IX
Her husband, while never really a good man, had been better in the early days, back when he and Julianne had been much poorer. He had tried to raise her daughter, as best he could, though her troublesome wildness was a constant reminder that she wasn't really his. Then he came into money, a lot of it, money that gave him options, in his eyes, and she wasn't one of them. Not anymore.
X
She tried to put him out of her mind, tried to convince herself it had just been a dream. A man living wild in the forest? Who would believe that?
But it couldn't have been a dream. She never had dreams that vivid, that real. She threw herself into her work during the day. At night, she searched the web for any mention of a man or a boy spotted in the park. Bigfoot was seen all the time, apparently, but not this beautiful wild man who had played her body like the whistle of wind through the trees.
She went into Seattle with her coworkers on her day off, tried to have fun eating pizza and drinking enough cheap beer to keep her up half the night pissing. Her mind wanted distraction from what her body craved, harder and harder each day.
In the end, it didn't matter. She went back.
It was Sunday morning and a light mist filled the sky. Not so much rain as just water-infused air. In the moisture, her hair looked almost as wild as his, wavy and kinked up. She pulled on jeans and a light sweater, tied her jacket around her waist, and set out.
The hike felt longer that day, and she began to really doubt whether she had imagined it all. Maybe she was spending too much time alone, her mind starting to fray around the edges. But she kept on. She had to know whether he had been real. If she found nothing, no sign of him at the lean-to, she would walk home and look up a psychiatrist.
Deep in the park, the mist turned to thick fog that sunk almost to the ground. She patted the GPS in her pocket, just in case. She was beginning to fear she was lost, had somehow ended up on a different trail, when the path widened into the small clearing and the lean-to.
He was sitting on the edge of the lean-to, his shoulders hunched, his hair wet and matted. His foot traced circles in the damp pine needles on the ground.
He looked for all the world as though he had been waiting.
She broke into a run and he looked up, his face breaking into a hesitant smile, as if he couldn't let himself believe what he was seeing. In the fog, his skin glistened with moisture. She was running, hurling herself toward him. He stood and opened his arms, caught her when she collided with his immovable chest. He growled into her hair, a noise she couldn't decode. Was he angry that she had stayed away or glad that she was back?
He lifted her up into the lean-to. She reached up and pulled his lips down onto hers. There was no hesitation this time, no skittishness. He kissed her back and ran his wet hands underneath her sweater. Julianne shivered beneath his touch.
He pulled her to the back of the lean-to, as far from the damp outside as they could get, then stripped off her sweater. At the sight of her breasts—her nipples hard from the chilly air—a hungry growl rolled up through his chest and he buried his face between her breasts. He breathed in her scent with a long, deep inhale, then closed his lips around her nipple.
Julianne's legs buckled beneath her, but his hand at the small of her back held her up and pulled her in closer to him. He was sucking and lapping at her breast as though he were about to eat her up. The urge to cry out overwhelmed her. Normally, this entailed saying her partner's name, but she had no name for this beautiful wild man. It was unbearable, being unable to find any release that way. She felt gagged, mute, unable to speak. When his mouth drew back off her breast and she felt his tongue flick over her hard nipple, she did the only thing left to her.
She howled.
His head jerked up and they stared each other in the eye. Julianne knew her face at that moment was as wild and raw with desire as his. He tore off the tiny piece of animal skin he wore around his waist as she unzipped and hopped out of her jeans. Then she was lying on her back on the lean-to floor, her bare skin pressed against his pile of animal hides. The hides smelled earthy and musty, but felt like the softest velvet on her back.
His eyes were wide and glowing, feral, in the instant before he captured her mouth with his. Her wild beautiful man was out of control with lust, his emotions as untamed as hers were.
He ground his mouth against hers, his hot breath uttering sounds that alternated between moaning and growling. He ground his hips against her, his erection tugging at the roots of her pubic hairs. The tiny pricks of pain only made her hips grind back at him harder.
