by Suzanne Clay
“Why?” Noma asked, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You wanna catch up a little?”
Oh, the wine had most definitely been a mistake. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish gasping for air. The proper thing to do would be to discourage any more flirting. Unfortunately, her still-flushed cheeks already betrayed her curiosity, not to mention she couldn’t lie to save her life.
Noma chuckled and looked back at the picture. “Planning on being here a month. Some of my old friends wanna see me too.”
“I hope you enjoy your time,” Ainsley said.
“Oh, I plan on it.”
They went quiet again. Ainsley could feel eyes on them, could hear the occasional snap of a camera. They were in a small town, after all, where not many noteworthy things happened. A gallery showing was bound to make one of the first few pages of their little newspaper. But would both of them be shown in it? Would someone capture how close they were standing, their elbows almost touching, the intent way they were surveying Ainsley’s work? Or would this unexpected connection pass on, another undocumented event, another moment Ainsley wished she’d had the courage to see through?
“Why’d I never get to see your work in school?” Noma asked, pulling Ainsley out of her thoughts. “You showed us some sketches here and there, but nothing like this.”
“I wanted to show you the work of the great masters,” Ainsley replied. Someone came by to take her empty glass, and she smiled at them in gratitude before gesturing to the body paint again. “I wanted to inspire you through them, not toot my own horn.”
Noma hummed in response. “Only one problem,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I think I’m more inspired by everything in here than I ever was by Picasso.”
Ainsley bit her bottom lip, not daring to look at Noma.
“There’s something…more real about this,” Noma breathed. “It’s one thing to show us art by dead artists or art by millionaires. That’s not something we can relate to. It’s all a completely different frame of life—not having to struggle with what we do on a daily basis—either because life was so different for them hundreds of years ago or because the only thing these people had to do was paint for a living. They didn’t worry about bills or how they were gonna create while they were working two or three jobs just to support themselves. But this…” Noma sighed. “You had to take time to do this. Time you could’ve been grading those assignments. Time you could’ve been sharing with the friends you didn’t get to see that much. But you looked at all the choices you had, and you said that this right here, creating this, was so much more important than anything else you had going on, even if you had to struggle to do it. And that’s amazing. That’s something your students need to learn to do, harness that drive.”
Ainsley finally turned toward Noma. She ran her eyes all over Noma’s profile, absorbing it, committing it to memory, feeling the itch for a paintbrush in her hand and the strong smell of her favorite paints around her. Ainsley’s body was too warm, and her chest too close to bursting wide open. And that was before Noma looked down at her, holding her gaze without any fear. It was as if she were being seen in a deeper and more vivid way than ever before.
“I have more,” Ainsley whispered.
Noma leaned down an inch. “More what?” she asked just as quietly.
“Work. More paintings. More things I haven’t finished.”
“Do you?” Noma asked, lifting her eyebrows.
“Yes. In my studio, at home.”
Noma’s gaze dropped to Ainsley’s mouth and lingered there, setting off shockwaves in Ainsley’s belly. “I think I’d like to see them.”
There was still time left in the exhibition. There were still people to talk to, pictures to pose for, and gratitude to express. Ainsley sucked in a shaky breath, electricity coursing through every inch of her veins. “If you give me an hour, I’ll take you there.”
Noma flashed a grin. She reached out and brushed her fingers against Ainsley’s, just a tickle that drew fire up her arm. “I’ll wait for you.”
AS SHE OPENED the door, bleeding light into the dark basement of her home, Ainsley welcomed the cool air, a pleasant contrast to the summer heat outside. “Well, here it is.”
“Yeah?” Noma asked from behind her. Grinning, she shrugged off her purse and set it on the chair at the top of the stairs. “You got a light, or…?”
“Well, if I have to.” Ainsley leaned over and hit the light switch. The sarcasm still felt weird and foreign on her tongue. Living and teaching art in a small town like Halifax meant it wasn’t surprising to run into a former student after graduation, but bringing one home to see her studio? Teasing her as if they were friends? Feeling the fondness from their back-and-forth a little too keenly? Not the norm.
