Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  “One of my favorite verbs.” Ash grins and helps me button my shirt, planting soft kisses on my stomach and chest before she fits each button into its loop. Then she winds my lavender tie around my neck. “Cute kittens,” she laughs, tightening the knot.

  “Here…” I scoop her bowtie off of the floor and reclip it at her collar, adjusting it until it’s perfectly straight. “Okay, you’ve got to tell me—where did you get this singing telegram getup? I mean, it’s vintage and awesome and…” I feel my cheeks redden as I gaze at her, admiring. “Well, you look amazing in it.”

  Ash ducks her head, blushing adorably. “I’ve been staying at the Normal Motel—”

  “Wait. You’ve been here all along?”

  “I couldn’t leave you, Molly. I tried, but… Before we got out of town, I asked that guy with the truck to drop me and my stuff off at the motel, so that I could have some time to think... But,” she smiles softly, meeting my eyes, “all I thought about was you.”

  “Oh, Ash…”

  “I wanted to call you, but I must have left my cell in the truck, and I didn’t have your number written down. And last night, when I spotted this old bellhop costume lying in the laundry room, I…” She grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I got a crazy idea and asked the manager if I could borrow the outfit for a couple of hours. He said it had been gathering dust for decades, that I could just keep it.”

  “Generous guy.”

  “Yeah. I guess, back in the day, the place used to be kind of posh, with bellhops and shoe-shiners and maids in these short blue skirts.”

  “Wow.” Fleetingly, I imagine myself costumed in one of the maid outfits, feather-dusting the big gold buttons on Ash’s bellhop coat…and I feel so flushed that I quickly picture shivering little penguins waddling around in the vintage uniforms, instead.

  It’s weird, but it works. Kind of. Because Ash is still standing before me, looking as sexy as hell in her form-fitting, cross-dressed attire.

  I manage to conjure up a small smile. “Sad that the motel’s such a dive now.”

  “Yeah…” Ash’s hooded grey eyes appraise me, then, studying my length thoughtfully, from head to toe. “Come here,” she whispers huskily, grabbing the bottom of my tie and tugging me close. “You’re so beautiful, Molly.”

  I shudder and lean against her, holding her tight. “Thank you for staying,” I breathe into her ear.

  “Thank you for falling in love with an idiot,” she laughs, squeezing me gently.

  When the knock comes at the door a few seconds later, we both sigh, draw back, and, grinning, straighten one another’s crooked neck adornments.

  “Do I look presentable?” I ask Ash, as I shove my hair behind my shoulders and pull my wrinkled sleeves down to my wrists.

  She eyes my bared throat with a mischievous smile. “Well. You might want to keep your hair over your shoulders. Around your neck. I mean…tight around your neck. I got a little carried away…”

  My face burns, but I can’t help laughing. I haven’t had a hickey since freshman year in college. Pauline will be so impressed!

  “Molly, got a minute?” Terry calls impatiently through the door, knocking again.

  I kiss Ash, then, memorizing the impression of her soft, hot mouth; of her soft, long length fitted so naturally, so effortlessly, to mine.

  “See you later, Molly-gator?” She touches her lips to my nose.

  “Yeah. I’ll seize you later,” I growl, shocking myself—and, I think, her—as I deftly slip my hand beneath her shirt and cup her breast with my hand…and then, smiling, kiss her lips one last time. “Around 6:00?”

  She reluctantly parts from me, backs toward the door, one hand clutched over her heart. “I’ll count the minutes.” Pressing her fingers to her lips, Ash blows me a kiss. And then, agonizingly, tragically, she opens the door.

  “Hi, Terry,” she smiles, easing past him in the doorway, tossing a wink to me before she disappears from sight.

  “Wasn’t that…” Terry begins, pointing vaguely down the hall. He eyes me suspiciously behind his crooked glasses, and then his mouth slants into a knowing smile. “Guess Ms. Rosenburg is back on board for the gala, eh? You little scamp…”

  Weak at the knees, I round my desk and fall, loose-limbed, into my chair. “Terry, I’m in love,” I sigh, gazing up at him as I swivel the chair from side to side. I roll myself up to the desk, pulling with fumbling fingers, and rest my flustered, flabbergasted head on a pile of unopened mail. “And, yes, Ash will be the featured artist at the gala.”

