My gaze follows leaves floating down from almost-naked branches, before being picked up by the breeze. I watch as they turn somersaults across the lawn, dancing their way into the flower borders where they stop and lie still. It’s a dark day, so I turn on the small lamp at my side. Straightening the skirt of my dress, I glance down at my watch. It’s 5:30 p.m.; surely he won’t be much longer? As if he hears my thoughts, within minutes the back gate flies open and he walks up the path towards me. He lowers the handle of the conservatory door and steps inside, then stands and glares at me.
He frowns. “What the fuck?” he says, holding the post-it note up in his hand. “And what the fuck?” he repeats as his eyes wander over me.
I can see his lips twitching and I’m sure he’s close to a smile, but I guess the shock of seeing me dressed up makes him hold it back.
The soles of Gabriel’s shoes squeak as he scuffs them on the floor tiles.
“Nice try, Natasha, and I’m not trying to hurt your feelings…” He shakes his head. “I’m just not in the mood.”
“Mr. Owens, I’ve come here for you to paint my portrait.”
His eyebrows rise and his eyes take a slow detour towards the easel and the paper that rests on it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Mr. Owens…” I tap my finger on the face of my wristwatch. “I hope it’s not a habit to keep your clients waiting.”
“Natasha…”
I raise my finger. “Please don’t spoil the moment, I’ve gone to a lot of trouble. Darcy’s taken the girls home with her for the night. So stop messing around and draw or paint me, whichever you prefer.”
Rolling his eyes, he edges past my chair, pulls a small stool away from the window and sits down, staring at the easel and blank piece of paper. I shuffle towards the edge of the cushion, cross my left leg over my right, then throw my hair back over my shoulder and lift my chin.
Did he just laugh at me? I raise my eyes, catching my reflection in one of the tall window panes. Good try, Tash, but some people just aren’t meant to do sexy and unfortunately for me, I’m one of those people. I’m waiting for him to reach towards the coffee table and pick up one of his pencils or brushes, but he doesn’t move or speak.
I blow out, drop my shoulders and sit back, but still he makes no attempt to draw me, so I uncross my legs and get to my feet.
“It was a stupid idea, I’m sorry for wasting your time. If you don’t feel like painting me, then why not do Julia a favour and finish her daughter’s portrait?”
Gabriel pushes his stool away from the easel, picks up a bottle of black acrylic paint from the coffee table and begins tossing it back and forth between his hands.
“Natasha,” he utters, looking up at me under his eyes, “it’s not by choice that I haven’t finished Lucy’s painting.” He inhales, sucking on his lips.
I sink back onto the chair and shrug.
“So, why not finish what you started?”
He lowers the bottle of paint onto the tiled floor between his feet and hangs his head.
“I don’t know how to put this, I really don’t.”
I’m staring at the top of his head, watching his fingers push their way through his hair.
“I’m not…” There’s a break in his voice. “I’m just not feeling it.” He throws his head back, puffing out a long breath. “It’s great, it really is, to be faced with the realisation that I’m an artist who can no longer paint.”
“You, not paint? But your paintings, all of your artwork, it’s amazing.”
“Was,” he says.
He ambles awkwardly towards the conservatory door, where he leans back against the glass and rests his head on his arms.
“There’s no other way I can describe it, and I’m really not sure what’s caused this to happen.” He turns his head and looks at me. “Whether it’s the stress of the twins, Adrianna or maybe us. But what I had before, it just came so naturally. When I held a brush or a pencil between my fingers, I could envision pictures coming to life before my eyes.” He stretches his hands in front of his face. “But it was just pictures in my mind, and I could feel so much more. Art was my, no, our future. But the talent I had, well, I’m afraid it’s gone.”
Gabriel’s words play over and over in my head.
“Paint me,” I blurt out without thinking.
He half turns and then sits on the window sill, his forehead a mass of creases.
“Didn’t you listen? Didn’t you hear anything I had to say?”
I nod and smile. “Yes, I heard you, every word, and that’s why I want you to paint me, but not as I am.”
I glance all the way down my little black dress, stopping at my thigh at the hemline.
“I want you to paint me naked.”
From his wide-eyed expression, I’m sure he’s beginning to think I’m a little crazy. I leave Gabriel alone with his thoughts as I leave the conservatory to get us drinks. I walk back through from the dining room and he’s now sitting in the wicker chair. I look across and smile, but he avoids my eyes. I place the tray with a jug of iced water and two glasses onto the chair I’d been sitting on and spin round to face him. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance. Lowering the thin black straps over my shoulders, I shimmy my dress to my thighs and continue to slide it below my knees, letting it drop to the floor. Lifting one foot at a time, I step out.