Noma made her way down the stairs, her heels abandoned at the door, and she whistled in appreciation. “Damn. You’ve got some nice space here.”
“Yeah,” Ainsley said, smiling and rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s not bad. Gets the job done.”
“Man.” Noma’s voice was soft, maybe even appreciative, and Ainsley slowly came down a few stairs. She already knew which unfinished paintings Noma was looking at even if all Ainsley could see was the back of the canvases. “Man, Miss Edwards, you always had a talent.”
“Ainsley, remember?” she interjected, and Noma glanced over at her with such a broad grin that she blushed all over again. “You just graduated from college. You haven’t been my student in years.”
“Y’know, it’s funny, but I think you taught me more than any of my other teachers,” Noma said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her sundress. “That’s part of the reason I wanted to see your exhibition while I was in town. Didn’t think we’d get much chance to talk, but hey, hoped I’d get a chance to thank you, at least.”
“I’m glad you made it. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Ainsley hadn’t meant for those words to sound so sincere, but Noma dropped her head with a smile as she continued making her way around the easels.
Eventually, Noma paused, looking around the empty part of the space. “Don’t you sculpt too? I remember you used to get all fired up when we got to try some sculpting for the first time.”
Ainsley stared at Noma. Was that the last time I tried sculpting with the class? It had been messy and had never drawn a lot of enthusiasm from the students, so it was no wonder Ainsley had dropped it from the lesson plan a few years ago. Now that she thought about it, she realized Noma was the only one in her class who’d had any talent for it. She shrugged. “I, uh…I don’t get a lot of time to do that anymore.”
“That’s a shame. Sculpting, and our other mystery of the night, body painting.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Damn shame.”
Noma looked so relaxed in her studio, like she belonged there. Meanwhile, Ainsley’s breath caught every time she looked at her, as she tried to pretend she wasn’t…what? Madly attracted to her former student? Admiring how the light made her dark skin glow? Her mind was still trying to catch up from the surprise of feeling Noma’s arms wrapped around her so tightly in the middle of the gallery.
She was nowhere near catching up. Maybe that was why when Noma said, “You should paint me,” she didn’t register it at first.
“Do what…?” Ainsley asked.
“I mean, I’m here.” Noma shrugged, still wearing that smile. ”You obviously don’t get much of a chance to do it, and your painting, that one with the gorgeous black woman, it’s got me thinking, so, why not?”
“Like, your skin?”
“Yeah, man.”
Oh, that was…that would be a terrible idea. Ainsley couldn’t think of anything worse than Noma in repose under her paint, her brush, her hands…but Ainsley was an artist. She was a professional. Even with her sudden keen interest, she was perfectly capable of pursuing her craft without crossing any boundaries.
“Yeah,” Ainsley said before her mind could catch up and
stop her response—before she could weigh the difference between painting a model she had no attraction to and laying Noma down with all her bare skin for the seeing. “Yeah, sure, why not?”
“Well, we better get started, then, huh?” Noma rubbed her hands together like a kid in a candy store, and Ainsley had to fight to keep from laughing. “Where do you wanna do it? You got an area set up?”
“Not exactly.” Ainsley looked around the studio, pursing her lips in thought. “I’m lucky to have a basement, but it’s still a pretty small house. The last thing I want to do is set you up on my dining room table.”
“I know you wouldn’t lay me out on a hard, uncomfortable table, Ainsley,” Noma teased, sending tingles through Ainsley’s hands. “You’re kinder than that, aren’t you?”
“There is one thing,” Ainsley began, and then cut herself off, pinching her arm as punishment.
“What?” Noma asked. “What’re you thinking about?”
Bad idea. Terrible idea. The most enticing idea she’d had all night. “Well, I think the most comfortable place for you to be while I paint you is probably my bed.”
