Stolen Moments (20 page)

It feels like a slightly overripe peach.

Cass laces the fingers of her right hand through mine. The saleswoman pats Cass’s left hand and smiles. She walks away.

Cass takes the dildo and beats it lightly against my thigh. “If I were to stand you up and take the head of this and press it against your clitoris, and say…dip into you just a little and pull out…and then rub your clitoris with this covered in your come just under the head…and let you feel your own wetness… How would that feel to you?”

Before I answer, she strokes my lips with her fingertip and kisses me, wetting my mouth fully with her tongue before thoroughly filling me. She withdraws from between my lips. “Ma’am?” she calls to the saleswoman. “We’ll take the leather harness and this velvet cock.”

*

Cass and I stroll down the street, her arm wrapped tightly around my waist, my arm wrapped around hers. I am filled with a searing desire that has threatened my quiet life with destruction. Those fantasies have brought me here. Unknowingly, every beautiful woman I’ve ever met has brought me to this moment. I am a lesbian now. And I’m ready for a new life…with wild and lovely possibilities.

Sex is easy. Love is hard. At least that’s what I used to think. So, when love walked out the door after four years, three months, and two days, I made a decision:
sex
. Lots of it, with no attachment. What I hadn’t counted on was how empty, and ultimately unsexy, a life lived without attachment could be. That’s when I chose celibacy. I packed up my easel, brushes, and paints, and headed for the farthest hills, which in this case meant an A-frame deep in the woods in the Appalachian Mountains.

I established a ritual. Each morning I rose a little before dawn, made a cup of tea, and took it out to the porch. I sat and watched the sun rise in postcard-perfect splendor over the mountaintops and listened to nature’s wakeup calls. The sounds and smells of the forest in the early morning were like nothing I had ever known. Here, coves of hardwood mingled with tall fir, and blankets of rhododendron crept into small trails that wound in and out among the trees.

Down below, I could see the river meandering through ancient rocks, flowing over them in small waterfalls into a pristine pond large enough for swimming. This property had been handed down through our family for generations. The land was posted and people seldom came here except by invitation, which I sometimes grudgingly gave. But mostly, when I came here, I stayed alone and basked in the serenity and sense of renewal that this place visited on my soul. It had always been a place of refuge for me. I’d been here for three months now, and I was beginning to feel almost human again.

I had no radio, no television, got no newspaper, and seldom even plugged in my phone. My laptop sat in the corner gathering dust. I did check my e-mail now and then, and I stayed in touch with my agent and a few close friends on a semiregular basis. As for family, I have none, which can be both a blessing and a curse. Now, it was a blessing because there was no one to infringe on my privacy or make demands on my time.

Well, there was no one until I saw Rêve. The day I first saw her was extraordinarily clear and bright. The normal morning fog didn’t appear, and the sun seemed to have warmed the earth much earlier than usual. I decided to bring my easel out onto the porch and try to capture the beauty of the mountain morning.

I had just begun to put a splash of color on the canvas when I heard the snort of a horse carried on the forest air. I watched with surprise as a large, beautiful chestnut mare walked slowly out of the woods and stopped at the edge of the mountain pool. Even more beautiful was the woman who slung her leg over and slid with practiced ease down the side of the horse and onto the grass. She was tall and slender, and her long, auburn hair was a perfect match to that of her mount. She wore black riding boots and black breeches that fit her like a second skin. She put her arms around the horse’s neck and pulled the reins over its head, letting them dangle on the ground, and then she turned to grab a saddlebag as the horse stood there grazing.

Under normal circumstances I would have yelled down to the offending person that she was trespassing and to please leave, but this time I had no voice. I could only stare in breathless awe as she pulled a blanket from the saddlebag and stretched it carefully out on the ground. Next, I watched her disrobe slowly, piece by piece, dropping each article on the blanket as she welcomed the touch of the morning air against her skin. When she was through, she stretched her body languorously, arched her back, and dove into the cold water.

She stayed for almost two hours, floating in the water and then lying on the blanket to dry. I watched as she lay there without moving, one arm behind her head, a knee bent. I sketched furiously, afraid she would leave before I could get the scene down on paper. She seemed as oblivious to me as I was aware of her.

I had almost completed the drawing when I saw her move her hand out from behind her head and reach down to touch her breast. She took her nipple between the fingers of one hand as the other hand moved between her legs and she began to stroke herself. I felt each stroke between my own legs, felt the heat rising in my loins. I was swollen, and wet, and hot.

I tried to continue sketching, but the sight below me was too mesmerizing. Without conscious thought, I laid the pencil and pad onto the table and stared with glazed eyes as she pleasured herself. My breath came in short gasps as she tightened her legs around her hand, and I could feel myself responding as though she were touching me. I continued watching until she rose and slowly dressed. She placed her foot in one stirrup and smoothly pulled herself up into the saddle. She rode away at a canter without looking back, and as I saw her figure fading in the distance, I prayed that I would see her again.

The next morning I bounced out of bed and hurried to the porch in my robe, hoping to get another glimpse of the beautiful woman with the chestnut hair. She didn’t disappoint me, but this time instead of undressing and diving directly into the water, she disrobed and began a series of yoga movements and stretches, beautiful rhythmic poses that I couldn’t get down on paper quickly enough. It was as though she were putting herself on display for me.

I watched as she stood facing the sun, her hands palm to palm at her heart. Slowly, she arched her back, lifting her breasts to the sky. Her movements were lovely and fluid. I wanted to go to her, run my hands along the beautiful lines of her body as she moved and stretched in the morning sun. Instead, I remained the voyeur, touching myself and imagining it was her hands I felt.

