Do you know how to cook chicken?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, surprised.
“I … I have some. And some vegetables, but I think I can just steam those in the microwave. If … if you’re not busy, and you don’t mind cooking—”
“Sure,” he said. She sensed the eagerness below the surface, but for once she didn’t care. She was in control. Everything she had for dinner had been hand-selected by her, so there wouldn’t be any surprises. She could, she was allowed, to eat it all.
Besides, pregnant women are supposed to have more calories, she thought. There was some comfort in knowing the baby would gobble up the excess. However, more comforting was the idea that she was nourishing another living thing. A baby that was half her, half Sean.
She led them into the kitchen and gestured helplessly at the glob of pinkish meat on the counter.
“What are you doing to this poor thing?” Sean asked as he examined the cut-up breast and little sliver of discovered excess calories.
“I don’t know,” she said. There was no way she’d admit she had to weigh it all.
He shook his head in wonder and pulled out the remaining cuts of meat from the Styrofoam packaging. Sean rinsed the meat and put a pot over medium heat. She almost cried out when he drizzled some olive oil into the pan, but held it together. Olive oil had so many calories, and she didn’t have a clue how much he’d used.
He glanced up at her. “Olive oil is good for you,” he said.
“How come?”
“Good fats,” he said. She hated that word. “Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory properties. It’s supposed to help with preventing strokes, heart disease—”
“You make it sound like I’m eighty years old.”
He shrugged. “If you waited until you’re eighty to start taking care of your body, you probably wouldn’t be in a very good position.” Sean started to chop up a head of cauliflower.
“Maybe
you’re right.” She picked at one of the pieces of cauliflower and chewed on the white blandness mindlessly.
“You might want something on that,” Sean said. He smiled at her kindly. “Here, I’ll show you.”
11
Sean
He woke up late, aware from the way the sun poured through the butcher paper that it was close to midday. Sean groaned and checked his phone. Almost eleven.
He hadn’t heard Harper at all. Normally, he was woken up by her blending of smoothies in the morning for her pre-gym protein. Sean pulled himself out of bed and adjusted his morning erection. Already, dreams of the previous night escaped him, but he knew they had all been of Harper. They always were.
“Hey,” he said as he opened his bedroom door. She was curled up on the couch. A book rested on her knees.
“Hi,” she said. For once, the smile that spread across her face was easy and natural. It was the first time since they’d moved in together.
“You haven’t eaten?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not in the mood for a smoothie,” she said.
“How about brunch?”
“Okay,” she said.
He made his way to the kitchen. Yesterday, when she asked him to cook for her, it had been a sign. That was his way back to her. Sean pulled out a half-dozen eggs from the fridge and a packet of English muffins. He cracked the shells and started to whisk egg yolks with lemon juice in a stainless steel bowl for hollandaise sauce.
He heated a saucepan with a thin layer of water. As he drizzled in butter and watched the sauce thicken and double in size, he sensed Harper behind him. Afraid to say anything, worried that it might scare her away, he reached for the salt and cayenne.
“Are you making eggs benedict?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know people actually made that.”
He laughed as he started to brown bacon in a skillet. “Did you think they just appeared?”
“I don’t know!” she said. He handed her two English muffins to toast. “I thought they were really hard to make. Like, only chefs made them.”
“They’re not hard,” he said. He broke another egg into the water and reduced the heat to a simmer.
“How do you know when they’re done?” she asked. Harper peered into the pan.
“Practice,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“About three and a half minutes,” he said. “Watch for the egg white to set but the yolk should still be soft.” He removed one of the eggs with a slotted spoon and let it drain over a paper towel. As he carefully assembled the benedict and spooned the poached egg on top of the bacon, he seasoned both plates with salt and pepper. Finally, with the hollandaise poured over them and a garnish of chopped parsley, he handed Harper her plate.
She looked at it like it was a science experiment. Sean could see numbers and calculations flying across her face. “Just try it,” he said gently. “It’s good for you.”
He ushered her toward a seat at the kitchen island and kept an eye on her while he put more bacon into the pan and pulled out the pancake mix. “You’re making more?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“You haven’t had breakfast or lunch, have you?”
She didn’t answer, but when he pushed the freshly cooked bacon onto her plate, she made a face and started blotting at the strips. “How many calories are in bacon?” she asked.
“Does it really matter? Just enjoy it.”
She gave him a look like a surly teenager. He watched her as she nibbled on everything, going at the egg whites with more gusto than anything else. When the first batch of pancakes were done, he forked two onto her plate, but Harper shook her head vehemently. “No more,” she said.
He sighed and looked at her plate. For her, she’d eaten a decent amount, though it still wasn’t nearly enough to count as sustenance.
“You interested in working out together again?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” he said. “It’s Sunday. I thought maybe we could lounge on the couch and watch a movie first. We can decide if we want to work out later.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly.
