I’m running my fingers up and down my clit more fervently now, and pumping my other fingers in and out. I can feel my climax building and I don’t want to lose it. I allow myself to imagine whatever I want. It’s the icy version—Devo—his face fills my imaginary field of vision, and he pulls down his mask to reveal a wicked smile. He curls his fingers into my G-Spot and I allow my fingers to do the same. His hand is around my throat and he whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to see you like this later today.”
My muscles spasm uncontrollably and the vision fades. I do finally pull my hands out of my waistband and I lie in my bed, flushed. A thin sheen of fresh sweat covers me from head to toe. Physically, I feel wonderful. Mentally, I’m confused by the intensity of my fantasy, how turned on it had made me.
I’m tugged out of my reverie by the memory of the postscript on the note Devlin left me yesterday: “I’d hold off for another night.” Well. I held off for the night, didn’t I? It’smorningafter all, and I’d received no suggestions about that. So why do I still feel a touch a guilt? I shake it off and check my phone. I now have an hour and forty minutes to get to Copper Works, and if it was up for debate about whether I needed a shower before, then the answer is clear now.
I ride my endorphin high for a bit longer in the hot shower, but as I go through the rest of my routine, a different tingling feeling extends from the center of my chest. I wish this man had given me a goddamn phone number! But maybe it’s for the best he hadn’t. That way I can’t text him that I’ve suddenly come down with the flu and can we reschedule for a time when I’ve miraculously gathered more nerve.
Instead, I take a deep breath and give myself one more once over in the mirror. I don’t want anyone else in the studio to give me a second glance, but I want to look at least a little nice. I have on a smokey gray T-shirt, a bit more fitted than my usual choices, and my favorite jeans that I think hug my ass nicely andare marked with paint swipes along the thighs. I finish off with a kerchief around my neck, a common addition for me, and a swipe of red-tinted lip balm, anuncommonaddition for me. Most days, I’m a classic chapstick girl.
I look like I’m ready to paint, but I also look feminine, and dare I say, tantalizing? At least my curves, often covered by looser clothing and a smock, are on pretty full display. My hair is combed into a purposeful “messy” bun with tendrils framing my rosy cheeks and lightly rouged lips. I attempt my own devilish smile and think about the breathless state I was in less than an hour ago. Now that I’m not quite as pent up as I’d been since I’d left McArthur’s two nights ago, I can react to whatever this afternoon may hold with a level head.
Devlin used the word “collaborate.” That sounds professional. Upright. Doable. I can always change my mind, he’d reminded me. I leave my apartment in good spirits, buoyed by my confidence in my appearance and my internal pep talks.
This is going to be a breeze.
I arrive at Copper Works at 11:59. I’d never been so punctual in my life. I cast my eyes around the large concrete room, expecting my fellow artists to be in motion and focusing on their separate stations. At least some of them. Any of them? Not a soul is in the studio. Did I get the time right? Are we closed for a day? I was able to get inside though… if we were closed, I’d think Alex would have locked the door to the outside. “Hello—” tumbles out in my shaky voice as I take a few steps inside.
No answer.
My fingers twitch and I have an urge to re-do my hair while I have this moment alone.
Just as I manage to pull out my elastic, letting my coiled hair unfurl, a hefty metal click resounds behind me. I whirl. It’s him—he’s at the door in his mask and wearing a baseball hat pulled down low. He must have come in after me. Electricity zings through my every limb. “De-Devlin?”
A slightly muffled chuckle comes from under his mask. “Yes, Charlotte it’s me. Sorry to startle you.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I’m shaking my head back and forth. I cast my eyes to his boots, trying to convince myself that I’m fine as well.
He pulls down his mask and smiles with a hint of an apology, looking pointedly at my hand that I didn’t realize had thrown itself over my beating heart. I draw my hand down purposely, slowly.I am in control,I remind myself. But as I look up at his face as he drags his eyes up my body, the carnal energy he’s exuding has me wondering if in fact, I amnotin control.
“No one’s here,” I offer up more meekly than intended. “Normally people are here on weekdays.”
“I asked that we have the studio to ourselves today,” he says simply. He tilts his head and takes a step toward me.
“Why were you wearing your mask when you came in?”
He smiles and rolls his eyes. “A few bloggers are starting to get wind of my new spot”—he gestures to the space—“I’d prefer they not snap a picture of my face.”
“And why is that,Devo?” I emphasize his pseudonym.
“Well,Miss Faure—”He takes another step forward and I think he’s maybe about to touch me, but instead he bypasses me and heads for our small kitchen. He has that same smell of aftershave and acrylic I’d first caught on him at McArthur’s.
He yells back over his shoulder, “I’d like to keep some semblance of a private life during this ‘fifteen minutes of fame’ I’ve been granted.” I can hear him flick on the sink, and when I catch up to the kitchen doorway, I see he’s washing his hands.
Devlin runs the soap over his fingers and then thoroughly scrubs it off. He turns to me as he pulls a paper towel and I realize I’m staring.
At his hands.
I look back up to his face and he raises his eyebrows. “A woman of many words today, I see.”
He brushes past me once again, leaving me flustered. I’m determined to pull myself together.
Devlin makes his way deeper into our rather large studio. It used to be a warehouse for storing copper and had been equipped for pre-installation welding operations, thus the name, Copper Works.
I hang back for a moment and chew on what he’d said when I’d asked about his mask. “Wait—” I finally jog after him as he makes it to the end of the long room. “What do you mean your ‘fifteen minutes of fame’?” The exertion from my jog builds upon my already elevated heartrate, and I land beside him unexpectedly out of breath.
Devlin’s not paying attention to my question. Instead, he’s opened a door to a storage closet and is visually surveying the contents. Now that I’m just inches from him, I don’t know what to do. The last time I saw him in real life he had me up against a wall. And the last time I saw him in my mind, he’d had me against a tree, and had taken things quite a bit further… just thinking about it has me blushing again. Of course, he takes this moment to turn his head out of the storage space and look at me. I adjust my stance and turn my head, trying to nonchalantly obscure my face with a curtain of hair. To my great relief, he keeps any commentary on my shifting energy to himself.
“Apologies,” he says, “I normally know what the set-up is going to look like ahead of time, but I had my assistant set everything up for me this morning.” I’m confused until he opens the door wider and allows me to see inside. Our usually messy storage room filled with partially used or ripped canvases and forgotten supplies, now looks more like a lounge. An ornate red velvet settee sits in the front of the room; its wooden legs and edges are intricately carved and painted gold. The large circular base that’s normally used to roll out large sculptures now has a cream-colored tarp draped over it, with what must be a four foot by six foot unframed canvas laying atop it.