I became addicted to the mornings. My creativity was soaring along with my libido. On the fifth day, I sat on the railing of the porch, sketching her, and when I looked up, I saw her looking back at me. She was standing on the blanket, her clothes at her feet. My hand froze over the sketchpad and then I raised it, waving tentatively at her. I held my breath, not knowing what her reaction would be, and exhaled with relief when she waved back at me. She wasn’t embarrassed by her nudity or my presence, and I wondered if she had known all along that I was watching her.

Now we had a new ritual. She would do as she always did; I would watch her and sketch. When she left, she would look up at me and wave. I began to translate my sketches to oils but couldn’t get them exactly right. They were good, but there was just something missing.
Tomorrow
, I thought,
tomorrow I will ask her to pose for me
.

During the day, when she was gone, her image filled my mind; during the night, her image filled my dreams. More than once, I woke up midorgasm, my hand between my legs, caressing my wetness. Celibacy was not as easy as it sounded, though I told myself masturbation didn’t count as a broken vow.

I woke up on Tuesday with a sense of anticipation and sat on the porch waiting for her…and waiting…and waiting. Over an hour passed since her normal arrival time, and she still did not appear.
You idiot
, I thought,
why did you wait so long to talk to her?

I could hardly contain my sense of disappointment when suddenly, there she was. She was riding an Appaloosa instead of the chestnut. She looked up at me and waved, hello this time instead of good-bye. Although she was a good distance away, I thought I could detect a faint smile on her face.

“Come visit after your swim,” I shouted down to her.

She started to dismount and then sat back down in the saddle, guiding her horse into a slow trot up the hill toward my house. “Perhaps I’ll skip the swim today,” she said as she brought the horse to a halt at the bottom of the steps. “I think it’s time we met, don’t you?”

I was surprised to hear a touch of a French accent. Her voice was deep and breathy, just as I had imagined it, and her eyes twinkled with amusement as she looked at me. She had no guile at all, no sense of shyness. She was more comfortable in her own skin than anyone I had ever met. Her look was direct and confident, and her eyes were greener than I could ever have imagined them. She slung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, then tied the reins to the railing.

I held my breath as she strode up the stairs on legs that seemed to go on forever. At five feet nine inches, I’ve always considered myself tall, but she was two or three inches taller than I. My hair is blond and cropped rather short; her chestnut hair fanned out in flames around her face. From a distance, she looked beautiful; up close and personal, she was breathtaking. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was.

She stuck out her hand. “Rêve Lémarique.”

Rêve
, her name is Rêve.
My mind scrambled to translate the name. Rêve—
dream
—it finally came to me.
What a perfect name; what an absolutely perfect name.

At the sound of her voice, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and the blood moved quickly south. I stood staring at her, ignoring her outstretched hand.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked, jarring me out of my reverie.

“What? I…oh,” I stuttered. “I’m sorry. Logan Blair.” I grasped her hand and felt the sensation of our touch in every nerve in my body.

Her fingers were long and tapered, like I would imagine a pianist’s hands to be. And then I remembered. Of course! This vision, this woman who had occupied my thoughts twenty-four hours a day for the past two weeks was
the
Rêve Lémarique, the composer.

“I enjoy your works very much,” I managed to say, hoping I didn’t sound as foolish as I felt.

“And I have enjoyed yours as well, Ms. Blair. Perhaps you will show me your latest work, no?”

I reached for my sketchpad and handed it to her. I sat in an Adirondack chair while she sat on the top stair with her back against the baluster. She turned the pages slowly, contemplating each sketch intensely. Finally, she looked up at me. “These are wonderful.”

“Thank you.” I was filled with gratitude that she liked them.

“But they are not finished.” She said it as a statement, not a question. The artist in her had recognized that an element was missing.

“No.”

“Will you translate them to oil?”

“Yes. When I can get them right.”

“I see.” She looked at me, one artist to another. “What can I do to help?”

I inhaled deeply. “Will you pose for me?” The question did not even hang in the air.

“Of course,” she answered immediately. “These must be finished.”

Relief washed over me. “Would you like some tea?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t sound too giddy.

“That would be lovely.”

I stood, and she followed me inside. While I brewed the tea, she looked at the paintings I had stacked around the room. She didn’t say anything; she just walked from painting to painting, lifting one up now and then to view it in a better light.

I watched her move about the room. Her body was long and firm; her breasts pushed against the silk of the blouse that she was wearing, and I could see the hardness of her nipples. I wanted to paint her; I wanted to touch her.
Get a grip, Blair
, I thought.
Don’t scare her away.
Even as those thoughts crossed my mind, I knew that there probably was not much that would scare this glorious woman.

“Your work is very good.” Her voice was warm and sincere.

“
Here,” I said, handing her the cup of tea.

She took it and sipped slowly, her thumb and forefinger holding the ear of the cup, her pinky slightly crooked. Each time her lips touched the cup, I fantasized her mouth on mine.

“So, when shall we start?” she asked.

“What?” I was so lost in fantasy that I didn’t hear her words.

“When shall we start? When would you like me to pose for you?”

“Would today be too soon?”

“Not at all. Today would be fine. What would you like me to do?”

“I, uh…would you mind…” Somehow, I just couldn’t get the words out. I wanted her naked, but I didn’t know how to tell her. I had been sketching her naked for days, yet I couldn’t find the words to ask her to get naked here, in my house.

“You need me to be nude, yes?”

I looked at her, stunned. Nudity seemed as natural to her as breathing, and naked models were nothing new to me. But the thought of her this close, modeling nude for me was almost more than I could take.