“Am I hurting you?” he asks, taking a loose piece of hair and tucking it behind my right ear.
“What? Oh, no.”
He chuckles. “You look like you’re in pain,” he explains, pulling another pin out.
“Nope. Not in pain,” I say by way of veiled explanation. I smile, attempting to keep my face impartial to his touch. He pulls the last three pins out.
“Shake your hair out,” he orders, and I do as he says, moving my head from side to side. My hair spills over my shoulders. He reaches out and pulls most of it behind me and over to my left side. He adjusts a few things, his warm thumb gracing my cheeks a couple of times, which makes me want to jump out of this chair and run out of the room. Or lean forward a few inches and kiss him… “Okay, good,” he says, standing. “Don’t move.”
“I’m frozen,” I say, a bubble of laughter escaping my lips. “Do you want me to smile, or…?” I leave my question open-ended.
“No. Just… be you. Pretend you’re watching a movie.”
“But is it a funny movie or a sad movie? My face would reflect the mood.”
He sighs, smiling. “Fine. It’s a documentary.” I scrunch my eyebrows together, and he must notice because he throws his hands up. “It’s an informative documentary. Not sad, not happy… just neutral.”
“Okay. I hope it’s not boring, because I might fall asleep.”
“Jesus, Marlin,” Sebastian says, his voice irritated. “Just… stare at the wall.” He points at the wall behind him, and I can’t help but smile a bit before nodding once. After a second, I adjust my face and look at the wall behind him, thinking of what I’ll wear tomorrow. I hope it gives my face the passive look he needs. “Thank you,” he says, pleased.
He sits down behind the easel. I can only see half of his body behind the stand, but already he begins to mix paint and pluck some white off of his palette. I try not to pay attention to the colors he’s choosing or the movements his arms make.
I go through my entire closet, organizing every shirt by color and then pants by season. I make a mental list of winter gear I need to purchase. I concoct an email to my mother, memorizing it, hoping to remember to send it when I get home.
It feels like hours have passed, but when I look up at the clock above the door, only twenty minutes have passed. I have to think of something else. My mind starts to wander to the house Sebastian and I were renovating in my dream. I miss the shitty apartment we were staying in. I miss the look Sebastian gave me when the ultrasound technician pointed out the blob that would become our baby. I miss the way he looked at me just before making love to me…
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian’s voice rouses me from my memories—the memories that weren’t real. This is real. His illness is real. The long and arduous road he’s about to embark on is real. The choice he will make tomorrow is real.
“I… nothing.” I resume my “being painted” face. He sets the brush down and walks over to me, but I don’t look up at him. I see him cross his arms out of the corner of my eye.
“You had a look on your face.”
“A look?” I ask innocently, maintaining eye contact on the bare spot on the wall.
“Yes. A look. Pained. Sad.” He crouches down. “Why?”
Every cell in my body is screaming tell him! It’s on the edge of my tongue, dangling for me to bite and tell him everything.
But I can’t. Not yet. I’ll know when the time is right, and now is not the right time. He might need a place to run to after I tell him, depending on how freaked out he becomes, and he’s stuck here until tomorrow.
“Can I see the painting so far?” I ask, standing and giving him a fake smile. He doesn’t buy it, but he allows me access to the canvas nonetheless. I feel him watching me carefully as I round the corner of the easel and stare at the image before me.
It’s beautiful—much more Impressionist than I’d have imagined. The colors on my face are blended imperfectly, thick lines of paint making up each pigment. He’s done my face and hair, but from the neck down, the canvas is bare. It’s a pretty accurate representation of my face, all in all, and my whole body fills with pride because he is really talented. He’s the real deal.
“It’s incredible,” I whisper, putting a hand behind my neck and studying the picture more closely. I spin around, and he’s so close to me now, I’m afraid he might actually make a move. “Were you…” I swallow, the lump in my throat getting in the way of finishing the sentence. Or maybe it’s the fact that I can feel him watching me, his expression inquisitive and bewildered. “Were you going to paint me in the dress?” My question sounds innocent, but we both know it’s not. The first question anyone asks himself or herself when they sit for an artist is, am I going to have to be naked? It comes with the territory.
