Chapter 16

Derek

I couldn’t believe I was about to show my art to Amy. I had never shown anyone this room—I’d even insisted that Aneta need not go in to clean it. Now here I was unlocking it, Amy giggling behind me. God, this woman, she could get me to do anything at the bat of an eye.

She had forgiven me, and that was more than I could ever ask for. She listened to me, understood me, and even empathized with me. I wasn’t used to being so emotionally open with someone.

“Remember, you promised you wouldn’t laugh,” I said, as I put my hand on the door knob. “And I warned you. I’m really quite a hack.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just let me in.”

Sighing, I opened the door. Amy practically skipped in, bouncing with excitement.

The room was chaotic. Canvases—some blank, some half-filled, and others complete were sitting here and there. There were paintbrushes, paint bottles, notebooks, pencils, and art tools strewn about, on tables, shelves, even on the floor. One wall consisted entirely of windows, rendering a fantastic view of the property, and giving the room ideal natural lighting.

“Jesus. I thought you were an organized person,” Amy remarked, stepping over a collapsed easel.

“In most parts of my life, I am. I guess this is where I… unleash everything.”

“Interesting.”

I watched nervously as Amy walked about the room, stopping at each and every one of the canvasses and studying it, as if she were the world’s most speculative art critic. Finally, she completed her tour around the room.

“Well,” Amy said, her voice tight with amusement. I could tell by her eyes that she was restraining herself, trying not to laugh.

“I know, I know,” I said. “It’s really bad. I told you I flunked out of art school. I couldn’t get the techniques down. I was the worst.”

“Oh no, I like them,” she said. “They’re very modern. And modern art is in. Usually though, modern art turns me off. I just don’t get it. But I really, really like your work. It’s different.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m being serious! It’s not what I was expecting. But that’s the great thing about art, it’s all up to the artist. And you’re brilliant.”

“They’re just strokes of paint. They don’t even look like anything.”

“Yeah, and they don’t have to. It’s about how they feel. They’re emotional paintings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous. Maybe I’ll try sculpting.”

“Actually, I think you’ve really got something here.” She lifted up one canvas, splashes of muddy orange and blobs of red on a midnight blue background. “This one is my favorite. It’s sensual, and secretive. It gets me in the mood, if you know what I mean. This painting is the aphrodisiac of art. It’s visual Viagra. This is some powerful stuff, Derek.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but it did raise my spirits. “Oh, yeah. You’re right on the money. I call it, ‘Sexual Sensations.’ It’s up for auction right now, if you want to place a bid.”

“Oh, definitely. This painting is going right above my bed, and no one can do anything about it. Sixty-nine million dollars, in cash. Or… another kind of payment… if you know what I mean.”

I laughed. “It’s all yours.”

“Good.” Amy set it down by the door, and looked around the room. When she turned back to me, she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“What are you thinking?” I asked, stepping toward her.

“I want you to paint me,” she said, her voice provocative.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to paint me. Nude.”

“Oh.” I was speechless for a moment, surprised. “Okay.”

“And this one is going on my living room wall. It’s gonna be the first thing you see when you walk into my room, so it better be damn good.”

“My first commission,” I said. “No pressure.”

“You’ll do it?” She bounced on her toes in excitement.

I laughed. “Of course I’ll do it, though I can’t promise it’ll be good. But I shall try.”

As she undressed, I found everything I needed. A blank canvas, some paint and a palette, and my easel. By the time I was ready, Amy was lounging on the floor on a white sheet, naked and posed. She was reclining back, her legs spread casually, her body stretched, so that I got a very, very good view of her body.

Her eyes flitted down to the quickly growing bulge in my pants, and she smirked, clearly pleased with herself.

I carefully began mixing my colors, focusing on getting them right—and trying hard not to get distracted by her.

Once I was satisfied with the palette, I looked back at her, my eyes scanning her, taking in every inch. God, she was perfect. I crouched down and reached out my hand to brush the hair back out of her face. She held my gaze, her eyes both innocent and alluring.

I dipped the brush into the fleshy tone I’d created and pressed it against the canvas, keeping the strokes smooth and curvy, like her body.

I had admired her body plenty of times before, but never so analytically. Studying her now, I realized how poised and proportional she was. She looked like a living, breathing Greek statue, like Aphrodite come to life. Fluid, elegant, real… I was captivated by her exquisite perfection.

Her hair fell over her shoulders in soft curls, like the ocean on a starless night. Her eyes glittered like gemstones, temptation solidified. Her lips were a gateway, a Mona Lisa smile, inviting in its mystery. Her cheeks were cherry blossoms, her upturned nose blessed with freckles, like constellations in a summer sky.