There was a long moment of silence. It was cool in the basement, but it might as well have been as hot as a furnace with how warm Ainsley’s skin went. And that was before she met Noma’s eyes—saw how Noma was already watching her. “Well, I wouldn’t wanna ruin your sheets, now.”
It was an out and a challenge. Ainsley swallowed hard as their gazes locked. “I have a painting tarp,” she said. “If we spread it out, there’s no risk of the paint getting anywhere.”
Noma’s smile was slow, sharp, and a little dangerous, and Ainsley felt the prickle of adrenaline all through her blood, just as strong as the wine. “I think I can help you carry it,” Noma said. “Where’s it at?”
“Just over here.” Ainsley led the way to the darker corner of the basement where she had tote-boxes full of supplies stacked up. She pulled the rolled canvas tarp from the corner, stumbling back a step with how easy it was to dislodge, and Noma caught her with a hand on her back. Ainsley tipped her head back to see her. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Noma slid her hand just an inch lower on Ainsley’s back before stepping around her to pick up the other end of the tarp. “You have your paints?”
“Yeah, let me just…” Ainsley grabbed the basket that held her body paints and added a couple brushes and a palette to it. “Okay.” She balanced the basket on her wrist and grabbed the tarp again. “Okay.”
“Lead the way, ma’am,” Noma said with a grin.
Oh my, what if she calls me that again? Just hearing the word was enough to make Ainsley too distractingly hot in her panties. It was not a good recipe for the platonic painting she knew she should aim for.
It was a careful process, getting everything up the stairs, but they managed it well enough. Ainsley walked backward down the hallway toward the bedroom and tried not to stare at any part of Noma for too long. “So, I can paint your…um…your back? Maybe?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Noma said. “As long as you take pictures. I wanna see your amazing work.”
“Stop,” Ainsley said weakly with a smile. “You’re too kind.”
“Nah. You’re incredible. Always been.”
Not for the first time that night—after all the friendly touches at the exhibition, the enthusiasm about her work, the way Noma had held Ainsley’s eyes when she asked to see her studio—Ainsley couldn’t help but wonder if her former student was aware she was flirting. Maybe Noma was simply friendly. Maybe she was just a warm and engaging person. Or maybe she flirted with everyone with reckless abandon and didn’t care to see it through.
Whether Ainsley liked the flirting because it was Noma or liked the attention at all was a question she didn’t know how to answer, so she focused on the task at hand, namely draping the tarp and setting out her supplies.
The tarp was an ugly shade of blue, out of place in the low bedroom lighting. Noma ran her hands over it to help smooth it down while Ainsley arranged the brushes, paints, and palette. “Perfect,” Ainsley said a little too quickly when she was done, already heading toward the door. “All right, I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Some what?” Noma laughed. “What for?”
Ainsley blinked and looked at her over her shoulder. “Well, if I’m painting you, you’re gonna have to…to strip down some, aren’t you?”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Noma looked slowly down Ainsley’s body—from the large mole just below her collarbone to her inky black toenails—and back up again. “Is that supposed to be a problem?”
Ainsley could only stare. And then Noma unzipped her sundress, tilting her head to the side and giving Ainsley the cheekiest grin she’d ever seen, and the question of whether she was aware of the flirting was tossed out the window.
“Didn’t you used to be shy?” Ainsley asked as she sat on a bedside chair, her legs shakier than she wanted to admit.
“College changes a woman. Used to have black hair too, didn’t I?”
“Mmm.” She didn’t mean to stare as Noma peeled the dress down her torso. Her breasts—almost an afterthought in comparison to the thick swell of her hips—were more nipples with confidence than anything else, and they were possibly the most perfect things she’d ever seen. Ainsley’s palms itched; her body felt like a tidal wave waiting to crash into Noma. But Noma kept showing those pretty teeth as she slithered out of the dress. “Black hair, shy eyes, and a couple of boyfriends.”
“You’d be surprised what a couple of inept high school guys can teach you about yourself,” Noma said with a laugh. “Namely, after you meet a pretty graduate student studying German.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Nah. Affectionate educational roommate.”
