SM owns.
Thanks to: Sunflower Fanfiction, Mari, and LovelyBrutal for their help with everything.
To: LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue for the inspiration.
And to everyone reading. Thank you so much.
Enjoy.
Stripped Desire – Chapter 4: Canvas
"Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon."
Emily Dickinson. ~
As I walk the streets of Bay Ridge, towards Edward's apartment, I wonder if I've lost my mind.
I've asked myself again and again why I'm doing this. Why didn't I call this off the minute he left my office that day?
Why did I say yes in the first place?
Maybe it was because of the challenge in his eyes whenever he talks to me. Maybe I just want to do him better, to beat him at his own game. The thing is, I don't know the rules to what we're playing, and I don't know the price.
Or perhaps I do.
Being attracted to and intrigued about Edward Cullen, and everything he has to offer, feels like second nature to me. It's as if I've had all this curiosity and hunger inside me that I've filled with books, music and work all my life.
While I was in college, I had to keep a strong grip on myself, because I knew I could get distracted from my goal. I needed my master's degree to work in the family business. Anything keeping me from it was a distraction. But, deep down, I wanted to be distracted. I knew that given the right temptation, I would cave in and all my careful planning would come apart.
The years of being a slave to my homework would've been for nothing. My training on how to be a Swan would've been in vain. Not getting my degree, with honors, could've meant the exile from my family.
I caused my own downfall anyway.
And now I have to face this rebel painter with enthralling green eyes and chaotic bronzed hair.
"Hello," he says, opening the door before I knock. His tone is cocky, as if I've been coming to his place all my life. As if he was sure I would show up. He's wearing dark jeans and a white shirt. My eyes go immediately to the colorful skin peeking out of his right sleeve.
"Hi," I say, forcing myself to look back to his face. His smirk tells me he noticed my wandering eyes. I tug my heavy coat closer.
"Come in," he says, his voice lower than usual.
I follow him inside, studying everything with my eyes. The first thing I notice is an enormous mural facing the door. It looks like a map, with a galaxy painted underneath. Maybe it's meant to represent the entire world.
The apartment is big and small at the same time, if that's possible. He has a lot of things in a small place, but it doesn't look crowded. He has two big bookshelves filled with books, and several paintings hanging on the wall. Yet it feels like there's a lot of empty space. Maybe because of the clear windows and spacious living room.
I spot some used canvases aligned against a wall, but I can see that they're not all finished. He also has a few wooden tables covered in papers and art instruments. This was expected. Artists are supposed to be messy, although I wouldn't call Edward messy, per se. His chaos seems organized.
I don't think he fits under any ordinary stereotype.
There are also a lot of foreign objects acting as decoration. Some things look like they belong in history museum, while others look as if they were bought at the flea market. I find myself wanting to know the story behind each object. Which ones were bought? Which ones were gifts?
Most of all, I'm overwhelmed by this place that looks so perfect for him. By how much everything suits what little I know of him, and all of what I imagine he is.
"You want something to drink?" he asks, walking toward the kitchen that hides behind the giant mural. I shake my head, but he's not looking, so I voice my answer.
"No, thanks."
"Okay, then," he says, walking back to me with a bottle of water. He motions me to sit, with his hand at the small of my back. I'm aware of his touch and the warmth he leaves behind after he drops his hand. We sit on chairs around a small, round dining table, close to a window.
"First things first," he starts, looking at me with zero amusement on his face. "You've agreed to pose for me, which means this is work. You can't bail on me. The result of this is probably going to end up on someone's wall, and you need to assure me that's okay with you. We can sign on it. I've had girls who have done it, so it wouldn't be unusual. Remember, you're doing this willingly." I nod while he takes a sip of his water, looking at me. Burning me with his eyes.
He licks his bottom lip before talking to me again. When he speaks, his voice is back to business. It doesn't reflect what his face looked like just a few seconds ago.
"Second, the lighting is paramount, so we'll need to work on this at exactly the same hour, and the exact same position. Meetings will be once a week, per your request, for, however long it takes to finish. I'm estimating three to four days." He arches his eyebrow in question, and I nod again, gesturing for him to proceed. He takes another sip, and I roll my eyes at him. He's doing it on purpose.
I think he knows how I feel when he does it. I shift in my chair, trying to appear impatient for him to get this over with. As if I just want to skip this part and get naked already.
In reality, I'm utterly terrified.
"Third," he picks off where he left off. "I've picked out a pose that I think will work best for what I have in mind, while keeping your modesty intact. This is purely artistic." He pauses, letting those words sink in. "We could work on more than that later… if you want," he says, with barely-concealed mischief in his voice.