He shakes his head. “I’ve already told you, I’m not in the mood. Natasha, please put your clothes back on.”
Twizzling a lock of my hair, I take a step towards him.
“Are you really sure that’s what you want?”
He nods.
“Then why are you blushing?” I smile.
I lift one leg at a time and step out of my black lace panties.
“Natasha, get dressed,” he repeats.
Leaving a trail of clothes, I step a little closer, close enough to allow my thighs to rest against his knees. I feel him tense, and as I gaze towards his face he closes his eyes. I turn, lean down and grab my dress from the floor, and then, opening my legs, I straddle his lap. As he opens his mouth to speak, I place my fingers against his lips to silence him.
“Gabriel…” My warm breath rushes against the side of his face. “You will paint me tonight, the way you used to; your fingers will run over my face.” I lift his hand out of his lap and place it over my breast. “And each curve of my body,” I whisper, stroking my hand over his.
I press my knees into his waist, resting my lips against his neck. He says he doesn’t want me, yet what trembles and hardens beneath me suggests otherwise. Holding onto my dress and pulling it taut, I lift it up over Gabriel’s eyes.
“No, Natasha, get off.”
His head jerks back and my dress slips from his eyes to rest over his cheeks. Partially opening one eye, he squints at me.
I smile. “Please, Gabriel, trust me.”
“Trust you? Why should I?” he murmurs.
I shrug, fluttering my lashes. “Because you love me.”
His fingers circle and tighten around my wrists, and though ungainly, between the two of us we manage to tie a strange kind of knot in the material of my dress, which we leave to lie around the back of his head. With Gabriel blindfolded and agreeable, I slip off his lap, and with his hand in mine, we walk over towards his easel.
“Remember the paints, the way you used to feel their different textures between your fingers. You prepared so well for the day you lost your sight, but the one thing you never stopped to do was prepare for the day you regained it. So, come on, Mr. Owens, what are you waiting for?”
He unscrews lids and squeezes different coloured paints between his fingers. Wiping his hand down his shirt, he opts for a pencil.
“Do you need to touch me?”
“Need, no, because I can see every inch of you, but want, well … yes. But then, when wouldn’t I want to touch you?”
My heart beats just that little bit faster as I heat up inside. My eyes follow his every movement as he feels the sharp edge of his pencil and then runs his left hand down the length of the paper. My gaze drops to his feet as he steps away from the easel.
“It’s no good, Natasha, I can’t do this,” he says, shaking his head.
“Gabriel, don’t move,” I shout over my shoulder as I run back into the house and thrust open the door leading into the pantry.
The light is almost non-existent, but I know where everything is, so I search and grab a sheet of Gabriel’s special raised paper. Not wanting to leave him for long, I rush back into the conservatory and carefully place the sheet on the easel. I stand slightly to the left, making sure I’m close enough so that he can hear each one of my breaths.
“Gabriel,” I whisper, “I’m waiting.”
He adjusts his makeshift blindfold around his eyes and moves his stool into the position he wants, then sits twisting the pencil between his fingers.
“I can see you far better now.”
He lifts his arm from his side and reaches towards the white sheet of paper. I follow his hand with my eyes and see the sharp grey point as it makes contact. His shoulders, his whole body, seem to relax as soft strokes of lead and shaded pencil lines begin to add life to something that only seconds before was bland and empty.
“Look, Natasha,” Gabriel prompts. “Tell me what you see.”
I edge a little nearer to the easel. The fingers of his one hand are manoeuvring across the raised paper, while his right is already creating the contours of my face. I inhale as I stand in awe. Abstract, yet at the same time it’s so me. I watch the strokes of his pencil create the lids and lashes of my eyes, the shape and depth of my nose. I tilt my head, allowing the side of my face to slide into the nape of his neck.
“You see,” I murmur, “you never lost your talent by regaining your sight, you just forgot how to use it.”
“I can see your face clearly with my eyes closed. As for your body,” he says, shading the curve of my neck, “I may need to familiarise myself with that, you know, feel my way around.” His lips curl into a smile. “That’s if you’re okay with it of course?”