“We’ve all had those.”
Noma dropped the sundress to her ankles and stepped out of it, and Ainsley tried to tell herself she shouldn’t be staring at the curve of Noma’s ass through her panties as she leaned down to pick it up. She’d mentored this young woman. She’d taught her for four years. She’d helped shape her art and had dried her tears.
Doesn’t make her any less beautiful.
Noma approached her and Ainsley sat a little taller. “I’ve got a hanger if you want it,” Ainsley said.
“Nah.” Noma planted a hand on Ainsley’s wrist and leaned forward to drape the dress over the back of the chair. She lingered there, her dark nipples hovering right in front of Ainsley’s mouth, and Ainsley shivered when Noma cupped her cheek and tipped her head back to look her in the eye. “So? We gonna get started or what?”
Ainsley licked her lips. She had to make a decision here, and it was the weight of Noma’s hand and the darkness of her pupils that did it for her. She reached forward with shaking hands and hooked her fingers in the waistband of Noma’s panties. “You used to be patient too.”
Noma wiggled her hips, making her panties fall. “No time like the present, ma’am,” she said, stoking an inferno in Ainsley’s belly.
Noma moved like water was flowing through her veins; every muscle was as relaxed and pliant as a cat’s. She sashayed away from Ainsley, climbed onto her bed on her hands and knees, and glanced over her shoulder. She wiggled her ass. “Got some direction for me?”
Ainsley took a deep breath and pushed herself out of the chair. She circled to the side of the bed, shrugging off her jacket as she went. Noma was practically vibrating in place—like one of Ainsley’s favorite toys—but that wouldn’t suit her paintbrush. “Settle down,” she said in a low voice, touching her hand to Noma’s bare back, feeling her shiver. “I need you still if I’m going to paint on you. Can you do that for me?”
“What if I can’t?” Noma teased.
Ainsley flicked her eyes to the end table drawer full of secrets, her lips already tugging in a smile at the nervous adrenaline of new flirtation. “I mean, if I have to restrain you…”
“Hmm…” Noma wiggled again. “We’ll just ha
ve to see, won’t we?”
Ainsley laughed. “C’mon, lie down.” The second she applied pressure, Noma dropped down from her crouch. So fast to obey. “Good girl.” At those two little words, Noma rubbed her naked thighs together. Had she wanted Ainsley to see that? Ainsley wasn’t sure, but it made her heart flutter nonetheless. “You’ve got to stay still while I change.”
“Can I watch?” Noma asked.
“If you want,” Ainsley said. She pulled a paint-stained tank top and pair of leggings out of the dresser and went for the hem of her shirt. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to,” Noma replied, her voice a little shaky with force. “Are you kidding me?”
Ainsley grinned as she ducked her head and pulled her shirt off. “You’re really subtle when you want something, aren’t you?”
“No offense, ma’am,” Noma said with an answering smile as her gaze roamed all over Ainsley’s body, “but nobody ever gets anything done if they don’t say what they want.”
“Oh really?” Ainsley kicked off her pants and stood for a moment in her bra and panties, memorizing the young woman on her bed, drinking in the way Noma was watching her. “And what exactly is it that you want?”
Noma bit her bottom lip as Ainsley pulled on her clothes. Her bravado seemed shaken, and Ainsley could practically read the indecision on her face. It was only when Ainsley was smoothing the wrinkles out of her shirt that Noma took in a sharp breath. “Here’s the thing, though,” she said. “If I tell you and you don’t want it too, then I’ve just made a fool of myself, yeah?”
Ainsley knew how that felt. She’d been in those shoes a million times—all through undergrad and grad school, through clumsy flirting with the other teachers, trying to see if any of them were interested. She laid out the palette and grabbed her paints. “Tell you what. Maybe I say I find you beautiful. Maybe I say you’ve got me more curious than I want to admit. Maybe I say I’m not all that interested in you leaving my house until we figure out exactly what’s going on here.” She glanced over. “What would you say to that?”