  “Thank God.” Visibly relieved, his shoulders relax, but then he rakes a hand through his black hair and gives me a sheepish smile. “I mean, that’s awesome—on both accounts, Mol. Love is awesome. You’re awesome. Look at you. You’re glowing. You’re radiant. You’re a light bulb. With really, really messy hair.”

  I notice Ash’s felt bellboy hat lying on my desk and, sitting up, laughing lightly, place it atop my head. “I’m happy,” I tell him, and realize that, for the first time in days, months, years…those words are actually true.

  ---

  It’s almost 6:00, and M.L. is being characteristically unhelpful: I’ve shown her seven different, is-this-sexy-or-trying-way-way-too-hard outfit possibilities for my evening with Ash…and she has displayed vast indifference to each and every one.

  Guess I’m on my own.

  I stand before the full-length mirror and regard my reflection critically. The current ensemble is a pretty safe bet: black skinny jeans, slinky black button-down shirt—unbuttoned as far as it can be unbuttoned before being officially classified, with a wax seal and notarized certificate, as trying way, way too hard.

  Sighing, I do up one of the buttons, fluffing my long, dark hair around my shoulders…then pushing it back behind my shoulders…and then shoving it back in front of them again.

  I glance at my watch, 5:56, and give Mona Lisa—licking her paws on the mattress—a half-hopeful, half-terrified smile. “Wish me luck?”

  She doesn’t, but her tail moves a fraction of an inch, and I decide it must have been a sort of kitty thumbs-up: Go get her, Mom. Have a sexy, sexy night with the sexy, sexy lady next door. Don’t worry. I won’t wait up for you—wink, wink.

  Okay, that’s just creepy.

  My knees wobble a little.

  I’m really nervous.

  I gaze into the mirror one last time, drawing in a deep, calming breath. Well, I won’t win the coveted “Best Date Outfit Ever!” award, but at least I had the foresight to ditch the Wonder Woman bra for a wretchedly uncomfortable black lace, front-clasp contraption—with matching (also wretchedly uncomfortable) g-string, no less. I even spritzed some perfume oil onto my wrists. I look like a panther (or a cat burglar), and I smell like a rose garden, and I feel like I might pass out at any given moment…

  And I’m going to be late if I don’t run out the door right now.

  So I do—after double-checking that M.L.’s food and water bowls are full; she’d never forgive me if I left her alone and kibble-less.

  The short walk down the driveway never seemed so long, or so short, and I don’t think my heart has ever beaten quite so fast before, as if it’s trying to make up for years of lost time, as if it’s finally found a thoroughly persuasive reason to race.

  When I reach the cottage, I lift my hand to knock, but Ash swings the door open and takes my wrist, pulling me inside, drawing me tight against her. She flicks the door closed and shuts out the world.

  We’re together, alone.

  And I swear—by hook or by crook—we are not going to be interrupted this time.

  “You’re one minute late,” she teases, raising a faux-disapproving brow. “For sixty long, agonizing seconds, I waited, wondering when—or if—you’d appear.”

  “Well…” I give her a sly grin and tap the paintbrush that’s tucked behind her ear. “You know what they say. Absence…et cetera, et cetera.”

  Ash makes a low, throaty sound, and her arms
constrict around me, her hips pressed hard against mine. “Molly, I’m so fond of you, I almost came back into your office this afternoon—to…conference with you in a most unprofessional manner.”

  My knees, finally, give up and give way, but Ash holds me tightly, and I wrap my arms around her neck, lose myself in her dark, piercing gaze. “All I could think about all day—”

  “I know. I tried to paint to distract myself, but…” Now she bows her head, her mouth sliding into that sweet, bashful grin. “Well, come here. See for yourself.”

  Hand grasping mine, Ash guides me through the living room and into her art studio, repopulated again with all of her canvases and easels, her brushes and buckets and paints. The sights and scents make me feel so elated, so grateful, that hot tears spring to my eyes: Ash is back, really back. I never dared to imagine that I’d see her or her artwork in these rooms again. I never imagined that she’d ever look at me as she’s looking at me now—like someone marvelous, miraculous. Like a living, breathing work of art myself.