I step back and nod, then roll my eyes, remembering he can’t see. He holds his hand for me to take and, as our fingers touch, he pulls me close, so close that my legs are resting between his thighs. In the next moment I’m wrapped in a strong pair of arms. The warm tips of his fingers weave an uneven trail from the small dimples at the base of my back and work their way up until they reach my shoulder blades. Short breaths slip between my lips as the distance between his fingers widen, and a strange sensation shoots up my spine. I let my lids lower and relax as firm massaging strokes work their way very slowly into my neck. I lean slightly so my forehead comes to rest against his.
“Gabriel,” I whisper as I reach down, gripping onto his black cotton shirt and beginning to work it out of his trousers. “I think you may be a little over-dressed.”
“Maybe I can do something about that,” he murmurs back.
I feel his hands move between my breasts and the flick of his fingers as one by one he undoes each button. Gabriel wriggles his shoulders and with my help we pull the soft material down his arms. When we reach his wrists we struggle, but we get there. Digging his nails into the cheeks of my arse, he pulls me down onto his crotch.
“Ah, ah…” I wag my finger. “You’ll have your fun later, you’ve got to paint me first.” I smile playfully, licking the tip of his nose.
“Fuck me, Natasha.” His warm breaths pound against the side of my face and he inches the blindfold down, freeing his eyes. “Have I really got to wait?”
I’m met by a pair of blue eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Yes, Gabriel, I’m afraid you have.”
I grab my dress, throwing him back into darkness. I glance down and smile as I feel his hips edge forward on the stool, watching his hands reach down towards the front of his jeans where they stop and reposition his penis.
“So,” I giggle, “before you fuck me, how about you paint me, bring me to life, show me what you can do with those brushes of yours?”
He smirks. “Well, before you get me too excited, you’d best get off and stay far enough away that I can’t touch you.”
Holding my hand over his, I rest his palm between my cleavage. “So where would you have me go?” I ask, while very slowly working his palm down to my waist and a little beyond.
He snatches his hand away. “Natasha, piss off, go and sit on the wicker chair.”
He gives me a playful push and closes his legs.
There’s something almost captivating as I recline and watch him on the small stool facing away from me, my eyes, much like a pencil tracing his physique, following each of his masculine lines. He dips his small brush from one bottle of paint to the next, just a slight touch of the bristles, and then circles each individual colour between his thumb and his fingers, telling me about needing to perfect my skin tone. I hardly dare blink. It’s fascinating watching how he creates such beauty purely by touch alone. Lifting my phone, I press it to camera and then click on record; there are just some things in life too precious to leave to memory, and Gabriel adding colour to my pencil-sketched outline is one of them. I can’t help but think of the sarcastic comments Julia made on Facebook about my man not being able to paint. I smile to myself. I’ll show her; I’ll stream Gabriel painting live to Facebook and comment that ‘my man can paint blindfolded’.
“Natasha.”
I jump, turning off Facebook, and drop my phone on the chair at my side.
He leans his head slightly to the left. “Come here, will you? I can’t quite…” He pauses. “I can’t quite perfect your waistline.”
I get up and take small silent steps across the floor tiles. Tilting my head, I gaze over Gabriel’s shoulder at myself, a drawing on paper. My eyes widen at their colour, and the rich blonde shades he’s created in my hair. I lower my gaze to my breasts and gasp, caught off balance as he turns and grabs my arm. Bringing my hand up over his head, he walks me round so that I’m standing at his side; then, pulling on my fingers, he manoeuvres me past his knee. The stool squeaks as he inches himself back on the seat, and holding onto my arms he sits me down, positioning me between his legs.
“I want to touch you, but not just your waist so that I can finish your painting. I want … no, I don’t want, I’m going to touch you all over. My fingers, they’re going to explore every inch of your beautiful body.” His breathy words trickle into my ear as he nudges my head aside and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Did you hear me, Natasha?” he whispers, blowing stray strands of hair across my face. “I want you to feel the way I feel.”
His hands wander down my arms as his moist lips suck their way up and down my naked shoulders.
“Now, Natasha, close your eyes.”
I do as he asks, taking a step into Gabriel’s dark world. I squint, peeking out between my eyelids. A shiver passes through me, as sticky, cold pastel lemon and cornflower blue trickle together, forming a dappled stream of paint running between my fingers. I lift and turn my hands, allowing the colourful liquid to run slightly faster. As it reaches my elbow, multi-coloured droplets pool into my lap and my neck creases at the feel of Gabriel’s lips, so soft, like the fluttering of wings across my shoulders. He reaches past me, smearing swirls of paint over my thighs.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, “my beautiful painted lady. How about you turn around and face me?” He reaches up and lifts my chin.