His eyes lock onto mine, and he brings a hand up to stroke his chin. He’s deep in thought, and I feel guilty for using this opportunity to try and seduce him.
“Would you mind undressing? Your skin is just so…” He trails off, his eyes leaving my face and wandering all the way down, filling in the rest for me.
“All the way?” I whisper, my hands on my top button.
He shakes his head. “No. Keep your bra and underwear on.”
I blush. “I, um… I’m not wearing a bra.” I look up at him, and he’s watching me with bemusement.
“Huh. Well, I have an idea. Bra or not.” His smirk tells me everything, and when he walks over to his dresser, I see him sneak a furtive look at my chest. He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a clean white button-up. “Wear this. Underwear only. Unbuttoned, but covered up.”
Before I can say or do anything, he walks over to me and begins to unbutton my dress. Unfortunately, the dress comprises a million buttons, and as his fingers make their way down, I begin to shake again from anticipation.
Sebastian is about to see my boobs.
“I… uhh…” I mumble, and his head snaps up.
“Sorry, this is okay, right?”
I can’t even form words right now. “Mmmhmm.” I nod to show my approval. He continues down, and the dress stays put. He crouches down, finishing up the last of the buttons, and then he stands again. Reaching out, he slowly unties my belt, and the motion pulls me into him ever so slightly. I place my hands on his chest, and he brings his face up to mine.
Now would be a great time to kiss him. I’m practically half-naked, the room is dark, and if his hooded eyes say anything, he wants this just as much as I do.
“I’ll turn around now,” he whispers, the reluctance rolling off of every syllable.
“It’s just art,” I say boldly, shrugging my dress off and baring all. His eyes go wide, and to his credit, he doesn’t look down—he keeps his eyes on mine. “And they’re just breasts.” I snatch the shirt from him, looking down at my bare body in the process. I don’t feel an ounce of embarrassment. I’m totally comfortable here, topless, standing in front of him.
I kick my sandals and dress to the side, wrapping the large shirt around me. He can probably see my ass, too—these undies aren’t quite a thong, but the lacy red material doesn’t exactly cover the whole area. As I walk over to the chair, Sebastian doesn’t try to hide his prying eyes. They scan my body quickly, desire overtaking his expression, and he clears his throat before resuming his position behind the easel.
“Same position, or…?” I think I see him blush ever so slightly.
“Yes. But can you move a little closer? I need to fill in some details.”
I nod and scoot the chair closer. This time, I’m right in front of him, and I can see his face fully. I sit down and cross my legs, and I adjust the shirt so that it covers most of everything, but still reveals my cleavage and the flesh above my underwear—It’s artfully ruffled.
“Let me just fix your hair,” he says, leaning over and running his fingers through the strands. He tucks a section behind my right ear, and when his finger grazes my chin, I jump, which leads to a wardrobe malfunction of sorts. The
top part of the shirt opens, revealing my breasts, and his eyes automatically dip down and immediately back up to me, flustered. He pulls back and clears his throat again. “Right. Good. Now please resume your neutral position.”
“Yes, sir.” My answer gets me an entertained smile, and then he begins to paint.
Except this time, his eyes peruse and examine me much more than the canvas. At first, I figure it’s because he’s memorizing certain aspects, or maybe before I just couldn’t see the way his eyes rolled slowly across my face, my neck, my collarbone…
“Can you look at me?” he asks, his voice strained. “I’m having a hard time with the eyes.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I look from the wall to his face, and when I lock eyes with him, he licks his lips and gives me the same look of bewildered desire as before—like he can’t concentrate.
