“Ash,” I breathe, raking my eyes over her bare arms and breasts, over the colorful, whirling designs tattooed on her smooth skin. “Just finish the damn painting,” I command, with a teasing but stern narrowing of my brows, “so that I can climb on top of you and ravish you. It’s only fair.”
Her eyes darken as her mouth slants sideways, revealing her small white teeth.
“Well…” I shrug with faux indifference. “If you’d rather spend all night painting—”
“Ten more minutes, Molly. I promise.” She rises from her stool to tap my nose with her green paint-soaked brush, and then kisses my shoulder, my stomach, my thigh, smiling against my leg and whispering, “Don’t move.”
My heart pounds through every limb of my body; it feels as if I have two hearts, or three, four…
“Start the countdown,” Ash grins as she returns to her stool and her canvas and begins to, single-mindedly, work…while I internally writhe beneath her intense artist’s gaze.
Agonizing minutes later, Ash leans back with a sigh and lets her paintbrush fall into the bucket at her feet. She peers at the canvas, then moves her gaze to me, and a triumphant grin slowly spreads over her lips, claiming her eyes, her whole face: “It’s done.”
I don’t hesitate: I crawl down from the chaise and take the canvas from Ash’s lap, placing it carefully on the satin-covered seat behind me. Then I straddle Ash on the stool, and she pushes against me; mad with desire, I taste her neck, her mouth, and then lower my head to cover her breasts with kisses…
And I lose my balance and tumble off of the stool, laughing, with Ash still in my arms, laughing, too, pinching me, nibbling at my throat—and it’s only when we still our hands and mouths, when we pause to, thoughtfully, gaze into one another’s eyes that we realize we’ve fallen right onto Ash’s palette: we’re both covered in splotches of wet oil paint.
“Some seductress, huh?” I grin, blowing damp hair out of my eyes. “Maybe I should have mentioned that I’m a bit out of practice.”
“Ah…” Ash shakes her head, smiling at me sweetly, rolling me over so that she’s poised on top of me, gazing down into my eyes. “Well, on the bright side, you’re naked. Oil paint stains clothes permanently.”
“That’s right.” I flick my gaze toward her lower half and raise a impish brow. “I’d better get you out of those jeans, then, hmm?”
“My thoughts exactly...”
We stand up, paint-splattered, panting, and I trail kisses down the length of Ash’s torso—taking care to avoid the smears of green, of white, of Burnt Siena. I unbutton and unzip her jeans, tugging them insistently over her hips. She steps out of them as I slip my hands into her panties and feel her there for the first time, touching her softly, deeply. She’s so hot, so wet… I moan, pressing my chest hard against hers, both of our bodies perspiring and slick with paint.
In one crystalline moment, my fingers enter her effortlessly as I claim her mouth and whisper her name. “Ash… I love you… I love you, I love you… Oh, I’m so glad I hit you with my car…”
She laughs, then moans, her mouth open and hot against my neck.
Sweaty and swirled with the colors of my portrait, we fumble toward the bathroom and step into the shower, still kissing, laughing, groaning with bliss.
“Kind of surprised no one’s knocked at the front door yet,” Ash quips, as the hot water streams over our heads and her finger shapes hearts upon my paint-smeared stomach.
I smile against her shoulder, my heart so full, so light. I have never felt as grateful as I do in this moment. I have never felt as loved, as held, as safe, as seen…
“You were right, Ash,” I whisper into her ear, squeezing her tight, tighter. The water drives away the tears of joy that leak now from my eyes.
“I was right about something?” she asks me, leaning back to gaze at me with those soft, grey-as-dove-feather’s eyes. Her mouth slants to the side as she smoothes my hair behind my shoulders.
“You knew it all along.” I draw in a quick breath, licking the water from my wet lips. “I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know what…forces or magic or…or wishes brought us together. But it’s true, isn’t it? We are meant to be.”
Ash kisses me—softly at first, then harder, our hot, wet bodies entwined. And then we just hold each other, every atom touching, our hearts beating in perfect sync…and I watch as the paint whirls and spirals in the water, making an art of our love.