“How about you remove the blindfold?” I reply.
Reaching down, I manoeuvre his hands in far larger swirls, adding a pretty green hue to my waist. His arms lift and his head jolts as he grabs for the knot of material at the back of his head. With a sharp jerk, he rips it off and drops it to the floor. I lean back against his open mouth, feeling his teeth graze the nape of my neck.
“Natasha…” My name leaves his lips and hangs in the air as he takes my hips between his hands and squeezes. “Now turn around so I can really see you.”
Sliding his hands from my hips, he slips them beneath my arse and lifts me. Grabbing my knees, I swivel myself around. I guess I look awkward, ungainly even, but I end up where I want to be, straddling Gabriel’s lap. He moves his face so close to mine that as he takes a breath, it catches in my throat. His nose very gently nudges against mine and I glance into his eyes, but we’re so close that they become a distortion of blue. I’d almost forgotten how fucking amazing Gabriel makes me feel. My nipples pebble as he feels his way around my breasts, faded colours and abstract patterns following every touch of his fingers.
“I want you, Natasha,” he murmurs against my cheek while unzipping his jeans.
He grips around my back with one hand, and with the other manages to edge his black boxers and the thick stonewashed denim down his legs and over his feet.
“Now tell me I don’t want you,” he says with a knowing smile, and teases my fingers apart, placing my palm around his long, hard penis.
I groan as my hand takes up a constant rhythm and his fingers slip inside my damp folds. He pokes his tongue between his lips, a patchwork of green paint, and my eyes widen as it looks odd. I can’t help giggling.
“That’s what you get for sucking my tits.”
I pull and twist his hair between my fingers.
“I’m going to suck more than your tits,” he groans, resting his forehead between my breasts.
“I want you, Gabriel,” I shout out, tensing my thighs against the magic he’s working below.
“I want you,” comes back in breathy groans against the side of my face.
His circling fingers slow, then slip away from my small aroused bud. My fingers grip and dig into the caps of his shoulders as he positions me over his crotch and begins inching himself inside me. I exhale and gasp in a breath in pure ecstasy. I’m bouncing up and down on his penis as his fingers press into each side of my waist.
“Faster, faster,” he moans into my ear.
Our two bodies become a collage of colour, smearing, gliding over one another as my breasts are rammed against his chest and we slide up and down, up and down. I look into Gabriel’s face and run my fingers down his cheek, and when he opens his eyes for a second and smiles, I smile back. This isn’t just making love, it feels like my body is crying out for his. Wrapped up in Gabriel’s arms, all of our problems, all of our pent-up emotions feel like they’re dissolving, disappearing in the intimacy of the moment.
His hands grab my arse and he’s bouncing me up and down, faster now. I wrap my legs around his waist as he gets off the stool and clumsily gets to his feet. My back is forced against the easel and its legs screech as I hear it crash to the floor.
I glance over my shoulder into a smeared mess of colour.
“Gabriel, my painting, it’s ruined.”
“Not just ruined, it’s all over your back.” He grins, biting down on his lip. “Maybe it’s just as well.”
“Just as well?” I frown.
“You always said you never wanted to be painted naked, but you were undressed on paper for a little while. It’s not always what the eye can see, but what one can remember.”
I smile at the ambiguity hidden within his words.
“Gabriel…”
“Natasha, do you mind shutting the fuck up?”
He spins round, turning me a full 180 degrees. I jump as my back and shoulders are pressed against the cold glass window.
At 11 o’clock the following morning, feeling happy and totally relaxed, I’m lounging in the wicker chair in the conservatory. I turn my head to see Gabriel carrying my coffee towards me. He leans slightly as he hands it to me and I meet his gaze. He smiles down, and taking the mug from him I smile up into his eyes. We don’t speak, but then we never did during our elevenses. He sits next to Larry on the settee, sipping his cold glass of water. We both glance out of the window, but every now and again I catch him looking my way and he catches me looking back.
My eyes wander around the room as I think of last night. It was unrecognisable, with every window having a colourful story to tell. My cheeks heat up as I remember all the positions he got me into, and spending over an hour and a half washing off the paint under the shower. I smile to myself; the soap was everywhere, and it felt so sensual when applied with slight pressure to all the right places.
Without him noticing, I give a sideways glance. It’s hard for me to find the words for how I feel, but it’s like he’s come back to me. It’s nice sitting here in comfortable silence. I couldn’t be happier, now that I know we’ve got so much to look forward to, the girls, our future, each other. Adrianna is still a niggling doubt in the back of my mind that I can’t shake off and I’m itching to say something. His glass is empty and I’ve finished my coffee, so I guess there’s no harm in bringing it up.
