his voice, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. The effects of the absinthe put her into a state similar to that of s’évanouir, losing consciousness during sex.
He dampened a clean, white, preprimed linen canvas and made a quick, deft pencil sketch of the redhead reclining nude on the couch. He could see in his mind her red hair scorching the canvas like brilliant fire, the pink of her nude flesh layered in rich, wayward strokes, her skin as luminous as a winter moon.
He wet his lips, then with the saliva on his tongue, licked the bristles of his sable brush until he formed a perfect point. He dipped the reed into the green-and red-orange mixture of oil paint and applied a flat plane of flesh tones to the cardboard canvas on the easel, filling in the empty spaces in his drawing and blinking several times to clear his blurring vision. He was near exhaustion, having not slept for two days. Or was it three? He didn’t know.
He marveled as the color from his brush was partially absorbed into the linen, giving the painting a curious fluidity and an effect of movement that came alive on the canvas. He could almost feel her breath on his face as he painted her. He must have more absinthe to continue his work. He swallowed liqueur from his flask, its wormwood flavor lingering on his tongue and dulling his appetite. He was feeding off his creative frenzy, a frenzy that forced him to put aside everything else but his need to paint this beautiful girl.
He dipped his brush into the pale ivory, blues and greens on his palette, oblivious to the strong scent of oil and turpentine that prevailed in his studio. His nostrils stung with a different scent. The smell of the girl. It was a sharp sexual odor, blending with the mixture of her perfume and sweet body smells. He sniffed the air, the headiness of her aroma overwhelming him.
He painted for what seemed like hours, never giving a thought to anything but the joyous parade of color taking shape on his canvas. Pink dawn, crushed yellow buttercups, the flyaway feathers of a bluebird. Listening to the dictates of his mind, his fingers had a will of their own. His brush fluttered impulsively but unerringly, finding a harmony of color that vibrated with energy.
He watched the girl, still in a deep sleep, stretch her arms upward, easing the tightly knotted tension in her shoulders. Her playfulness gave way to a moody restlessness as she struggled against the silken bonds restraining her, though not hurting her. He smiled, undaunted by the redhead’s show of defiance.
He gazed at the girl who called herself Autumn Maguire, her eyes closed, her long lashes resting against her cheeks like sooty smudges. Unaware of his personal torment, she twisted her body like a lazy caterpillar reveling in a floral paradise, pulling on her restraints, parting her legs to reveal the curly red hairs around her pussy, and arousing him. A light sweat sparkled on her nude body like the glitter of a perfect diamond emanating its own light, her mouth open, her wet tongue licking her lips.
He breathed in deeply. That’s what was missing in his work. He must capture that erotic expression on her face. He put aside his sketch, deciding to use her body as his living canvas. He took a dry brush with very soft bristles and painted her breasts with dribbles of her sweat, then down to her rib cage, over her flat belly and lingering in the soft thatch of her jouet, her toy. She took a deep breath as she spread her legs and a sweet, satisfied smile lighted up her face. Her mood was light, carefree as Paul continued painting bubbly beads of perspiration all over her smooth, nude breasts.
When she was fully aroused, he put his fingers into her pussy and wiggled them inside her until he felt her languette, clitoris, become hard and pulsating. His fingers pressed deep inside her, exploring the moistening contours with tender strokes. Although her voice was barely above a whimper, in the heat of the moment it was raw and husky.
“Oh…ooohhh…” she moaned, a look of ecstatic torment on her face. She squeezed her closed eyes tighter as a slow, warm pleasure filled her. Did she ejaculate? No, she couldn’t have, not yet. He wasn’t ready. He put his hand between her legs. Wetness stained the silk. Droplets. Not nearly enough.
Exhausted, he rested his head in his hands, but his body didn’t relax. His pupils were dilated, his breathing heavy. A cordon of muscle bulged out at the side of his neck and his passion steeped upward in a heightening spiral of anticipation. His painting was not done, though he felt godlike, all powerful, fueled by a terrifying but irresistible need to create. To do so, he must capture her fluids. But how?
The redhead was stirring. Bon. He ran his hand over her breasts, and was rewarded by a faint ripple spreading out from under his fingertips. Yes, that was it. He would pleasure her, every nerve ending in her body in tune to his touch.
He bent down and pressed a kiss to her peach-soft lips, his tongue pushing inside, then lingering on the hard bud of her clit. She responded with a guttural moan low in the back of her throat and grind of her hips. Yes. He would make her juices flow and flow until her whole body pulsated for want of his cock—
—and then he would take her again. And again. Every hour. Until his masterpiece was finished.
I awake into a reality that pushes the absurdity of my situation back into my mind, back into my body. In other words, I have a hangover. Dry mouth, achy eyes and the worst headache. Slowly I become aware of the hardness of the couch pressing uncomfortably against my back, the staleness of the air, an unpleasant taste in my mouth. An overpowering hunger makes my stomach hurt, as if I haven’t eaten in days. If this is 1889, it’s been a long time since I scarfed down those pommes frites at the flea market.
Not so fast.
It’s drafty in here.
I dare to peek down at—
—my belly button? I’m an inny, but whose flat stomach is that along with the tuft of red hair between my legs staring back at me?
Ohmigod, I’m naked.
Naked?
I’m simultaneously shocked and turned on. This is the second time I meet an artist and I end up nude. What gives? The last thing I remember was standing on the Pont Neuf looking out over the Seine and taking a drink of a pungent liqueur from a flask. Absinthe.
I vaguely remember taking the drink, then falling into a deep sleep, though I was conscious of Paul Borquet carrying me into what I suppose was a carriage and holding me close to him as we bumped over the cobblestone streets. I remember curling into that special space against his shoulder, his arm around me, my cheek leaning against his broad chest and listening to his heartbeat. I also remember him copping a feel…and my nipples hardening. Mmm.
Talk about a welcome mirage in my romance desert.
Between glances around his small studio in Montmartre—I assume that’s where I am—I take a deep breath and lay my head back, content to stare at the ceiling until my hunky dream guy shows up.
Mirrors. Everywhere above me. In my reclining position on the divan, I can see a girl’s nude body reflected full-length in the mirrored ceiling over my head like a digital pic on a giant computer screen.
Run that picture by me again. Yeah, that chick. The Playboy centerfold staring back at me from the mirrored ceiling. Gorgeous body. Tiny, nipped-in waist, full breasts, slim hips, sexy shoulders. Who is the bunny with the bod to die for?
Can it be me?
I close my eyes, believing when I open them again the girl will disappear; if she doesn’t and the beautiful girl is me, well, this is my fantasy, isn’t it?
Avoiding making any silly wager with myself, opening one eye at a time, I stick out my tongue. So does the girl in the