My eyes moved down her body. Her slender neck and graceful shoulders were reminiscent of a willow tree. Her breasts, perfectly sculpted and angled upward, her nipples flushed and pink. Her skin flowed smoothly down her wide hips, her curves voluptuous. Her thighs parted, revealing her female flesh, blossoming like the rarest flower. Her femininity was paradoxical, both vulnerable and enduring.

I worked on the painting, paying more attention to detail than was usual for me. I was determined, for all my lack of skill or finesse, to make something that was even a fragment of her worth and beauty.

I’d always been a messy painter, as the disorganized room reflected. I smeared the paint with my fingertips. I’d touched her, after all, memorized her body. Maybe I could translate that memory to paper.

As I worked, she watched me with that unnerving gaze of hers, perfectly still as I reimagined her body onto the canvas.

Almost two hours later, I was near satisfied. The canvas was filled with blooming colors.

I set down my paintbrush and looked at Amy again, my mind returning from its free-flowing artistic state to reality. She looked relaxed, meditative. I stared at her, appreciating her all over again.

She noticed that I had stopped, and shifted. “Done?”

“Almost,” I said, kneeling beside her. I ran my thumb across her cheek, leaving a paint streak of brilliant viridian green in its path. Unable to resist her any longer, I leaned forward to kiss her.

Immediately she responded, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling herself up onto my lap. I sat back, holding her, allowing her sweet taste to sink into me. I slid my tongue into her mouth, taking over as my hands dropped to squeeze her backside. In response, she rolled her hips on my lap.

My teeth scraped her bottom lip, and I slapped her ass lightly, testing the waters. Amy jumped a little, and moaned, kissing me more intently. So I spanked her again, harder. She gasped, and squirmed, and begged for more.

“Harder,” she whispered into my lips, so softly that I barely heard her.

“Mm, you like that?” I lifted an eyebrow, my voice dropping. “Get on your hands and knees for me.”

Amy didn’t hesitate a moment before slipping off of my lap, turning away and providing me with a perfect view of her ass. I chuckled when I noticed the colorful handprint left behind from my hands.

I quickly undressed, throwing my clothes to the side before kneeling behind her. I began to massage her ass as I leaned to whisper in her ear.

“Tell me if I get too rough, okay?” I said.

She looked at me with a provocative ferocity that surprised me. “You won’t.”

Smirking, I sat back, and admired her perfect, round cheeks before I drew my hand back. Every time my palm hit her ass, Amy gasped, arching her back and moaning my name. Each time, it came a little harder, which only seemed to arouse her more, until she was practically writhing with pleasure.

Her strong reaction drove me absolutely crazy. I was overcome with lust for her. It was primal. It was raw. It was us.

“Fuck,” Amy groaned, her hands knotting into the sheet on the floor. “I want you inside me, Derek. I need you inside of me. Please. Now. Fuck me. I need—”

She was interrupted by her own moan as I suddenly thrust myself inside of her, unable to contain my desire any longer. Immediately, I fell into a fast, almost brutal pace that had both of us moaning loudly.

While fucking her from behind, I continued slapping her ass with one hand. With the other, I reached forward and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back. Her front was pressed completely against the floor, while her back was arched perfectly, her ass in the air, providing an angle that was hitting just right.

“You’re so fucking tight,” I grunted, my full length buried. “You feel so good, baby.”

Loving her like this, rough and unrestrained on the floor, was thrilling. My paint-covered hands ran over her body, eager to take her all in. I wanted her, all of her, to be mine.

I stood up and pulled her with me, pushing her up against the wall before entering her again. My body trapped her in place, so that she was pressed completely against me, her body trembling with pleasure.

Our passion was potent. The sexual tension between us built up—fighting, making up, hours studying her naked body. Fucking her now was like a storm finally breaking. It was intense.

I came hard and without warning, that sublime pressure bursting in my core and seizing my body, running through my blood like electrical currents. I thrust hard into her and held her as tightly against me as I could, until the pleasure pulsed and faded into my bones.

Letting Amy go, I fell on the wall next to her. We each took a moment to catch our breath and calm our shaking bodies.

“Wow,” Amy finally said, her voice airy.

“Yeah.”

“I liked that.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

I started pulling on my clothes. When I turned around, I saw Amy staring at the painting, her expression unreadable. I stuttered, nervous.

“I, I know it’s not… realistic. It’s more interpretive,” I tried to explain.

“This is how you see me?” she breathed, brushing her hand on the edge of the canvas. I moved beside her.

“Yeah,” I said. “At least, how I imagined it coming out. I’m not sure I got my mental picture onto the canvas very well.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice cracking.

“It’s you. You are.”

“I mean… you turned me into a… a garden. A forest. Alive and growing, lustrous and… and beautiful. I’ve never seen myself like this. Never.”

I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the back of her head.

“Well,” I said, “I do.”