Drift (Lengths) (20 page)

19  LYDIA

No matter how long I spend with him, he surprises me in new ways all the time.

I look around at the girls in my class, young, beautiful women who primped just for this class. A few weeks ago I laughed at them, looked down my nose. Thought,
Sure, he’s hot. Seriously hot. But get control of your hormones, ladies. This is college!

That was before he tied me to his big, silk-sheeted bed. Before he painted me nude and sprawled on his dining room table. Stripped me on the beach and dragged me into the ocean, where he didn’t stop touching and kissing until I came hard against him.

Now I can’t believe there was a time I could walk out of this classroom with my back to him, without any plans to see him in the future. I assume that was possible because I had no clue how empty my ears were without his laughter. How cold my body was without his wrapped around it. How dull my conversations were before I was able to hear his ideas and watch the light in his eyes as he listened to mine.

He is the last person I would have expected to fall for, and the only person I can imagine my life unfolding with. But
not
the person I wanted to plan anything with. Because what I feel for Isaac goes beyond planning. Beyond knowing.

He’s freed me. It’s scary as hell, soaring up here with nothing holding me back. Sometimes I want to swoop back into the safety of the cage where I lived among gleaming bars, tucked away from everything wild and frightening and gorgeous as all hell. But now that I’ve spread my wings and felt the air rush under them, pressing me close to the sun and out over the open water, I could never seriously think about going back.

He unlocked something in me and then threw the key away. The old cage can’t hold me anymore.

“I’ve been inspired, class,” he says, his hands clasped behind his back. Every female in the room
—along with several young men—lean forward and hold their collective breath, waiting. I press my hands to my cheeks, knowing his smile is all for me even if he doesn’t dare look my way. “The other day I showed you a slide with a beautiful work of art on it. One that inspired me early on in my youth. I spent a good amount of time with this.” He holds up a hand that holds a tiny laser pointer. He looks down at it, clicks it a few times, and lifts it up. “Anyone need a pointer?”

A petite brunette in the front waves her hand. Isaac leans forward and underhand tosses the device. She catches it with a squeal, and I know that little memento is going to be some kind of cherished reminder of this class and the passionate man who’s leading it.

He smiles at her, and my heart thuds. Not from jealousy. Isaac and I are entwined in a way that leaves me unworried about that; I feel sad that she’s clutching a tiny hunk of metal and hoping for what I have.

All of him, all of his genius and warmth and sweetness. I feel incredibly, undeniably lucky.

It’s an amazing feeling.

“What I need to do is stop standing in front of what makes my heart slam in my chest without talking about it, telling you all how much it changed my life and why with every word I have
—” He flips to the first slide and a gorgeous nude appears in soft light, surrounded by crimsons. “This is Titian’s
Venus of Urbina
. A Renaissance piece, commissioned for a great man as an instructional aide to his young wife. Here is why I gave the pointer away. I want to tell you a story about how, as a young man, I walked into the Uffizi in Florence, and fell in love with the soft washes of cream and pink in her skin. And I don’t want to distance myself with that flashing red light. I want to dig deep and unleash my feeling about it, for you. With you.”

He turns to look back at her. Only his profile is visible, but it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him look at anything other than a painting with that mix of obsessive reverence and excitement
—except for me.

Art and me.

My heart flutters in my chest.

“Look at the way she lies on this bed, on these silk sheets, her body bold and inviting. Up until this point gorgeous nudes were painted, but with modesty, my friends! They looked away. They covered their beauty. This Venus has eyes that ask a lover to move closer. Do you see the way her fingers are curled between her legs? Like she’s crooking her finger at you. Inviting you. Calling you to her, to touch her, to climb in bed with her. When was art ever so intimate before?”

He does it. He crooks his finger and I grab onto the undersides of my chair to keep from getting up and going to him. I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

He never looks at me. I know it’s on purpose because he’s patterned when it comes to eye contact, and he’s always followed the same basic map
—maybe making more stops at my eyes than strictly necessary—every other class.

This lack of looking is arousing in its own way. It makes my skin prickle, and it worries me. Because what if he looks?

I will burst into flames right here, right now. No questions.

“Mark Twain called her ‘the foulest, the vilest, the
obscenest.’ I would like to invite him to take a swift raft ride down a long river.” He smiles, the class laughs. “But I think the open eroticism of Venus’s gaze may have been the issue. I cannot lie.” Isaac lays a long-fingered hand over his shirt, over his heart.

I can guess how fast it’s beating by the frantic flicker of his pulse, and I want to come up on the stage and press my lips to his neck, over that explosive pounding. “So let me show you Manet’s answer to this and tell you, no shortcuts, no circling with a little red light, why I love this goddess even more.”

