Hopping out of the chair, I go to find Andrew. I find him at another model’s station, directing what he wants her look to be. I wait until he’s finished and sees me. He gives me a once-over and nods, gesturing for me to follow. I do, and he pulls a swimsuit off the rack. It looks complicated and gorgeous even on the hanger. With it is a sheer robe in colors that match my make-up. “This is yours for tonight. Let me see it, I want to make sure it’s perfect.” Then he leans in suddenly, and I’m overwhelmed by his sudden closeness. “You’re the centerpiece.”
And then he’s backed away like nothing’s happened. My heart is thundering, and I scold it. I can’t get worked up every time he pays me any kind of attention. But he is paying attention. Even though he’s professional, I can see the way he’s looking at me. My body reacts to it in a way it never has with anyone else.
“Hurry,” he says, “I still need to show you your choreography.”
“Choreography?”
He smirks. “Something like that.”
I duck behind the screen and pull on the bathing suit. It’s a one-piece, but it’s so scandalous that it might as well be two. The fabric is woven in tight knots that form patterns over my skin. Some places are webbed with lace and sheer gauze, others are open to my skin. One strap is intentionally off the shoulder, and the colors are the same deep blue and teal that seem to be the theme. I put the robe on over the bathing suit, and I have to admit, it really works. I look like some sort of wanton mermaid or siren, ready to call to sailors and wreck their ships. With my make-up and hair, I look like someone who would do it with delight.
Coming out from behind the screen, I see that Andrew has walked a little ways away and is consulting with someone dressed in black who has a headset in his ear. They’re looking at a clipboard, and the headset guy seems really animated. Again, I wait. Trish was right, Andrew has about a million things to deal with at the moment.
But then he turns and looks at me, and he freezes. The air between us goes tight, and I can feel the magnetic pull between us like it’s a physical thing. I do feel like a siren, and I will him to come to me. He does.
“You look absolutely perfect,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say softly, grateful that my face is covered in paint and he can’t see the fiery blush now gracing my cheeks. I have to look away from him. “That’s nice of you.”
He shakes his head. “I know we don’t know each other well, but I never say anything I don’t mean. And I don’t think I’ve ever said that to someone before.” I lock eyes with him again and it feels like an electric eternity. He turns away quickly, breaking the moment. “Come with me.”
I follow him into the main gallery, and I practically blend into it between the lights and the artwork. In the center of the room there’s a low, oval platform. The lights play across the platform with a texture that makes it look like it’s underwater. “You will be here,” he says. “Lay down.”
I raise an eyebrow, but I do. Then he’s kneeling next to me, positioning me. “Start like this.” He pulls my arms above my head, and the way his skin feels on mine is electric. Fingers brush my knee. “One up.” If I’m not mistaken, his breath is a little short. Then his hand slides under my back and brushes my skin. “Arch as high as you can.”
The position stretches the suit, and I can feel that I’m inches away from being indecent, but I also feel sexy. Andrew is leaning over me, looking down, and I see him glance at my lips. Oh god, I want him to kiss me even though I shouldn’t. I want to pull him down on top of me right here in the middle of the gallery. Focus, Delia. “You mentioned choreography?”
“I did,” he leans closer, and I can smell the subtle, spicy cologne on his skin. I let my back sink back to the floor as he stares at me. “The choreography is simply this: ecstasy.”
“Like the drug?”
He laughs, and it echoes through the room. “No. Like sex. All of the models will be moving in slow motion, like they’re underwater. You just happen to be having the best orgasm of your life while you’re down there.”
I laugh softly. “So I am a siren. I wondered.”
“You certainly are.” I can tell he’s not joking.
Meeting his eyes, I arch my back again. “If I am, is it working? Because I can think of a few things that would get me in the mood to pretend I’m having the best sex of my life.”
Andrew’s eyes go dark, and his hand drifts down my waist grazing skin and fabric. Just as he reaches my hip, he pulls away suddenly, like he remembered where he was. He meets my gaze again. “Nothing is too far,” he says. “As long as it’s slow. If you want to touch yourself do it, if you want to moan, make whoever’s watching you feel your pleasure.”
I take a long, slow breath, making sure he takes note of the way my chest rises towards him. “Will you be watching?”