  Smiling softly, she gestures to a collection of three stretched canvases propped up against the wall, beneath a window; their wet paint gleams in the setting sunlight, lending the paintings, portraits of a dark-haired woman with a wide, crafty smile and luminously green eyes, a glossy brightness…

  I stare, dry-mouthed and stunned, for several moments. “Did you really… I mean, are those—”

  “I painted you,” Ash whispers, positioning herself behind me, one arm around my waist, her breath warm against my ear. “Or…I tried to. They pale before the real thing,” she murmurs, and then presses her hot lips to my neck.

  I close my eyes, lean into her arms, her mouth… “No, they’re too beautiful—”

  “You’re too beautiful, far more beautiful than these silly cartoons. The thing is, Molly…” And Ash places her hands at my hips, turns me around to face her—with her sure, steady eyes; her tempting, teasing lips. “I prefer to paint from life. You know, with models. And I was wondering…”

  “Wondering…what?”

  Her grey gaze flicks meaningfully toward the chaise lounge at the far end of the room, bathed in a slant of orange-pink twilight. Normally, the chaise resides on the back porch outdoors, but Ash has moved it, and draped it with a shimmering, dark green satin sheet. And now the chaise—made luxuriant—looks conspicuously empty…as if it’s eagerly, anxiously awaiting an occupant.

  I glance from the chaise to Ash and lick my lips.

  “Will you pose for me, Molly?”

  “I will,” I say quickly, simply—surprising myself, thrilling myself. I’m blushing so intensely that my forehead and cheeks sting. “I’d…I’d be honored, Ash.”

  Her smile lights up the room, the world; it rivals the stars—and then she kisses me, and I feel illuminated, too, suffused with brilliance from my fingertips to my toes. Her mouth still moving hungrily against mine, Ash guides me toward the chaise, lowers me down onto it; she kneels herself, releasing my lips only to kiss my hand. And then she brings her fingers to my shirt and slowly, grey gaze clamped onto my widened eyes, begins to unbutton it.

  When my shirt gapes open, she pauses, sitting back with a small, mischievous grin. “No Wonder Woman tonight?”

  My blush deepens, but I hold her impassioned gaze. “Well…I’m only Wonder Woman at work.”

  “Oh?” Her smile softens as her chin rises. “And who are you at night?”

  I lean toward her, grabbing the straps of her blue tank top and pulling her close, kissing her mouth. “Yours,” I whisper against her lips, breathing so hard, so fast that, when I close my eyes, I see stars—swirling, magnificent stars, like the ones tattooed on Ash’s arm. I trace them now with a finger as my chest rises and falls.

  She watches me, grey eyes dark, intense. “Lie down,” she says quietly, lifting my legs onto the chaise, easing me back until I’m lying fully, my head resting against a small pillow beneath the satin drape. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Mm,” I murmur, because I am—I feel safe, and where I want to be—though I fear, at any moment, my heart is going to pound through my ribs…

  That fear swells when Ash lifts her tank top over her head, tosses it carelessly to the floor, and straddles me with her legs. Panting, she leans down to kiss my lips, and I arch toward her, wrapping my arms around her neck, my legs around her narrow hips.

  Her breasts press against my chest, and her hips press against my hips, and my eyes fly open as my body thrums with an electric jolt, a white-hot lance; I kiss her more furiously, desperately, moaning.

  Her sure, steady hands slide my sleeves off of my arms and then—with a fervent smile—she unclasps my bra, drawing the cups apart and slipping the straps down past my shoulders. Tugging me up a little, she pushes both shirt and bra off of the chaise and lies me back down again. “You’re too lovely,” she whispers, lowering her mouth to lick my nipple as her left hand deftly unbuttons my jeans.

  “You’re too smooth,” I laugh huskily, shimmying my hips as she guides the jeans, along with my panties, over my legs; they slip from my toes and fold to the floor.

  She flashes me a grin before covering my breast with her mouth again, and I sigh, grasping the sheet with my hands. “Is this how you ‘paint’ all of your models?” I whisper, my mouth curved into a stunned smile as the creases of her jeans press against my aching center.