For a single second, his eyes catch mine, and I feel the zip and crackle of neurons set off and exploding like a bonfire of fireworks. He looks away just before we both go up in flames, but I wouldn’t be remotely shocked if we wound up setting off the smoke detectors.

He struggles to load the next slide, and many eyes in the class take the opportunity to ogle him. I hide my smile, knowing that sizzling look knocked
my steady Isaac into a flurry.

“This is
Olympia
.” He tilts his head back, a dopey grin on his face. “And, friends, I swear to you, I saw this at the Musée d’Orsay. I was fourteen, gangly, alone, sure I’d never fall in love, and I was feeling this all in
Paris
. Quite a kick in the teeth, I know. Then I saw her.”

There is a wave of simpering giggles. I know no one can picture him any way other than god-like with his razor wit and his endless charm, marching in front of our class as a master of this world. But I’ve seen the dark flashes of uncertainty, the wavering fear of failure that fractures through all his incredible work, the hunch of those broad shoulders that must be a remnant of that dark, awful time, and I can picture it perfectly in my head.

I can see him, probably in the ill-fitting clothes everyone wears in their early teen years. Maybe he had ear buds in. Probably his hair was greasy and badly cut. His jaw wouldn’t have filled out, but it would probably have been speckled with some acne and tufts of weirdly grown facial hair. I can see him shuffling through the halls of paintings, looking at the artists who are his biggest heroes and greatest intimidators.

“I see her,” he says, speaking softly, his face to the painting. Every single person in the room leans forward, straining to hear. “And she’s gorgeous. She’s not inviting me, like the Venus in Florence did, and that’s okay. I didn’t know what to do with all those curves anyway. See the way she isn’t looking
from under her lashes? She looks right at you, eyes wide open.” He spins around and points so quickly, we all jump a few inches. His laugh is strong and sweet.

“Like that!” He turns his hand palm up and closes his fingers into a tight fist. “She grabs at you. Tugs something out of you. She is bold. Strong. Parisians were, like the Italians before them, shocked by this new interpretation. If the Venus of Urbino didn’t show modesty like the goddesses before her, at least she beckoned. Invited. Allured. This woman is a prostitute.”

There’s another round of nervous laughter, and Isaac waves his hand at the class, pacing back and forth across the front of the room with long, measured strides.

“I know, I know. This is America. I have to tread carefully. As a
side note, I have no idea what Mark Twain thought of her. I’d be willing to bet he did
not
approve. Look at her though! She has her hand between her legs as well, but this time it’s as if she’s blocking your view. No crooking of her fingers, no inviting.”

He holds both hands out, palms flat, and I shiver, remembering the way it felt when he stood, arms straight out, and ran his hands over my body in long, slow strokes. I feel beads of sweat break out above my lip.

“So why do I love her more? Why don’t I love beautiful Urbino, there for my taking?” He lets his gaze swing across the crowd, then looks directly at me, never breaking eye contact for a single second as he utters the next words. “Because Olympia is there for herself. And there’s nothing more beautiful than a woman who dares you to rise to the challenge of being enough for her.”

My heart hammers. My blood pulses.

He’s calling to me. He’s telling me what he wants, what he’s ready for.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if I’m brave enough to do what I truly want to do.

20
  ISAAC

“Okay. I need to clear this up. So then the rooster chased you around the yard? And then you threw a cast iron frying pan at it and broke its neck? A rooster? A bird that probably stands two feet tall?” Lydia raises an eyebrow at me and sips her glass of wine.

We’re sitting on my couch, fully dressed, talking. We’ve been exchanging stories about our childhoods all day. And, even though there have been more than a dozen times when I wanted to rip her clothes off her body, throw her to the floor, and suck and touch until she starts to scream my name, I don’t.

I’d been living in fear of losing her, but I realized living like that meant I’d lost her already. Now I take each day with her, each second, and treasure it as if it’s the last.

If she agreed to be my wife tomorrow, I’d still want to follow that line of thinking. It makes every experience that much sweeter.

We never manage to keep away from each other for too long. Chances are if I hold off for another fifteen minutes, she’ll straddle my lap and start undoing my pants.

Damn, I love a woman with initiative.

“He may have been two feet tall, but he had a beak that was like the lovechild of a knife and a hammer.” I am trying to describe this with accurate horror, but Lydia is cracking up at me. “And his talons were like razor blades. It was like he could smell my fear. And I was scared shitless by him.”

“So you murdered him?” she giggles, her eyes bright with interest.

I would do nothing but tell her stories all day to watch the shine in those eyes.

“It was
self-defense,” I object. “My grandmother was livid. She said that rooster had produced the strongest offspring of any rooster she’d ever kept before. Also, he was old and tough, so he made a really shitty soup.”