He’s silent for a long moment, and then. “I don’t think I could ever look away.”
6
It’s another thirty minutes before the gallery opens, and I spend that time trying not to ruin my make-up, and trying to go through in my head just how I’m going to pretend to have sex and orgasms for as long as this gallery is open. I keep seeing Andrew rush around, seeing to last minute details, and every time I do, I feel his hand run down my skin. I love the fact that he forgot himself, that I could make him do that. I want to see him forget himself a little more.
Five minutes before the doors open, I’m lying on the little platform. All around me are other models. Some are standing in the middle of the gallery, others are slouched against the wall by some of the gorgeous paintings. But Andrew didn’t lie—I’m clearly in the center of it.
Andrew and a woman who I assume must be Heather walk toward the front doors, and May snaps all of us to attention. I put myself in the position Andrew chose, arching my back to the point of pain as I hear the outside doors open and the waiting crowd starts to enter. It’s a launch, so the people invited are all from the fashion world. There won’t be just anybody walking in who thinks they can touch the models. That’s a relief.
I hear the gasps from the crowd as they walk into the room. It is a beautiful sight. And as the music starts to flow, I start to move. It’s awkward, trying to move my body in slow motion, and how on earth am I supposed to pretend that I’m having sex?
A person pauses beside me, and I feel myself blush. This is ridiculous. Someone is watching me writhe on the floor. I don’t know why I thought that this wouldn’t me humiliating. I know my movements are awkward and jerky. Not what Andrew wants. Not what he described, and I feel the heat in my cheeks grow. Thank god I’m painted blue and no one will notice what a red mess I am at the moment.
Slowly turning my head, I look toward the door. Andrew is there greeting people, but as if I called his name, he looks right at me. That pull between us snaps into place, and I feel it. I feel how to move. I imagine that the arch in my body is arching up into him. That the way I spread my legs and close my eyes is so that he can taste me. Slowly, slowly, I let my mind linger on images of his tongue inside me, fingers gripping my thighs until they shake and I’m moaning his name. A real moan comes from my throat and I bite my lip. He said nothing was too far, but that moan is just for him. I don’t want to share it with the rest of the audience.
And audience there is. They mill around, watching the performances and commenting on the clothing and art. I hear Andrew’s voice weaving through the crowd, talking and selling and making small talk. I focus on the sound when I can’t see him, let that voice weave through my head so I can feel that hand on my skin again. Imagine that he’s sliding inside me. That his head has dropped close enough to mine to kiss me while he plunges deep inside, taking me slowly until
I’m screaming. I shiver, the images too real.
God, I’m aroused right now. The temptation to reach down and touch myself is so strong, but I don’t. Because it’s all for him. I’ll give this audience what they want. I’ll give them a siren’s ecstasy, but my pleasure, that’s all mine.
I feel it when he comes and stands next to the platform. I’m blinded by the lights above me but I know that it’s him. I put every ounce of passion that I’ve been imagining into my face, into the way my body strains in the slow motion. The way I subtly reach for him.
It’s a long time before he moves on, and I wish I could have seen his expression. Or maybe I don’t. If it’s not what I hope, then maybe I don’t want to know.
When the last person has left the gallery, I collapse in a heap on the platform. Every muscle in my body hurts and the pent up sexual energy I have has me craving sex or chocolate. Okay, really only sex, but since I don’t think it’s an option, I’ll settle for chocolate.
I grab some water and change into the clothes I brought with me. No chance I’m getting this make-up off until I get in the shower, so I don’t even try. But I need to see Andrew. I need to at least ask him what he thought, and see if I can tell if he can feel what I’m feeling. It’s impossible that he didn’t, right?
I spot him across the room, and head towards him where he’s in conversation with someone. He spots me coming and excuses himself before I get there, and I arrive where he was standing just as he’s disappearing around the corner. I follow him into the main room of the gallery where he’s speaking to May. Again he sees me coming and leaves. This time I don’t follow. It stings after what happened before the show. After what I felt was obvious between us.
May approaches me. “He doesn’t.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t anything with people who work for him. No matter what he feels, he is a professional first. So if you’re looking for that from him, don’t expect it.”