  “No,” she laughs, lifting her head to trail kisses along the length of my neck. “But this portrait will be—given its subject—my finest work… I want to study every line, every curve…intimately…before I brush them onto canvas.” She sucks delicately at my throat as her hand massages my breast, as her knee, gently, begins to move between my legs. “I want to experience every texture… Bask in every light, every shadow.”

  My neck arches back, then, as she reaches down into the hot hollow between my legs to touch me with her fingers, stroking me—lightly and slowly at first, and then, when I cry out, faster, harder. I reach up to pull her mouth to mine: our kisses are long, hot, unending. I squeeze her breast, and she groans as I push against her hand, slick and throbbing, so alive for her.

  “Oh, God, Ash…”

  “Molly, I love you,” she breathes, leaving my lips to blaze a trail of kisses from my throat to my breasts, down to my belly, and then lower still… She licks my inner thighs lightly, tormenting me, making my ache deepen, making my heart skip a whole sequence of beats… And then, at last, her tongue presses into my burning core, soft and searching, and I wriggle and grip the sides of the chaise as involuntary shocks begin to course through me.

  It’s ecstasy; it’s magic. I can’t think, can’t worry, can’t wonder: I can only feel—and I feel weak and invincible at the same time; helpless and fierce; vulnerable and immortal… I feel love, nothing but love. I feel loved deeply; I love deeply. I love Ash… I love her with a certainty and an abandon I’ve never known before.

  “Oh…” I breathe out, moving with Ash’s tongue, threading my fingers through her short, soft hair. Without pausing, she reaches up to squeeze my hand, stroke my arm; her fingers massage my breast, pinching my nipple until I cry out again, biting my lip: the bliss is too much…

  And then it’s more than too much, because she slides her fingers inside of me, and I move and contract around her, and the moment—this perfect moment—stretches on and on until the blackness behind my eyes gives way to a wall of white: I moan as waves of ecstasy flood through me, wracking my body with bliss, a bliss so profound that I can’t understand it, can’t grasp it, can only experience it now as it torrents throughout me, rising, cresting…

  Crashing.

  And then—shocked, exhausted, rapturous—my muscles slacken, and I breathe out…and I open my eyes.

  Ash’s stormy grey gaze stills me, pinning me in place: I shudder, drawing her tight against my chest. “Oh, Ash…”

  She kisses my neck, kisses my lips… Again and again she kisses me, touches me, whispers words into my ear...

 
Finally, breathless, we lie side by side on the chaise, watching one another, both of us smiling. I feel new, remade…alight.

  “I’m going to paint you now,” she murmurs, stealing one last kiss before she rises and gazes down at me, her eyes dark, hooded with shadows; her mouth slants up into a soft, pleased smile. “Don’t move, all right? Or…not much. You look perfect, so perfect, just as you are…” And she grabs a blank canvas, and she drags her bucket of paints near to the chaise, taking the paintbrush from behind her ear and clenching it hard between her teeth. Poised on a little stool before me, she tilts her head as she positions the canvas on her lap and sets her palette on the floor. Her eyes move over me—lingering, languorous. And I want to go to her, want to push her down to the floor and kiss her until our bodies are useless, sore… But, later, I tell myself, and the exquisite torture of being unable to touch her, unable, even, to move, amplifies and sharpens my desire into a dangerous, desperate, delightful thing.

  “I knew it—the color of your hair… It’s richer, deeper than I painted it before,” Ash murmurs, as she mixes her paints and strokes them onto the canvas, her brow creased with concentration. “And your eyes—they’re even greener, even brighter…”

  And you’re even sexier when you’re painting, I think to myself, smiling, caressing her length with my eyes alone. She’s so focused, so intense… My heart hammers as I gaze at her, as I watch her steady hand move, confidently wielding the brush; as my eyes loiter over her parted lips, moistened every few minutes by her quick, darting tongue…

  I swallow, short of breath.

  Ash stares at me, at every inch of me—stares so long and so hard that I tremble.

  “You’re shaking,” she says, brush poised in the air, sharp grey eyes engraving my soul with her name. “Are you cold?”

  I laugh lightly, lower my gaze. “No. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel cold again.”

  Her lips slide up into a slow, easy smile, but her eyes are still shadowed, concerned. “Are you tired, then? Do you need a rest? Sometimes I lose track of time—”