That tingling feeling, that heat that seems to take over my body when he's around, ignites. I imagine myself looking like a giant flame, lighting the place on fire.
"Last but not least… thank you for saying yes, Isabella. I'll try my best so that you don't regret it," he says in a sincere tone before I'm recovered from the effect his words have on me.
I give him a small nod, letting him know I heard him, but don't offer anything. I don't think I can speak.
He stands, muttering something I don't understand. I stand too, acting on instinct. He walks toward the table with the art supplies. I follow, shifting inside my clothes.
I still have my coat on.
"This is a rough sketch of what I have in mind," he says, handing me a sheet.
On the paper is a pencil drawn woman, lying on a heap of blankets. The drawing is messy and looks done in a rush, but I still can see the talent in it. The woman, faceless and hairless, has her left arm covering both of her breasts. Her right arm is bent, resting on the hand close to the outside of her breast.
She has her face turned to the left. Lower, her legs are almost propped up, but intertwined, resting on the blankets. Her hips are covered with a sheet. I peruse the sketch over and over again.
"You have lovely hair, but I was thinking you should wear it up," Edward says, searching my eyes over his drawing. I meet his stare not sure of what my eyes are saying. He gives me a small smile and squeezes my fingers.
I take a deep breath and give him a small nod.
He nods back and rambles something about the type of paint he'll use. I can't focus on his words. He also shows me where I'll be, where he'll sit, and the lamps he'll use to help with the lighting. Nothing of it is important to me. I'm only focusing on the fact that I have to get naked for him. That, and the colorful ink that peeks out of his t-shirt every time he gestures with his right arm.
"Are you listening to me?" he asks, concerned.
"Yeah, sorry," I answer.
"I'm surprised by your silence," he admits, furrowing his brows.
"Did you forget I was here?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
He chuckles and shakes his head. "Trust me, that's next to impossible."
"How so?"
He gives me a long, serious look before answering.
"I can almost feel your skin humming, Isabella. It's fucking maddening."
I'm lost for words, yet again.
He chuckles once more and resumes his talk about technicalities. But something he says catches my attention.
"What?" I ask when I meet his expectant look.
"I said, you can change in that room," he answers, exasperated. "Or you could strip here, that's okay too," he adds.
I shake my head and make my way to the room. He yells something about a robe before I reach the room and close the door behind me.
I'm hyperventilating.
My heart is racing as I unbutton my coat, desperate to get out of it.
I try taking slow, calming breaths until my head clears. I look around and realize I'm in a small bathroom. I splash water on my face and start counting. It used to work when I was a kid.
After I'm on 43, I realize it still works. My breathing is back to normal, even though I still can feel my heart in my mouth.
My skin is still tingling, and I think about what Edward said—about the humming. I think I know what he meant. I feel a mixture of paralyzing fear and desperate anticipation. This has been the most intense feeling I've felt in a while.
Focusing on my eyes in the mirror above the sink, it hits me. This is why I said yes. This is why I'm doing this. The sensation running through my veins is what I've been craving without knowing.
Taking a deep breath, I undo the buttons of my dark blue blouse.
Then I lose my skirt.
Left in only my black, high-heeled boots, my stockings and my underwear, I take inventory of my body.
Not a Victoria's Secret model, or a porn star, but just a regular girl. A girl with healthy eating habits and good genes, soft curves and small bones.
Spotting the white robe Edward mentioned earlier, I get out of my remaining clothes.
The material is see-through, soft and cold on my heated body. My heart is still racing, and my hands are trembling as I fix my hair into a low bun.
I count to 79 before I'm able to step outside the room.
I walk with caution back to the living room. Edward's facing the mural, his back to me, arranging a lamp, then bending over to adjusts the blankets on the floor.
I don't say anything as I walk. I feel some sick satisfaction staring at him. Like payback or revenge. Only I don't seem to affect him as much as he does me.
"We'll take breaks, but if you need something you can tell me, and we'll stop," he says, startling me. I didn't know he noticed I was here.
"Okay," I say, and try to get my voice not to sound as shaky as I feel. When he turns around and looks at me, I could melt.
His eyes are as intense as ever, drinking every inch of my almost naked body.
He licks his lower lip, and I burn.
He mutters, "fuck" under his breath and I ache.
I feel like smirking at his reaction, but I'm not capable of much right now. I focus on his eyes, watching them flicker down my robe-covered body.
Then, some resolve takes over him and his face is the perfect picture of collected.