Suddenly her lips were cool and exposed, his head gone, only to reappear above her hips. He pushed her thighs apart with his hands, as far as they would go, opening her up to the damp misty air. Before she could even gasp, he buried his face between her legs, his nose burrowing into her soft mound, his lips gently sucking and pulling.
Julianne's hips bucked off the floor, but he pressed them back down and held them there. His thumbs spread her open and he pressed hungry, hard kisses along its length. She groaned as he dipped a thumb into the slickness pooling around her entrance. She wanted him. Her hands tugged at his shoulders, trying to pull him up, but he shook them off.
She peeked down at the tangled head of hair between her legs. He was staring curiously, reverently at her. She moaned helplessly as he ran a thumb, wet with her juices, up the middle and to the tiny nub of her clit. He switched from his thumb to his index finger as he pressed gently, then harder. Julianne pressed her hips forward, toward his face. She lifted her shoulders off the floor to reach for his head, but he moved just out of her grasp. He was in no hurry.
"Please. Kiss me," she begged.
He barked back softly. What was he saying? Wait? Be patient? I'm getting there?
He nuzzled his nose into her flesh, inhaling. He ran his fingers lightly down her outer lips, just barely touching them, tickling. The sensation sent fire racing down the veins of her legs straight into her toes. Just when she thought she couldn't stand a minute more of his teasing fingers, he flattened his tongue against her against her swollen flesh, lapping at her lips, her moisture, as her thighs trembled against his shoulders.
His hands pushed her thighs down, opening her completely to him, so he could taste every inch of her. He dipped the tip of his tongue into her wetness, then drew it up to her clit. She dug her fingernails into the animal skins beneath her. The urge to cry out clawed at her chest. She bit her lip to prevent herself from howling like a beast again.
Her breathing grew shallower and she rubbed herself faster and faster against his mouth, her mind empty of any rational thought, empty of everything except this driving need that was threatening to pull her apart limb from limb. An orgasm was building between her legs, coming from a place that was deeper than anything she'd ever felt before. She was teetering on the edge, trying to hold it off for one moment longer, when her teeth broke through the skin of her lip and she tasted blood. She could hold it back no longer. The howl rolled up from deep inside her chest as she surrendered control. The last thing she remembered was the feel of his mouth latched onto her, swallowing her orgasm whole.
XI
She was holding him back. People had plans for him. People had no plans for her. They certainly didn't have plans for a baby. A baby would have angered many, many people and so Julianne left.
XII
When she came to, he was leaning over her, stroking her face, worry marring his fine features. He barked softly at her. Are you okay? Julianne understood that. She took a deep breath and wiggled beneath him. Her body seemed to be okay. He laid his head against her chest and listened to her heart. He growled into her breasts. I killed you.
No, Julianne shook her head. She plunged her fingers into his tangled hair and rubbed at his scalp.
"I'm okay," she whispered. A nervous giggle escaped her lips. She was a tiny bit scared, she could admit that to herself. She had never blacked out during an orgasm before. It had b
een too much, trying to let go while trying not to scream like a banshee at the same time. Sensory overload, and her body had shut down.
She wanted to do it again.
She reached around him and ran her palms down his spine, bump by bump. His body shuddered. When her hands reached his hips, she slid them over his backside and then underneath, where she found his hard cock pressed tight against his stomach. She wrapped her hand around it. This was what she wanted, this right here, this deep inside her.
She rolled her hips back and pointed the smooth, swollen head of his cock at her entrance. He stopped her.
"Please," she whispered, rubbing the head against her slick lips until his hips were moving in sync with her own.
She started to pull him inside her. He stopped again, his eyes guarded as they searched her face. Then he pushed in another inch, pulled out slightly, then pushed back in. Julianne closed her eyes in ecstasy.
"More," she pleaded. She flattened her palms on his back and pulled him all the way into her. She wanted him that close, as close as two people could be. She wanted to make him feel exactly the way he had made her feel—splintered and melded all at the same time. He began to thrust and she tightened her muscles around him. Each stroke took him deeper inside her, filling her up, fitting her perfectly.
