Remi
I’m still drinkingcoffee the next morning when Tristan approaches my easel and stares at the unfinished sketch of him resting there.
“I think you should start over—in this picture, you had to cut out Jared. That can’t be good.”
“I didn’t ‘cut out’ Jared.” That makes it sound so ugly. “I simply focused my artistic effort on you.”
He spreads the Irish wool blanket that Tommy calls itchy over one of the wingback chairs by the enormous wall of windows. Then he pulls off his T-shirt. “If I remember correctly, we agreed on three hours.”
Tristan’s smile is sultry; grasping a graphite pencil takes a back seat to other things I’d like to do with my hands. We haven’t been sexually intimate since last week when we were alone in my loft. And I didn’t make a move on him last night. I was waiting to see if he’d make a move on me, which didn’t happen. “We don’t have to do it now. Don’t you want a day off?”
There’s a determined gleam in Tristan’s eyes—one I’ve seen before. He feels obligated to repay me for the Halloween costumes. And it’s clear he means business when he yanks off the borrowed pair of sweatpants, kicks them aside, and faces me without even attempting to cover himself.
I lay the unfinished sketch of Tristan on the floor behind me and exchange it for a blank watercolor canvas that leans against the wall. One day, though, I’ll finish the ice cream parlor portrait, if only to preserve the sweet memory.
“How do you want me?” he asks, his naked skin golden in the morning light.
“A loaded question, if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Funny…” He glances my way with narrowed eyes. “The first hour will be payment for the Little Bo Peep costume.”
“And for Bah-Bah Lamb Baby?” I ask, smirking.
He tilts his head to size me up. “Um… sure.”
“Then I’m going to expect some extra effort.” I wink, but he doesn’t seem to be aware that I’m teasing him.
“Of course.” As Tristan sits on the blanket-covered chair, I chuckle nervously. He wrinkles his nose. “Tommy’s right. This blanket scratches.”
“The chair is clean. You don’t need to sit on the blanket.”
“It’s okay… I shouldn’t have said anything.” This time, the smile he flashes is somehow both forced and utterly composed. He leans back in the chair, crosses his legs, drapes one arm over an armrest—letting his hand hang gracefully—and places his elbow on the other. Then he turns his head to the side, leans seductively, and gazes boldly at me with the eye uncovered by his mop of light hair. “How’s this?”
“It’s certainly a pose with attitude,” I reply.
“Would you prefer something else? I could straighten my legs, open them wide, and let my arms hang by my sides.” His gaze remains fixed on mine. And a practiced, professional demeanor I recognize from life drawing class at LCC distances us. A distance that didn’t exist a few short moments ago.
This is Tristan, the working man.
“Uh, no, I… like your pose.” I clear my throat. “It will work well.” Tristan couldn’t pose ineptly if he wanted to. “But I’m going to focus on your face, so you can cover up.”
Instead of pulling the blanket over his lap, he fixes his disciplined stare high on the kitchen wall and pulls in a deep breath, slipping even further into his modeling head space.
“Look at me,” I say.
“You want direct eye contact?” Tristan’s voice is strangely robotic.
“I do.” My voice sounds odd too—wistful, maybe. Or yearning. When Tristan entered the modeling zone, the connection between us magically vanished, and… and I want it back. But I also want to sketch him, so I can then paint him in watercolor. Which will take far more than three hours of him sitting numbly in that chair, the wool blanket scratching his perfect ass.
And I’ll be hard-pressed to turn over the finished portrait for his portfolio as I promised because I’m going to put my blood, sweat, and tears into this work. It will mean more to me than I ever intend to put into words… and will be far too precious to give away, even to him. Not to mention that I don’t want to add to the glory of Tristan’s portfolio—I’d much prefer he left nude modeling behind. I want to be the only one gifted with the sight of his flawless, naked body.
Want, want, want—what do I truly want from the man seated before me?
I can’t answer that—or maybe I simply won’t. All I can do in that direction is admit that Tristan is now my muse. He inspires me as no other person ever has. In art… in bed… in life.
I shudder. “I need to grab my knife—my pencils are dull.”
“Don’t cut your thumb off like Tommy almost did.” A friendly sparkle returns to his eyes, and I’m absurdly glad to see it.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a rookie.”
I’m not a rookie at sharpening a graphite pencil with a utility knife, but I’m a total newbie with whatever is happening in my heart.
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