“Looks like you won’t be needing the spare bedroom tonight, or any other night.”
Gabriel looks up and shrugs his shoulders.
“What kind of answer do you call that?” I blurt out without thinking.
He straightens up against the thick cushion behind him and bows his head.
“Thanks to you I’ve discovered I can still paint. My talent, it never really went anywhere, it was here all along, and all it took for me to find it was you.”
I jump to my feet and hold my hand out.
“So, come on then, let’s go and move your clothes back to our wardrobe where they belong.”
He glances up and shakes his head.
“If only things, life, were that simple.”
I screw up my face, wanting to shake him.
“Gabriel, it is that simple.”
I make my way over to the settee, lift his hand off his lap and try to pull him out of his seat. He shakes his hand free.
“No, Natasha.”
I frown as he crosses his arms in front of his chest and blows out.
“You just don’t get it, do you? At the drop of a hat…” He clicks his fingers in the air. “Everything could be taken away from me. I don’t know, it just feels like you’re not really mine, not for keeps, and neither are the girls.”
“But after last night, I thought we were okay.”
He pats the cushion at his side. “Come here and sit down.”
Feeling unsure, I edge towards the front of the cushion and stare through the window at nothing specific.
“I do love you, I never stopped loving you, and last night was amazing, but how can we live together as a couple when you have so many secrets and keep so much from me?”
“Woah!” I hold my hands up. “Secrets?”
“The hospital appointments you failed to mention, and, don’t think I was nosing, because I wasn’t, I was just tidying up, but I happened to come across a handful of your opened letters.”
“They weren’t exactly a secret, and if you’d stopped to read them properly, you’d have seen they were just routine check-ups.”
“Okay, but who did you ask to accompany you to these appointments? Not me.” He sucks in his lips.
I gaze down into my lap, and he lifts my chin.
“You don’t need to tell me, I already know. Whatever we try to do, Adrianna will always get in the way, always manage to come between us.” His fingers slip from my chin. “And as for me, good old Gabriel, I’ll be the one on the sidelines, left out of the loop.”
I get to my feet and walk over to the conservatory door. As I pull it open I’m hit by a rush of cold air, though I don’t think it’s ever felt so welcome.
“Gabriel, you’re taking this too far.”
“I’ve got good reason to feel the way I do, considering the way she’s acted.”
I don’t hear him get up from the settee, and jump as his hands hold onto my waist. I shuffle back as he pulls me against his chest and rests his chin on my shoulder. I so want to turn myself round to face him, link my arms around his neck and kiss his lips, kiss all his worries away. His fingers ruffle my hair. I feel a prickle of rough stubble as he presses his cheek against mine.
“I’d love nothing more than for us to work, but I’d be lying if I said all our problems were down to Adrianna; there are so many other things…”
I turn my head, nudging his chin off my shoulder.
“Like what?”
He shakes his head. “Have you forgotten the court case that’s pending? If things don’t go my way, then what? I could lose everything, I could lose you all.”
“Gabriel, get a grip.”
“Natasha, you’re telling me if I’ve got no house for you to live in that you’re going to stick around? Somehow I think not.”
“All you seem to be doing is pushing me away, doing anything you can to stop us from being close, but why, Gabriel? Tell me, because I don’t understand.”
He leans forwards and places a soft kiss on my forehead.
“I know you’re right, I’m just scared of ending up like my dad, all alone. I don’t want to be that old man rattling around in a house that has far too many rooms and far too many windows. I don’t want to end up a forgotten name in a graveyard, someone who has no visitors, with an empty vase on a gravestone that never sees a flower.”
“For God’s sake, Gabriel, get a grip.”
His arms slip away from me. I could easily pull him back, but I don’t, I let him go. His eyes make a detour out into the garden.
“With an attitude like yours, it’s probably best you get used to staring out of the window into an empty garden, because on your own is how you’ll end up if you don’t give us, and life, a chance.”
It shouldn’t be a fight to get Gabriel to want to be with me. I glance up into eyes that don’t look back. I can’t do this any longer, not when I feel like he’s not listening and I’m talking to myself. My arm brushes against him as I edge past; he’s rigid. As for his eyes, they remain staring out into the garden.
I step through the open patio door and into the dining room.
“Natasha,” he calls after me.
I half turn, glancing back over my shoulder.
“Nothing,” he says.