Beads of sweat broke out on his back as he pumped his hips faster and faster. Julianne felt the low growl winding up inside his chest. She thrust her hips back at him, matching his rhythm, until he buried his face in her shoulder, his body collapsing onto her.
XIII
Shoppers swirled around Julianne, but she was in a perimeter of stillness and utter silence as memories washed over her. He was staring at her over the other woman's shoulder. Julianne couldn't read his expression. So much had gone unsaid between them, so much they'd never been able to comprehend about the other.
She had never let go of the hope that he would come looking for her. Some day.
She had followed his fame for several years. But eventually, other people's interest in him waned and references to him online became harder and harder to unearth. As he became tamer, people began to doubt his tale. Some asshole even wrote an article alleging he was a hoax, a fraud perpetrated on gullible academics and purveyors of pop culture. He had become Bigfoot.
She recalled being furious at the time. Angry on his behalf. Angry that the people who had taken him away from her no longer wanted him. She had always wanted him—and her daughter was living proof that he was no hoax.
Now here they were, standing just yards apart. She had imagined this moment hundreds of times—thousands, more likely—over the past fifteen years. She had imagined every possible combination of emotions. But now, in the very moment she had imagined and reimagined, all she felt was the slow deflating of her heart, a heavy collapse in her chest. Was it the loss of hope, the loss of love, the loss of all those better scenarios she had imagined for them?
By the time her daughter reappeared, emptyhanded from fruitless shopping, Julianne was nearly catatonic, her mind as blank as the expression on his face.
"Mom," she whispered, grabbing Julianne's arms just as the shopping bags fell from her fingers, spilling their contents across the gleaming tiled floor.
Her daughter leaned into Julianne's shoulder, nestled her chin into the dip of her collarbone. The feel of her daughter's riotous blonde hair against her cheek comforted her, as always. No matter what, she had her daughter. They stood there, light and dark, wild and tamed.
Then came the low guttural growl across the artificial mall air, a sound that vibrated with anger and sadness, comprehension. He shoved away from the woman at his side and broke into a run toward them.
Her daughter pulled back on Julianne, wrapping her arms protectively around her, fear in her eyes, the crowd of shoppers moving away like a retreating wave.
"S'okay," Julianne breathed. "He's here. He's here."
An excerpt from the forthcoming novella, Drawing Lessons, by Julia Gabriel
It was an old Virginia farmhouse, Colonial-era, with weathered gray stone and meticulously-restored windows. Gracious old maples shaded the front lawn, their canopies ablaze with the red and orange leaves of autumn.
One good thunderstorm and they'd all be gone, blown off toward the low mountain ridge in the distance, Marie thought sadly as she pulled her car into the curving driveway.
She had no idea what to expect here. The home belonged to Luc Marchand, an artist. Her best friends—bless their well-intentioned hearts—had thrown her a divorce party and showered her with gifts. Wine, expensive chocolates, gift certificates for manicures and massages and waxing. Gifts designed to make a newly-divorced woman feel attractive after years of feeling ignored.
Or failing that, to feel drunk and fat. Not that Marie had ever had trouble making herself feel drunk and fat before. That was no hard trick.
She pressed the ignition button on the car and stepped out into the warm October air. She took a deep breath. Amazing how much cleaner the air was out here than just thirty miles back, in the DC suburbs. Out here, you could almost forget that Washington, DC, even existed. Behind the farmhouse—which was larger than it looked, she could see now—miles of yellowing fields dropped away beneath a pale blue sky.
Who had lived here over the centuries? A gentleman farmer? Had this been part of a larger plantation at one point? Had there been slaves? Most likely, she thought. Had George Washington slept here? Thomas Jefferson? Doubtful, probably.
The property was in French hands now. That was about all Marie knew about Luc Marchand. He was French. He was an artist. And her friends had arranged for her to take drawing lessons from him, another divorce present.