Lydia laughs so hard she bunches over, clutching her sides, and shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can be with a homicidal bird maniac.” She puts her wineglass down, and, this time, her eyes shine with a sexy want I know well.

I check my watch as she straddles my lap. Less than five minutes. This is a new record I’m damn proud of.

“My skills have some uses,” I tell her as she kisses my neck, her tongue running over my racing
pulse point. “If, for example, a flock of mad birds was attacking you, just get me to a kitchen, and I’ll find the weapon I need to defend you.”

She grabs on to either side of my half-open shirt and tolls her hips, pressing hard and slow over my cock, making my throat go dry. “You think that’s a situation I might actually find myself in?” She wrinkles her nose. “Can’t we just throw some bread crumbs to distract them? Isn’t that how normal people deal with birds?”

“Sure. Because birds are sweet little song-singing creatures that would never do anyone harm. Which is why one of Hitchcock’s most famous horror movies features millions of them ruthlessly pecking humans to death.” I slide her closer, my hand running up her thigh and under her skirt. She sucks her breath in as my fingers brush the skin of her inner thighs. “Why can’t you just let me be your hero?”

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, spreading wider to invite my touch. “Mmm. You are.” A smile tugs up one side of her lips. “My rooster slaughtering hero.” She massages my neck and runs her hands up through my hair.

There’s a knock on the door.

I freeze.

What we’re doing, while not necessarily rule-breaking, certainly isn’t encouraged. Lydia is still, technically, my student. I’m supposed to be exercising restraint.

That’s all true, but so is the fact that I’d a thousand times rather let this job slide into oblivion and find something else to do than offend Lydia to the point where she doesn’t want to spend more time with me.

This entire debate rockets through my brain in the time it takes her to slide off my lap and point to my bedroom. “I’ll wait in there,” she whispers. “Button your shirt.” She kisses me quickly and grabs her heels and her wineglass, tiptoeing to my bedroom and closing the door behind her.

Another knock echoes through the apartment, and I make my way to the door, buttoning my shirt as I go. “One moment!” I call

I do a quick sweep of the room and all looks in place. When I open the door, it’s Nina standing next to George Cumberland, a man whose pull in the art community has made and broken several new artists’ careers.

“Isaac! I’m so sorry to barge in like this,” Nina stutters, flustered with pleasure and nerves. “I tried your phone, but I guess you didn’t hear it.”

“It’s no problem, Nina. I was just...preparing for lecture. My apologies for not answering my phone. I’m always losing it.” Which is partially true. If Lydia’s not with me, it’s right at my side in case she calls. When I have her in my arms, I couldn’t give a shit less where it is or who’s trying to reach me through it. “Please, come in. Can I get you two anything to drink?”

“No thank you, Isaac,” Mr. Cumberland says, his voice deep and gravelly. He looks around my apartment with dark eyes that are flat and assessing behind his gold wire frames. They’re zeroing in on my work space. “I’d hoped to get a look at your work for the upcoming exhibit. I hate to poach,” he says with a shrug, as if any artist in the world would mind being poached by this man, “but I’m putting together a travelling collection, and I want some really fresh pieces from up and coming artists. I’d say your name comes up in at least one out of every two or three conversations I have.”

Now I feel like Nina’s jangled nerves have transferred to me. “Of course. Please come this way.” I lead them both back to my work area and silently set out the cathedral paintings. I wish now I’d put more time in the last one, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

“Gorgeous,” Nina breathes, clasping her hands to her chest. I’m embarrassed seeing how openly fawning she is.

Mr. Cumberland nods, flipping through them. I can see he’s critiquing them in his mind. Part of me wants to know, but a much larger part could happily live the rest of my life never having the faintest idea. He’s one man who holds immense power, but that doesn’t except the fact that he’s still
one
man. One man with a very trained eye and an excellent gut for this work, but only a single opinion.

Or so I keep telling myself the longer he flips and stares. Because I have the feeling he’s hoping he missed something that will suddenly jump out at him. For a man as decisive as George Cumberland, that’s at once an immensely terrible and completely flattering sign.

His eyes roam to the back, to where a tarp covers the paintings of Lydia I swore would never be exposed. He doesn’t ask permission, and I’m not fast enough to stop him before he pulls the cover back.

A strangled squeak breaks from Nina’s throat, followed by a hushed, “Oh. Oh my.”

Mr. Cumberland squats down to examine them. He holds the canvas up and tilts it, walking back to get the right light from the best angle. He leans his head down close to it. “Did you use your fingers to finish this?” he asks.

Shame burns through me. And fury. I never invited him to look at these. I pray Lydia isn’t peeking through a crack in the door. Or that they don’t say something revealing.

I
promised
her and nothing on this earth can make me go back on that promise.