He’s the first to break eye contact, returning to the canvas, scratching something out. It repeats like this for a few minutes—lustful look, licks lips, clears throat, paints, and back around again. His body is jerky, his movements awkward.
“You seem uncomfortable,” I say, my voice light and amused.
“I think that’s enough for tonight.” He sets his brush down and places his hands on the desk without looking at me.
“Can I see it?” I stand and crane my neck around without waiting for a reply. The result makes me gasp. “It’s… incredible…” He captured the lazy position of my body perfectly. And he’s right—the shirt makes it feel undone but beautiful and classy at the same time. The paint stops at my wrists and ankles. He’ll have to finish my hands and feet another day. “You should show your stuff somewhere. I’m not just saying this because I like you, but you have raw talent, and you need to be doing this for a living.”
He watches me from his seat, his eyes soft, defenseless. In fact, I can tell the praise hit him hard, because his whole demeanor feels unguarded. Fearlessly, I take a step closer to him and place a hand on his shoulder. He keeps his eyes on mine, and in one second, everything shifts.
Here I am, standing before him, barely covered up. He just painted me half-naked, and he seems to be holding himself back.
Until now.
His eyes narrow as he raises a hand, placing it on my bare stomach. He silently asks for permission, and I silently convey my answer by squeezing his shoulder. He slides his warm hand across my bare skin, which ignites everything inside of me but also shifts the shirt so that one side hangs off of my shoulder. I complete the movement by shaking the shirt off entirely.
In the same breath, he pulls my midsection to his lips, kissing the area around my belly button gently from his seated position, and I let out a sharp gasp.
“I’m like an animal around you,” he growls, trailing his lips to my hipbone. “You drive me crazy, but I fucking love it.”
I whimper, taking both of my hands and gripping his hair. When he stands, I know why he had to stay seated.
“Give me some slack here,” he laughs, putting his face in his hands. “I just had to paint the sexiest woman alive, who, by the way, was very scantily clad.”
“Sexiest woman alive?” I cock my head. “Oh, really?”
“God, yes,” he breathes, and in one swift motion, he pushes me up against the wall behind us and crushes his lips against mine.
In a matter of one second, I come undone. I moan into his mouth, knowing this exact moment is what I’ve been waiting for—what I need, physically, emotionally… it feels so right. His lips and tongue are familiar, and I’m delighted to find that I know how to kiss him, and fortunately for me, what he likes. I nibble on his lower lip, and his body slackens as he groans.
“You… are… so…” he says, the words going straight from his tongue to mine.
I reach up and lift his shirt off, and with some help from him, he’s shirtless in 0.2 seconds. He bends down and kisses me again, and the feeling of our bare skin together is both sensual and heartening—our bodies were made for each other. Every movement he makes, I mirror, and vice versa. We’re two machines run by the same power source, humming in sync.
As his tongue explores my mouth, his hands reach down and cup my ass, lifting me up and pushing me against the wall all at the same time. I gasp as his fingers slide underneath the fabric of my underwear, moving it to the side, and he inserts two fingers slowly. I cry out, my body already convulsing, and he rams me with his palm, quickening the pace.
“Tell me, have you always been this wet for me, or is this a recent development?” he whispers into my ear.
“Always,” I utter, my lips trembling with everything unspoken.
“Good.” He continues his pace, bringing me to climax soon after. Waves of pleasure roll off of my body, and I collapse against him, breathing heavily into his neck.
“Will you tell me number seven?” I whisper, biting his ear lobe.
He pulls away, and his brown eyes probe my face. “Do you really want to know?”
I nod. “Yes. If it was so important that you couldn’t write it down, I really want to know,” I answer, echoing his words.
He sighs. “I wanted to fall in love.”
His words stun me, and I ask my next question with bated breath. “And?”
He physically crumbles, lowering me to the ground. He looks down, resting his forehead against mine, and he takes my hands, lacing his fingers with mine slowly. His breath is quick and ragged.