“Hey. How about you choose the movie?”
“Really?” she asked, brightening.
“Go on, I’ll clean up.”
Harper rushed to the living room while he rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. By the time he made it to the living room, she had Mean Girls cued up on Netflix.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“You said I could choose.” She pulled a face that dared him to disagree.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch like armies readying for battle. Eventually, Harper propped her feet up on the couch, taking up two-thirds of it. “You want a foot rub?” Sean asked.
She looked startled, but bit her lip and nodded.
He started at her perfectly dainty feet, cold to the touch. Sean warmed them, surprised at the softness—especially with all the working out and those insanely high heels she wore. When he worked his way to her bare calves, she didn’t react. The rolled-up boxers she wore as pajama bottoms had hiked up so high that his hands had miles of flesh to explore.
Sean reached her thigh and she squirmed. When he raised his eyes to hers, there was a hunger in there he hadn’t seen in weeks. She lunged at him. Her lips met his as her arms snaked around his neck.
Without thinking, he kissed her back. Harper’s hand twisted around the front of his t-shirt and she pulled him closer. That kind of desire, that dominance, was new in her. Any other time, he’d despise it, but something about it being her made him harden instantly.
Sean pulled off her tank top and yanked down her shorts. She wore no bra, no underwear, nothing. If he’d known the only thing that stood between him and her ethereal body were a few wisps of cotton, it would have been impossible to make it through brunch without bending her over the island and fucking her senseless.
He stood up and cradled her into his arms. Her mouth consumed his and she tugged at his shirt uselessly as he carried her to his bedroom. “No,” he said as he tossed her onto the mattress. Her breasts bounced and her nipples hardened when she hit the black duvet.
Sean leaned over her and pinned her hands above her head with one hand. “You don’t want to know what will happen if you move your hands. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He was hard as a rock, but the desire to taste her, consume her, overpowered everything else. Sean worked his way from her hungry mouth to the salt of her collarbone. He took one nipple between his lips and sucked while she writhed and moaned.
As he flicked his tongue across her abdomen, he caught a scent of her desire. Harper’s legs were spread wide, eager, her clit already swollen with want.
He dipped his tongue into her wet folds and heard her cry out. Still, she kept her hands above her head in an invisible bind. For an hour, he teased her clit. She tried to grip his head with her thighs, to fuck his face while following his rules, but each time he’d firmly push open her thighs.
Sean refused to indulge in any pleasure for himself. You have a lot to make up for, he told himself as he slid the tip of his tongue inside her. Harper’s taste, the sweet muskiness, was addictive. She was so wet he couldn’t imagine it would keep up, but even after an hour the flow of her juices never stopped. With every orgasm, she gushed more and he ardently lapped her up.
“Please,” she begged after another orgasm. He felt the tremors throughout her body, how her limbs had become heavy and languid. Sean didn’t want to, but he acquiesced. It’s the only way to show you I care.
He pulled himself up beside her and gently lowered her hands. She continued to shake as she rode the afterglow of her orgasms. With one arm resting heavily across his chest and a leg wrapped around his, he felt the warm stickiness of her center spread over his thigh. “I want you,” she said. Her eyes were heavy but her voice was thick with
desire. “I need you, all of you,” she whispered into his ear. “I just missed you so much …”
With a growl, he rolled on top of her. Harper’s legs immediately wrapped around his torso and her heels pulled him against her. He slammed into her and it felt like home.
Harper’s eyes were screwed shut as her nails dug into his back. “Yes,” she called out. “Fuck me, thank you. Thank you—”
He buried his head into her neck and breathed in the sugary scent of her. He wasn’t going to last long, not this time. “I love you,” he breathed into her hair as he released himself into her. She gasped and pulled him deeper inside her, thirsty for every last drop of him.
12
Harper
He’d taken her body beyond the limits she thought they knew. Harper lost track of how long they’d been in his bed. The cover had long been pushed onto the floor. Sean had taken the length of the black silk flat sheet to create a complicated bind.
“Hojojutsu,” he’d said as he cinched the material behind her back.
“What?”
“Don’t question me,” he said sharply. “It’s the name of the bind.”
The cool silkiness of the sheets were softer than what he’d used before, the rough ropes and police-grade handcuffs. But the intricacy of it, the long ropes of material, made her even more aware of how vulnerable she was.
“Well?” Sean asked. He’d secured the last knot and stood beside the bed. He reached for the full-length mirror next to the bedside table and angled it toward her.
When she saw her reflection, she almost gasped aloud. The contrast of her milky skin against the oil blackness of the sheets, the ties, was almost unnerving. He’d slipped the material around the smallest part of her waist and it framed her breasts. He leaned over and spread her knees wider apart. On her lower half, the black sheet outlined her mound like crotchless underwear. “Do you see how fucking hot you look?” he asked, his voice low against her ear.