“Yes, I did.” I try to reposition the tarp, but Mr. Cumberland brushes me off. “You see, these are very rough. Done for my own personal experimentation. So you’ll understand if they’re
—”

“Goddamn magnificent,” George Cumberland declares. “This one is the jewel in the crown.” He flips to the painting I did the first night Lydia stayed here. The same night I choked her ex for speaking to her with total disrespect. The night I held nothing back and claimed her as my own.

The night I told her I loved her. And meant it.

And waited to hear her say it back. Though she didn’t.

I understand what she meant when she told me, that same night, how exposed she’d feel if these paintings ever went public. I feel that vulnerable precariousness as George Cumberland’s eyes run over her gorgeous curves.

As his eyes meet hers, dark with a desire I suddenly don’t want him to see.

Is it jealousy? Possessiveness? Fear?

Whatever it is, it runs strong through me and suffocates every other emotion.

“Is it the same model? She’s beautiful.” The way he says it is clinical, dissective. “When I hold sessions, I usually encourage a range of subjects, but I think you’ve captured something here, with her.”

He’s completely wrong there, of course. No one can ‘capture’ Lydia. And even if I thought I could, it’s the last thing I’d want. The very last.

“Well, as I said, this is rough. Not ready to be shown yet.” This time I don’t let him stand in my way. This is my house. My work. My love.

Mr. Cumberland shakes off his shock as I take the painting from his hands, then steps back and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “This is the
only
work you should be showing. You’re looking to market perfection, but art is starved for passion.”

“This passion is not for sale,” I explain, trying to smile. I’m fairly sure it comes off as more of a grimace.

Nina has been silent, unable to keep her mouth from hanging open, but she pipes up when she realizes George Cumberland isn’t being worshipped by her lowly exchange artist.

“Isaac, Mr. Cumberland’s assessment of your work is extremely valuable. If he feels that those paintings are ones you should focus on showing, you’d do well to follow his advice.”

“I’ll certainly take it under consideration,” I grit out.

Mr. Cumberland doesn’t seem offended in the least. While Nina tries to calm her frustration, he smiles and holds out a crisp white business card. “You have a gift. One you’re clearly afraid to harness.
If you’re interested in talking to me about the nudes, I’m ready to offer. If not, I recommend you reconsider why you’re making art in the first place. Have a nice day, Isaac.”

Nina throws me one last desperate look before she follows Mr. Cumberland out.

The bedroom door presses open a half a minute after the front door closes. Lydia walks out and smiles. “Did it go well?” she asks. She glances at the paintings. The ones of her are still uncovered.

I flip the tarp over them and shove the business card under a copy of
Modern Painters
. “It was really just a meet and greet. I’m sorry. They called, but I wasn’t paying any attention to the phone.” I wrap my arms around her waist. “I had much more interesting things to focus on. By the way, how is the bedroom? We haven’t visited it in a few hours, and I’m wondering if it needs our attention.” I kiss under her jaw, nipping her earlobe to hear the low gasp of pleasure I know is coming.

“The bed does need to be made,” she whispers, then pushes back from me. “Wait. Isaac. Really, what did your visitors come to talk about?” She smoothes the collar of my shirt with her thumbs.

“Really, Nina came to introduce a prominent curator.” I shrug, but she doesn’t look satisfied. “He wanted to take a look at some of my work.”

She tugs on my shirt front, her eyes wide. “And?”

“And the art world is full of pretentious asses. He’s one of the worst offenders.” I kiss her and speak against her parted lips. “He’s
maybe
interested, but there’s a lot of smoke being blown up a whole lot of asses right now. It’s nothing I should take seriously.”

“But what did he say about your work?” she asks, and I almost think she knows.

Almost.

But she’d be making a much bigger deal if she did. There’s no way it would be this calm. The night she saw the paintings, she made it very clear how she’d feel if they were ever shown to a wide audience, and I respect her feelings about that.

“He said my name comes up in certain circles. That’s no surprise to me. He also said I could contact him in the future.” I shrug and try to keep my expression placid. “So that’s a door opened for me. Not a bad thing at all.” I nuzzle her neck. “Enough art talk. Bedroom. Now.”

“You don’t want to sit on the couch and talk about innocent farm animals whose lives you brought to a brutal end?” she asks, batting those gorgeous eyes.

I jump up and point a finger at the door of my bedroom. “My room! Now, woman!”

She turns around and runs, giggling like crazy, and I chase her in.

But not before I glance back at the paintings I covered.

It’s best they stay that way. Right?

Unless...unless it’s not.

But I have to put thoughts like that out of my head. The only thing
—
the one and only thing
—I care about is what’s best for Lydia.

Everyone, everything else is nothing but extra. Filler. Fluff.

“Isaac!” she calls. “Come warm me up! I’m naked and
freezing
!”

I run without hesitation to the woman I love.