But beauty on the surface like that, beauty that’s obvious, that’s the way things always are, aren’t they? You see it and that’s it. There’s nothing to mine from it. Nothing more to get. You, on the other hand. . .” He couldn’t stop himself from caressing her figure with his eyes. She did not have a womanly shape but her limbs were long, she was covered in freckles and those nipples. Still hard. He hoped they were long.
“Are so much more than you think. More than you and I can comprehend, to tell you the truth.”
“You don’t know what you’re seeing.” Lucy sounded helpless. “You’ve imagined me a certain way.” She choked. She was remembering the nude sketch. “I’m not. . you haven’t. . .you don’t know me, Desmond. You have these expectations and I don’t want. . .I can’t disappoint you.”
“How can you think that?”
“You-you haven’t really seen me, Desmond.” Lucy’s chin was wobbling again. “And-And I think before I agree, there must be something you should know first. I can’t. . I don’t want lies, Desmond. I want the truth. I want you to see me as I am and paint me as I really am. You have to see me.”
“I am seeing you.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She sounded morose.
“Lucy-“ he moved to stand but she stopped him by holding up a shaky hand.
“Please, Desmond,” she whispered. “Let me. . .I have. . .” Then her eyes glittered and there was a determined set to her jaw. “I have to do this.”
She took a deep breath then reached for the bottom of her tank. Desmond’s eyes got big as she pulled it off, flinging the threadbare garment to the floor before she straightened up and looked at him. He was right. Soft, gentle swells rising from her broad chest, splashed heavily with freckles. His breath sped up when he discovered that her aureoles were pink and huge, nearly taking the circumference of her meager breasts. Her nipples were plump and hung long.
He swallowed. He wanted one of those nipples in his mouth.
Her waist was straight, with a flat stomach. If not for the softness of her eyes, even when they were laced with defiance and challenge, or the shy rises of her breasts from her chest, Desmond would think her a man. He watched her undo the laces of her drawstring shorts before shimmying them down her wide hips and trunk-like thighs, down to her long legs.
Then she straightened up again, this time fully nude. Desmond’s eyes were quick to fall on her bush. It was thick with springy curls, a mix of pale and dirty-blonde. His cock pushed against his pants, wanting inside. Lucy was hairy, much hairier than all the other women but damn.
He must capture her on canvas. He must.
Lucy was blushing violently, as if red paint had been spilled on her. She was embarrassed and afraid but it was clear she was ready to see this through.
“You have to see,” she said, stubbornly, defiantly. She met his eyes. “Don’t you make fun of me, Desmond Gorman.”
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