---
I adjust the knot of the tie at Ash’s neck and then step back to observe my handiwork—and draw in a little gasp.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can hardly stand; my ankles wobble, unaccustomed to these ridiculous high heels, and I grip the bedpost to catch myself before I fall.
“You look… God. There isn’t a word for how you look,” I whisper, taking her fingers and drawing her close, until her hips press against mine. “Amazing, marvelous, astounding, incredible…and, well, edible…” I nibble at her neck teasingly and then give her a wink.
“Well, I’ll have the most beautiful woman in the museum on my arm.” Ash slides her hands around my waist and rakes her eyes over my length appreciatively. I’m wearing a new dress—black, with a daring neckline that reveals my navel-deep blush. Ash chose the dress for me herself, insisted that it was made for me... “Figure I should at least try to look like I deserve to be with you.”
“Oh, come on.” I slip my hands into the pockets of her sleek black pants. “You’re the star of the evening, Ash. All eyes will be on you and your art.”
“Not my eyes,” she says softly, gazing meaningfully at me. She smoothes her hand over my bare arm, then, turning it slightly so that the bedroom lamp casts a yellow glow upon my freshly inked tattoo: a paintbrush with a dab of violet at its tip, the same paintbrush from the dream of Ash that I had months ago…before we had ever even kissed. It’s dizzying to reflect on the past eight weeks, on the transformation Ash’s presence has effected in my life.
I kiss her luxuriously, frustrated by the rustling fabric between us—and by the large, impossible-to-ignore clock on the wall, hanging just above the painting I made during our first art lesson together.
With a sigh, I remove my hands from Ash’s pockets and entwine my fingers with hers, squeezing gently. “Time to introduce small-minded Normal, Michigan, to the big wonder that is Ash Rosenburg. Come, my love. Let’s go.”
I drive my old VW while Ash lounges in the passenger seat beside me, her black shirt temptingly unbuttoned at the neck, her purple silk tie hanging low and loose. She’s wearing the tie as a favor to me…though, I realize now, the choice of that particular accessory may have been a particularly disastrous mistake. Because Ash looks really, really hot in her tie, really, really distracting, and tonight I’ve got to play gala hostess and event coordinator and museum tour guide...when all I really, really want to do is pull over onto the side of the road and invite Ash into my bug’s cozy backseat. Not for the first time…
It’s actually quite roomy.
But hormones aside, I’m thrilled about Ash’s museum debut. She curated the paintings she wished to include in the exhibit herself, even installed them in the gallery with her own hands. I haven’t seen which works she’s chosen to display yet, and my heart is fluttering with anticipation.
Classical music blares from the speakers as Ash presses her warm hand against my leg, massaging my bared thigh; she leans her head back against the seat rest and regards me with a wicked smile.
“Be good,” I warn her, lifting a brow, though I don’t want her to take her hand away—and she doesn’t, not until we pull into the museum parking lot and step out of the car. Hands linked, we stroll through the side doors and straight into the bright, ballroom-sized space reserved for tonight’s gala event.
Before I can fully take in the scene, Terry rushes me, his black hair sticking up all over his head, his tuxedo jacket buttoned wrong, his bowtie askew. I’m surprised to note that his glasses are on straight—an ov
ersight that, I’m sure, will be remedied soon. “You two look great, fabulous, sexy. And you’re ten minutes late! Molly, I need you. The Flaming Maggots got detoured on the freeway, and I’m trying to give them directions over the phone”—he gestures to the cell in his hand—“but I’ve also got a sick artist in the ladies’ restroom and another one who insists that he needs a new lighting setup; otherwise, his artistic vision will be severely compromised. Quote-unquote. He’s threatening to walk out if we don’t meet his demands. I feel like a hostage negotiator, and a nurse, and a GPS…”
“All right, all right. Deep breaths, Terry. I’m here. It’ll be okay.” I give Ash an apologetic smile and squeeze her hand. “Catch up with you a little later?”
She tugs me near and kisses me gently, whispers, “Get to it, Wonder Woman,” before letting me go. “I’ll go sample the refreshments,” she says, aiming for the open bar.
