A/N: Random bit of nothing that sprang from my mind after watching the movie and reading the book (both of which I ADORE, minus the fact that their relationship is never consummated…)
Disclaimer: I don't own Griet or Johannes Vermeer, or Girl With a Pearl Earring. This fic is just for fun.
Something broken within Vermeer made its presence known when he looked upon the luminous hair of his muse. She was unaware of his scrutiny as she took her hair out of its constraints, he was compelled to watch as the luxuriant waves fell down her shoulders.
Seconds passed slowly and she was still unaware of his presence. How could such a young girl be so unassumingly captivating? The painter's senses could not get enough her. His eyes drank in the sight of her, his nostrils savored her faint fragrance, his ears rang with the memory of her sweet voice, and his fingers trembled as he recalled the feel of her little hands beneath his. He had yet to taste her though, and that was something he sorely wished to remedy.
"Sir-" Griet gasped when she spotted him, partly hidden by the shadows that dominated the threshold of the store room door.
Vermeer met her shocked gaze steadily. He said nothing as he walked toward her, he only stared at the radiance of her doe like eyes.
"Sir." She said again, in a more muted tone, as he was but centimeters from her face.
They stood close, neither daring to move. Griet exhaled with great care as if her breath would frighten him away. She would admit only to herself that she desired this man more than her lungs desired air. The way Vermeer looked at her made her feel like she was so much more than a lowly servant in a cold house. When he gazed at her, she felt beloved and cherished. Nothing could hurt so deeply yet fill her with such elation as the warmth of his intense expression.
Perhaps it was the thrumming of his heated blood, or perhaps it was her inviting stare. Somehow his lips brushed against hers and then all was lost.
Passionate seemed like too insipid an adjective to describe the sheer torrent of heat that shot through the storeroom. Griet found herself entangled in her master's strong arms, her back pushed firmly against the wall. His lips showered her with frantic kisses, like he could not bear to let her go. Griet thought fleetingly of Pieter and his sunny, freckled face. With a significant amount of shame, she imagined the look of disappointment in his eyes, the look he'd wear when she inevitably confessed her transgression with Vermeer.
"Stop, sir. Please…" She somehow found the strength to push him off of her.
Johannes staggered back a few steps. Griet looked at him with a mixture of desire and fear, her lips parted and very red from his bruising kisses.
"Forgive me."
With that, he left her in the storeroom to gather her thoughts before they resumed painting once more.
It was not long before he was touching her again. He had just laid down the base colors and was beginning to incorporate the rosy undertones of her skin when he was distracted by the fullness of her mouth. The painter relinquished his brush and palette, instead, he silently moved to where she sat and scooped her up into his arms. He seemed to like holding her close, this time Griet was nearly powerless to stop him.
He smelled of linseed oil and lapis lazuli powder, scents she was familiar with. Griet was taken aback by his forwardness, so unlike him, but it was not repelling like van Ruijven's demanding touch nor was it selfish like Pieter's. Vermeer knew what he wanted but if she asked him to cease, she knew he would.
The problem was that she did not want him to stop at all.
His graceful hands caressed her back and remained there. Griet was almost mindless with desire when he kissed her newly pierced ear, she felt her knees give way. They tumbled unceremoniously to the floor, oblivious to the wasted paint on his palette and the feel of the hard wood beneath them.
"What do you want, master? Tell me," she whispered quietly, watching as his eyes flicked from her eyes to her lips and back.
Normally a quiet, introspective man, he surprised her when he replied, "I want to see you. All of you."
Her cheeks flushed pink at his bold request, but she found that she actually wanted to grant him this. She felt bolstered by the sincerity of his affection, everything else in her life did not matter anymore. She just wanted his hands to run over her bare skin.
With meticulous grace, Johannes went about unlacing the bodice of her gown. She lay back, watching him, feeling quite self conscious before his painter's stare. Looking closer, Griet realized that her master was not Vermeer the painter any longer but Vermeer the lover. His fingers shook with anticipation, the strings on her bodice fell loose and her torso was naked and visible.
She saw how her unbound breasts affected him. He helped her wriggle out of her cumbersome skirts and shift, then lastly he insisted on removing her improvised cap made from the blue silk from the storeroom. She shook her hair out and let it gather around her shoulders.
"You are an angel."
Griet flushed again at his praise.
"You flatter me too much, sir. What angel has hands like mine?"
He raised one of her reddened, chapped hands to his lips and kissed it gently.
"My angel has hands like these," He nibbled on her fingertip, "Such little hands…"
Nothing more was said during that afternoon.
A/N: May or may not add on...Not sure yet. Please tell me what you think. :D