"You were so good at art in college," Nishi had said. "Then you drifted away from all that."
Nishi was right, of course. Marie had minored in studio art at Yale and would have majored in it, if her parents had let her. She had tried to keep up with it after graduation but at some point it just became more trouble than it was worth. After a year in a low-level job at Langley, she married Richard. Her life was expected to begin anew when she said, "I do."
That was one thing she and Nishi had in common. An arranged marriage. Lucky for Nishi, hers was working out better than Marie's had.
A tasteful wooden sign next to the front steps read, "Studio in back. Follow the red brick road." Ah yes, if she looked carefully, she could make out a trail of red bricks pressed into the lawn. Obviously, the walkway had been there a long time. Centuries, maybe.
Behind the house was a newer building with red board-and-batten siding, painted a fresh red. The building looked like a cross between a carriage house and a small barn. though it was far too close to the house to have ever been the latter. Marie knocked lightly on the door. She heard what sounded like the scraping of wood across a floor, then muffled footsteps. The door opened and a man stood before her, a man whom Marie would have pegged as French even if she hadn't known beforehand to expect it.
Intellectually, Marie knew that the French were a varied people. But still, she had in her mind what a French person should look like. Dark hair, always. Lively, tousled curls. A jaded, slightly annoyed expression.
Check. Check. Check.
A white shirt. Check. Luc Marchand was wearing an impossibly white tee shirt. Marie doubted one could buy a tee shirt that white and crisp in the U.S.
A scarf wrapped insouciantly around the neck. Check. Luc Marchand's was more of a paint rag than a scarf, but it had the same general effect.
Clever shoes. Marie glanced down at Luc Marchand's feet. Okay, well, not so French there. His feet were bare.
"You must be Marie?" he asked, rolling the r in her name so that it sounded like ma-rhee and not muh-reeee. "Marie Witherspoon?"
His use of her maiden name caught her off guard. Nishi must have used it when she called to arrange the lessons.
"You are not Marie Witherspoon?"
"Yes. Yes, of course I am." Marie nodded quickly.
> "Of course you are," he said, amused. "Come in."
She followed him inside the carriage house. He took her purse, set it on an old wooden chair, then looked Marie up and down, assessing her, taking her measure. She flushed.
He laughed. "I am a man, and not an old man. So, yes, I will look over a woman." He nodded at her. "You are a pretty woman."
Marie tried to fix a look of injury on her face. But really she was mostly embarrassed by her decidedly un-French attire. Military green cargo pants, out of fashion for several years now, and whose cuffs were worn and fraying. A black cotton pullover sweater, faded in the wash to a bluish tinge. No clever shoes. No scarf. The few times Marie had tried to tie a scarf, she'd ended up with something that looked more like a noose.
And to add insult to injury, her blowdryer had died the week after she filed for divorce. She hadn't bothered replacing it yet. Gah. Too bad she hadn't gotten one of those at the divorce party. That would have been more useful than drawing lessons.
"Also, I am French." He laughed again, a deep throaty growl. "I find, in the U.S., I can take all manner of liberties if I simply say afterward, 'I am French.'"
Marie's failed injury was replaced, at last, by a smile. "We expect bad behavior from you."
"Ah, she speaks. I will try not to behave too badly with you." He looked her up and down again. "But I cannot make any promises."
Oh my god. I may have to kill Nishi. Marie wanted nothing more than to slip into a bathroom and text her friend. OMG. OMFG. UGTBK. Marie had assumed that Nishi had picked Luc Marchand out of some community art center's directory of class listings. There was no shortage of people in the Virginia foothills who fancied themselves artists. She'd been expecting someone older, paunchy, balding.
Luc Marchand was none of that.
He was younger, for starters. Much younger. Thirty-five, max. Tall and definitely not paunchy. Lanky, that's how Marie would have described him. Not skinny but not overly muscled either. His movements had a looseness to them, an ease borne of comfort in one's own skin.
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