I watch her walk away, feeling a familiar—though incredibly ill-timed—ache in my, um, “lady loins,” as Pauline would say. Apparently, Paul coined the phrase in eighth grade, when one of her fellow classmates was given detention for using the word vagina during school assembly. The detention was later challenged by a local feminist group and removed from the student’s permanent record…but lady loins became a permanent entry in Pauline’s personal dictionary.
And, now, mine.
I inhale a few quick breaths and paste on a cheerful smile, eager to draw Terry out of bug-eyed panic mode.
Consulting the folded-up paper in his hands, he assigns me six out of the twelve listed problems and then scurries off to finish his phone call with the band. I wobble on my high heels all over the museum, a jane-of-all-trades, tracking down the lighting director and raiding the break room medicine cabinet for nausea suppressants—which the artist holed up in the restroom accepts with a grateful, green-faced groan. I mediate arguments and taste-test hors d’oeuvres and consult with the sound engineers—and drink at least five glasses of wine before the gala, officially, opens its doors to the public.
A sea of black-clothed bodies pours into the room when the clock strikes eight, and I watch from my perch on the music stage, counting heads... But there are too many heads, and each and every one of those heads—er, people—purchases a ticket from Georgie, who’s seated at a table by the doors. I start to add up numbers and begin to feel dizzy: we’ve got a sellout crowd. We’re going to make a lot of money.
There may be hope for this little museum yet.
I’m tipsy and teetering by the time I join Ash at her veiled exhibit, looping my arm through hers and kissing her longingly, tugging at her tie. “I missed you.”
“You, too,” she smiles against my mouth. “But now that we’re both almost-but-not-quite drunk, I reckon we might just survive the evening.”
“I reckon you’re right,” I faux-hiccup, giving her an exaggerated wink. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and stand beside her, resting my head against her warm arm.
The Flaming Maggots arrive at last, looking awesomely out of place in their leather-and-mesh ensembles, but their music is surprisingly pretty, hard rock with a classical twist. One of the guys in the band even plays the cello, which lends a haunting ambiance to the loud, jangly songs.
“Molly!” Pauline comes running up to me, and Brad, grinning, trails right behind her, looking dapper, though uncomfortable, in a snazzy blue suit.
Pauline smacks into my arms and gives me a breath-stealing squeeze. “Molly, have you seen how many people are here? Oh, my God! You must’ve made, like, a million dollars! And Ash—wow…” Her brows waggle admiringly. “If I weren’t as straight as a twelve-inch ruler, I’d totally be one of your groupies.” She frowns thoughtfully, rakes a hand through her frizzy brown hair. “Do artists have groupies?”
But her question hangs unanswered: Terry’s voice interrupts the music to announce that the unveiling of the featured artist’s work is—Ash draws in a breath beside me—“imminent.” The crowd gathers around us and Ash’s nine-painting exhibit, wineglasses in hand, waiting with wide eyes and eager smiles for the moment of revelation.
I feel Ash subtly tense, and her face blanches white, so I squeeze her arm, bump gently against her hip. “You’re going to bring them to their knees,” I tell her softly, and plant a kiss on her cool, pale cheek.
She relaxes a little and gives me a wavery smile. “Worst-case scenario? They hate my paintings so much that they splash alcohol on them, burn them, and set the whole museum on fire.” She glances up at the rafters, slanting me an I’m-only-half-kidding expression. “What kind of sprinkler setup do you have in these ceilings?”
I kiss her again—on the mouth this time, ignoring the sharp inhalations of several onlookers standing nearby. “You’re my favorite artist, Ash. And I know a thing or two about art… They’ll love you; they’ll worship at the altar of your talent. Trust me.”
“I trust you, Molly.” She gazes at me deeply, her grey eyes soft and shining. “I trust you… I love you.”
“I love you, too. Now go denude those paintings. Your public awaits.” I give her tie one last tug before she exhales, nods her head, and begins to detach the cotton drapes from her hanging canvases.
Without exception, every one of Ash’s paintings provokes a collective gasp from the crowd. And from me. I’ve seen them all before, but here, displayed properly, beneath the lights and upon the smooth white walls, her colors breathe; I feel each brushstroke as deeply, as intimately as I feel the strokes of Ash’s steady hands upon my body when we make love. I gaze, flushed, at the art, and then the artist… She’s staring at me, smiling at me—and then, hand over her heart, she slowly unveils the final painting of her exhibit.