“Accomplished.” He slowly raises his head as the blood drains from my face. “Every single fucking thing on the bucket-list shit was accomplished, thanks to you.” He kisses me lightly on the lips and unbuckles his trousers. I’m stunned into submission.
He loves me?
He pulls away from my lips to concentrate on the buckle. Precipitously, everything comes into focus.
Where I am.
Who I’m with.
What we’re doing.
The fact that he just told me he loved me.
I am taking advantage of a mentally ill patient. I am supposed to be upholding my volunteering contract, yet here I am seducing, flirting, and fucking a patient. I know it’s Sebastian, but this is wrong. I’m sure we’re breaching a contract here. I’m breaching a contract here.
“Sebastian,” I whisper, fighting a battle between my body and my brain. “I can’t.”
Immediately, he stiffens and pulls away. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.
“Is it because I said I was in love with you?” he asks, his voice hard.
I shake my head. “No. I mean… yes. Kind of. I don’t know.” I’m mumbling.
“Are you kidding me?” His eyes narrow, and he studies me scrupulously.
“It’s just… things are moving a little fast, and—”
“AND?” he yells, making me jump.
“I think we should be taking this slow.” I look down.
“Can you fucking blame me for falling in love with you, Marlin?” I bend down and grab my dress, throwing it on quickly before things get out of control again. He continues. “You wore me down from day one, doing all these nice things for me, leading me on… did I misinterpret your feelings?”
“No,” I say, my voice strained. I begin to button my dress—why are there so many freaking buttons? —And when I finish, I put my hands on my hips and look him square in the eye. “You didn’t misinterpret anything. I just think that maybe we should start something when you’re not a patient at the facility where I volunteer. It feels wrong. I don’t want to rush into anything, especially when you’re so vulnerable.”
He runs his hand across his lips, nodding quickly. His nostrils are flared, and his jaw muscles are flexing.
“Fine. Yeah. I get it.” He walks over to his shirt and slips it on. “You should go.”
I watch him carefully, plucking my shoes and purse from the ground. When I have all of my things, I walk over to him.
“I’ll be back in the morning. We can talk about this then.” I reach out for his hand, but
he pulls it away. I sigh. He’s clearly embarrassed and hurt. That fact tears my heart to pieces. Knowing I’m causing the pain written across his face slays me, but it really is for the best right now. The circumstances are less then ideal, but that doesn’t mean our feelings aren’t real. As a responsible adult, I just know that they should not be acted upon in this moment.
“I did all of this because I care about you, Sebastian.” He doesn’t answer me. He just looks at a spot on the wall behind me, clicking his jaw. I can tell I won’t get through to him tonight. He needs to sleep on it, and though my body wants to stay and my heart belongs to him, I need a clear head for tomorrow. We can make a plan tomorrow. “Goodnight.”
I slip out of the door with both hope and fear for the future. Hope, because what just happened in there was incredible and, if timed right, could turn into something great. But also fear, because I know he’s leaving tomorrow, I know I just hurt him, and I don’t know what the future holds.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
PRESENT
I don’t expect to sleep very much that night, and to no one’s surprise, I toss and turn until the sun rises. My eyes are dry and bloodshot; my face has seen better days. I get ready slowly, playing out what I’m going to say to Sebastian in my head, over and over until I have it memorized.
I love you, too, but I think we should wait a few months until you get your feet on the ground.
We should stay friends for a while.
We should start slow, maybe go on a few dates.
This doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. It just means I cherish what we have so much; I want everything to be perfect.
It sounds stupid, but he has to know that we have hope. That’s my ultimate goal—to show him what we could have down the road when he gets better.
Also, I have to tell him about my dream. He has a right to know, and I think he’ll understand where I’m coming from if he knows.
I throw on an oversized black sweater and boyfriend jeans, and I don’t even bother doing my hair. I pull it up into a loose bun, and without adding any makeup, I grab my purse and leave. It’s barely eight in the morning, but the sooner we talk, the better.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 19
