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Stripped Desire – Chapter 6: Ink
"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.~
When I board the train the next day, Edward isn't there. It throws me off balance since today I was on time. Today, I was expecting to see him.
I'm more disappointed than I would ever admit.
I get to the office ready to put all Edward Cullen related thoughts aside.
Alice has other plans.
"So, how was it?" she asks, barging into my office with a grin before my computer has had a chance to log in.
I give her a look. "How was what?"
"I sent Edward home with you yesterday. Please don't tell me you have nothing to say," she says.
I roll my eyes.
"I have nothing to say, except that subtlety is not a virtue you possess."
She snorts.
"If you want to talk about subtlety, why don't you explain to me the way you looked at each other during lunch? What was that all about?" She arches an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes, but my heart rate quickens. I thought I was the only one who noticed how he looks at me.
"Why do you want to set me up with him? We have nothing in common."
"That's not true," she says. "And even if it were, maybe that's the point. Maybe you need to go out of your comfort zone to find the right guy for you."
I wait a minute before speaking. When I do, my voice sounds weaker than I intended.
"Who says I'm looking? Who says I need anyone?"
She looks at me for a second and then shakes her head in disapproval.
"We're all looking, Bella." She stands up. "And you might not need anyone, but I have a feeling you want something more out of life than this." She looks around my office before walking out.
I ignore the pity in her eyes.
On the second session, Edward Cullen opens the door shirtless. Water is dripping from his hair and onto his muscled chest. He motions me in and closes the door behind us, toweling the back of his head. A small drop of water splashes my right wrist.
I can almost hear it sizzle.
The colorful ink on his right arm is on full display: a sleeping woman starts on his pectoral and her orange dress flows to his shoulder. The trail of her dress is what has been teasing me all along, peeking out of his t-shirts.
Focusing on the tattoo, I realize I know the image. It's Flaming June by Frederic Leighton. It causes a sudden urge to know his reason for committing that specific painting on his body.
"First painting I ever loved," he says when he sees me looking.
I don't say anything.
Lower down his body, black ink starts on his right hip and disappears under his jeans. It's more than obvious he is wearing no underwear.
I feel like a gaping fish out of water, drinking in every inch of his skin.
He puts on a black t-shirt without uttering a word. The simple action of the fabric sliding across his body is erotic.
He claims I was a bit early and that he got home a bit late, as an explanation for not being ready for me.
I pretend is no big deal.
I think we both know I'm lying.
The image of his naked flesh and his ink, are forever etched into my memory. As if I need more reasons to be flustered around him.
"Are you ready to begin?" he asks.
I nod.
By the time I'm settled on the blankets, a sweet scent covers the room while classical music plays in the background. Edward tinkers with the light while I try to lose myself in the relaxing atmosphere he has prepared. I add thoughtful to the list of adjectives that can describe him.
I can't seem to forget the fact that I have no clothes on, though. Or the fact that his jeans seem to be defying gravity.
When he crouches next to my head to move one of the blankets there, I stop breathing. His hair is still wet, and he has that indescribable sensual look of a man who just took a shower. The masculine scent of his soap makes me somewhat dizzy.
"Relax, Isabella. Please," he says, looking down on me. His voice sounds the way the room smells: sweet, soothing. He moves a lock of my hair behind my ear. His touch is as soft as a feather.
My muscles unwind slightly.
He notices.
Standing up, he claps his hands and nods to himself. Then, he walks to his stool and his desk to get to work.
"How was your week?" he asks, a while later.
"Good," I say as I move my legs a little. There's an itch on my left calf.
He stops working right away with a frown on his face. His hand doesn't start moving again until I'm still.
"And yours?" I say, closing my eyes.
"Weird," he says. I feel as if I can hear the frown on his voice. I don't bother checking.
"I had to go out of town to meet with a buyer," he adds.
I take a deep breath, enjoying the vanilla scent that wafts around. Somehow, it fits with the piano keys of the song that's playing.
"How's that weird?" I ask, feeling more at ease.
"Jasper usually handles that aspect of the business," he says. "Lower your right arm, please." After I do as he says, he starts talking again. "I did enjoy the traveling, though. I miss it."
"What do you miss?"
He doesn't answer right away. I open my eyes and find him looking down at the desk. His hand works in swift, quick movements. His hair is covering his forehead in an adorable curl. He's biting his lower lip, yet he looks as if he's smiling.
I'm about to repeat my question when he stops moving, releases his lip and looks up.
He catches me staring at him, and the expression on his faces turns sheepish.
"I miss going away," he says, rubbing the back of his neck before standing up. "I miss meeting new places and new people, losing myself in an unknown city, being inspired by a different atmosphere."
He walks toward me while he ticks off these things. When he reaches me, he gives me his hand to help me rise.
It looks as if we're done for the day.
I rush to wrap the blankets around me before taking his offer.
I want to ask him why he bothered opening a business if he's the wandering type, but I don't.
"Thank you," I say instead, letting go of his hand.
"Come see," he says and pulls me toward the desk as he did last week.
"Jesus," I say, unable to hide how impressed I am. The rough sketch I saw last week feels like a distant memory. There are so many details on the painting now. "Is all this work just from today?" I ask, touching the edge of the sheet.
"I work fast," he says, shrugging. I turn my head to look up at him, expecting to see a cocky expression on his face. That's not the case. He looks almost humbled by my reaction.
He goes on a descriptive speech about what he accomplished today with the drawing, and the things he has to work on the next two sessions. I pay attention to what he says. His passion is contagious.
"I need to fix the shadowing here," he says, tracing a finger down my on-paper leg. I feel it on my own skin. The action makes his arm brush along mine. An unconscious tremor runs through my body.
He backs away from me. "You need to get dressed."
I nod, getting off the stool and almost running toward the bathroom.
"Come to the gallery with me," he says when I walk back out with my clothes on.
I make a knot with my scarf and shake my head. "I can't."
He starts walking closer to me.
"Why not?" he asks, and takes a heavy sweater from a nearby chair. "It's Friday night. Jasper's playing. I'll buy you a drink." The smile he gives me would be enough to want to say yes. Then I see a sliver of skin as he stretches to put the sweater on and I back away from him.
No.
"I'm tired," I say. I intended to make up an excuse, but this is the truth.
I am tired.
He looks at me, the smile gone from his face, and nods.
"Another time, maybe," he says.
"Sure," I say.
Edward walks me to the station. We don't say a word. It should be uncomfortable, but it's not. The silence is more of a companion than a barrier between us.
When I get home, I have a text from him. I take my time settling in before I check it. It must be a reminder of our next meeting. I doubt it's another thank you note.
Isabella, thank you for today. Did you think of numbers during our session? It says. My cell phone feels heavy in my hands as I realize I didn't.
Not even once.
Looking back, the only thoughts that clouded my mind revolved around him. The discovery of his colorful skin, the way he smelled, and how his jeans rested low on his hips were enough to drive me crazy.
I don't reply to his text, even as I admit to myself that numbers were the farthest thing from my mind.
Thank you for reading.
See you next week.