"Okay, let's get started."
"Right," I say, but don't move.
"Come here," he commands and I go to him without hesitation. I frown. He shakes his head and taps his forehead. "No frowns."
By the time I reach my spot on the blankets, Edward's sitting in his place: a stool and a raised drawing desk. He's placing layers of paper of some sort. I don't even remember the name of things right now.
Millions of things are rushing through my mind, and I can't single out any thought. My mind is going a mile a minute and I find myself missing the comfort of my predictable life.
"You can sit down first, and then lose the robe," Edward says.
I lower myself to the ground and realize I'm being an idiot. Of course, it's easier this way. Where did my common sense go?
I slide the robe off my shoulders, covering my breasts with my arms. Then, I pull the robe from under my butt and it shapes as a curve on my hips, covering me.
I start fussing with the robe and the blankets, trying to get it how it looked on Edward's sketch.
"Wait. No," he says and I stop. My heart is racing at his commanding tone, and the inexplicable urge I feel to obey him. I lock my eyes with him, nervous to catch his gaze and his beautiful face.
"Leave the robe there. Use it to cover yourself," he says.
I let go of the blankets and arrange the robe back to how it was. I move it around, following Edward's soft-spoken instructions, conscious of where his eyes are looking, trying to conceal my breasts with one hand.
"There," he says at last. "That's perfect."
I lay back, close my eyes and start counting. My heart is beating fast, and my breaths are hard and loud.
I feel my body itching with the need to fidget, to cover myself up. I'm sweating.
Anxious.
Scared.
Nervous.
I'm sure I've lost my mind.
Why on earth did I agree to this?
"Easy, Isabella. Relax," his voice comes from across the room, penetrating the jungle of my thoughts.
"Breathe," he says, and I try, but the air is fighting against me. I can't breathe.
"Focus your mind on one, soothing, natural thought. Just one," he says. I start counting my inhales and exhales.
"Good."
I do feel calmer after a while, but I feel as if I'll lose it any moment.
"What did you pick?" Edward asks me after a while. I chance a look in his direction and notice he's frowning. I tell him I'm counting. His frown deepens, as if he can't understand why I would choose to count as my one soothing thought.
"Numbers are natural," I tell him.
"I doubt that," he argues, not bothering to look up at me.
"They're logical, safe, relaxing," I say, willing him to get my train of thought.
I don't know why I'm bothering.
"They demand too much thinking," he starts, shaking his head. "They're not instinctual. They have to be taught. Pick something else."
I want to keep arguing with him, but decide against it. I'm aware of how much satisfaction I get from these pointless conversations and I don't want to give him more power over me. I already feel like he has me in the palm of his hand and I don't like it.
I count to ten, then start searching deeper in my mind. After a few minutes, I find myself thinking about my first dance lessons. I'm watching the girls of my class dance at the presentation I wasn't good enough to be part of. I focus on their movement, their grace and delicate swirls. The gorgeous dresses, the music.
"That's it," Edward whispers, and somehow his voice fits right in with my memories. "What did you choose?" he asks.
"Ballet," I answer and brace myself for his argument about how ballet is taught, as well. My answer seems to surprise him enough to let it pass. His curiosity gets the best of him.
"Do you still dance?"
"No. I sucked at it."
But I never stopped wishing I could do it.
"We're done," he says, waking me up from my self-imposed trance. I open my eyes and see him handing me a bottle of water. His own bottle is almost empty. I get up, wrapping the blankets around me, then taking the bottle from him. As I take a sip, I notice the faint classical music playing in the background.
"Thanks," I say. I'm not sure if he knows I mean more than the water. He nods and drains the last of his bottle. Once again, I find myself unable to stop staring at his lips.
I feel flames taking over my body, as the intimacy of the moment overwhelms me. That water I drink could as well be poison. I feel it scorching the blood in my veins.
He stares back at me for a second then helps me up. Together we walk to his drawing desk, and he explains what he's done so far. I listen to none of it.
I can only feel his breath on the back of my neck. It's almost impossible not to shiver.
After the awkward silence that follows his explanation and my reaction to his proximity, I go back to the bathroom to change.
Stepping into every item of clothing, I feel my composure start to take back over me.
I allow myself to feel the comfort of my layers.
I ease back to the person I am, trying to ignore the spark behind my eyes that I hadn't seen before.
As I walk out of the room, I also ignore the feeling between my legs.
There's much more fire starting inside me than I thought possible.
I'm terrified of getting burned.
Thank you for reading.
See you next week!