It’s my portrait, the one that I posed for on that long-ago, unforgettable night, and at sight of it, the crowd oohs and ahhs and finally applauds, crushing against one another to form a line to shake Ash’s skillful (if only they knew how skillful…) hand.
And I stand still as the people stream around me; I stand looking into my own eyes—seeing myself as Ash sees me: lush and green-eyed, lithe as a wildflower with its face turned, lovingly, toward its sun.
“Not bad, but your boobs are bigger than that, a whole cup size bigger, at least.”
My blood runs cold.
No…
I don’t want to turn around, don’t want to remove my gaze from my painting, from my painter, but there’s no escaping it—just as, apparently, there’s no escaping her.
Juliette.
She looks different…realer, somehow. Her blonde hair has grown out a little, its ends grazing against her neck, and she’s dressed in a simple—and shockingly conservative—pinstripe grey dress with shiny black high heels.
And she’s not alone. I fail to recognize Norine at first; she looks so normal, so…unfeathered. But then I shake my head and feel a smile faltering on my lips. “Um…Juliette, Norine. Hi?” I adjust my dress uncomfortably, trying to make it a bit less…less, but in the end, all I can do is cross my arms awkwardly at my waist and try not to look so shaken.
What should I do? How should I feel?
Has Juliette come to ruin Ash’s debut? Should I ask her to leave? Should I be upset, angry, unruffled and indifferent?
“It’s all right, Molly. I’m not going to make a scene.” Juliette’s too-blue gaze sweeps over my length, lingering for far too long on my overexposed cleavage, before rising, finally, to meet my anxious eyes. “One of Norine’s friends has an exhibit here.” She points toward the far right corner and the installation of the guy who threatened to walk off if we didn’t meet his illumination demands. “And she asked me to be her date.”
“Hey, Jules, I’ll just…go talk to Kyle for a while, okay?” Norine says meaningfully, squeezing Juliette’s hand before weaving through the crowd, aiming for her friend’s display.
And, quite purposefully, leaving us alone.
I glance over my shoulder, my eyes searching for Ash, but she’s surrounded; I can scarcely see the t
op of her head. My heart fills with joy for her; she must feel so exhilarated over the success of her paintings…but I can’t experience that joy fully; I’m too nervous, and my stomach feels weighted with dread.
“Molly, relax. You’ve got that something-terrible-is-going-to-happen look on your face, and I promise, it’s not. At least, not on account of me.” Juliette reaches forward to push the hair back from my eyes, but I flinch reflexively, and she draws her hand back, her mouth a small, sad—albeit vampire red—line. “I hurt you that much, did I?” she asks in a quiet tone, staring down at her feet, or the floor. “I know I did. I know…I was a horror. It probably doesn’t mean much to you now, but I’m sorry, Molly. I mean, truly sorry.”
I draw in a deep, painful breath; my chest feels tight, my muscles sore with tension. Be fierce. I glance around for Pauline, spotting her and Brad ordering drinks at the bar—which is probably for the best. If Pauline runs into Juliette…
Actually, that’s an if I don’t have the strength to consider.
I bite my lip, straighten my shoulders, and, heart hammering, peer hard into Juliette’s eyes… And I feel, again, as if I’m looking at a stranger—though this time, it’s because she looks so unlike herself: softer, and earnest. Genuinely remorseful.
“Honestly, I don’t know what got into me. I’d like to blame it on food poisoning, or mind control, or simple, homegrown insanity, but we’d both know I was just lying again, so…” She offers me a small shrug, mouth slanting up. “I was a desperate woman. I knew I was losing you—had already lost you. And I had no one but myself to blame. So I lashed out. I hurt you, and Ash. And myself. I spoiled all of the good memories we shared. I even let the cat outside, to get you to come home, to pay attention to me…” She rolls her large, achingly blue eyes to the rafters and swallows hard, as if she’s fighting back tears.
“Juliette—”
“No, you… You don’t have to say anything. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, or even your pity. Molly, I just want you to know… I really did love you. And I wish you—and Ash—nothing but the best life has to offer. I mean that.”
Drawn to You Page 22
