“You can open your eyes.”
I do. I see dashes of a soft green paint before me. Devo had somehow avoided harsh splatters across my face. I look towards the edge of the canvas and see a deep black paint dripping off the edge. I hadn’t realized that he’d switched colors. The juxtaposition of the soft blues and greens with the deep black is harsh, indicative of tension.
“How did it go?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Well,” he answers with a warm smile. He wipes his brow with his forearm. “Really well.” He bends down to kiss my head again. It’s sweet and gentle. I warm to him in a different way. Devo has brought me through so many stages this afternoon.
He helps me stand, minimizing additional points of contact with the canvas. Once he assists me down the platform step, Devo embraces me in a tight hug. He kisses my temple. God, I love the tender kisses he’s given me throughout the night. This man brought me to the moon with his tongue and talented fingers, and then has me melting before him with the softest brush of his lips.
“Thank you,” he rasps. He pulls my head up to his, finger under my chin. “Thank you. You’re beautiful Charlotte, absolutely gorgeous.”
I smile up at him, not sure what to say. “You’re welcome?” I laugh and bite my lower lip. I shift my weight from foot to foot and give him a once over. “Would you like me to?” I pointedly eye his straining fly then look back into his eyes.
He shakes his head. “No, no, don’t worry about that,” he drawls.
“You sure?” My eyebrows knit together. I know how frustrated I was not long ago feeling so swollen and turned on before reaching a release. He puts his forehead to mine and nods softly. Our close eye contact feels intimate.
“I’m sure.” He takes a deep breath and draws back. He pulls aclean hand towel seemingly out of nowhere and gently wipes as much paint as he can off my body. “Now this is my least favorite part. I have to finish this”—he gestures over his shoulder at the canvas—“and clean up. And you, missy—” he runs his rough fingertips down my now paint-splattered arm “—need to clean yourself up.” I shiver, but begin to slide my bra back on. Devo bends down and comes up with my T-shirt, which he gently pulls down over my head. I frown as I poke my arms through the sleeves. I don’t want to leave.
“Can we be together for a moment?” I ask shyly. “Just for a bit?”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “Whatever you need.” He kisses my cheek and scoops me up again. I emit a squeak of surprise and then giggle, wrapping my hands around his neck. I know it’s just the chemicals coursing through me, but Ifeelsomething towards this man. It’s as if I’m basking in his warmth, and if I’m near him I’m safe. I feel sexy. I’m content.
Devo sweeps us out of the closet-turned-sexy-art-room and walks us through the empty studio. We round into the small alcove that is the kitchen. He sets me on the counter after throwing a clean smock down to prevent my bare skin from touching the cold countertop.
“I hope you have laundry services here.” He smiles as he fills a glass of water and hands it to me. “Since you’re such adirtygirl and all.” He eyes the smock beneath me and waggles his eyebrows.
I lightly smack him on the arm and laugh. “Hey, I was perfectly innocent when I came here.”
“Sure you were,” he parries, snagging my hand and bringing it to his lips. “And you just thought I was an innocent landscape painter.” He nips at my fingertips and I yelp.
“Hey! I didn’t know what was going to happen in there,” I say indignantly, grinning.
“Hmm, you’re not complaining now, are you?”
I look away from him and sip my water; I have no comeback. “No,” I mumble, “I’m not complaining.” I try to stifle the smile that wants to spread across my lips. No, I’m not going to complain about having one of the best orgasms of my life and then becoming a work of art. I steal a glance back at Devo and he’s grinning with a pointed look in his eye. Fine, he knows what he’s doing. Speaking of…
“Hey,” I begin in a less flirtatious tone, “is this how all of your Muse Paintings, um, happen?” A blush creeps up my cheeks. I don’t really want to ask him about other women he’s been with but… this is what he’s known for, isn’t it?
Devo tips his head sheepishly. “Everyone’s different…” He splays his hands out—I can see him thinking how best to explain. Then he looks me in the eye and rubs the back of his head with a hand, probably spreading paint through his hair. “But yes, I do my best work with real inspiration.”
I nod repeatedly, looking around and swinging my legs. Now that I know what he’s like, I want Devo just for myself, but I figured as much. Warm hands come up to cup my cheeks and I look up into his imploring stare.
“But hey,” he says softly, “to be honest, I don’t always have a connection with someone like this.” He gestures between us.
I look up at him through my lashes. “Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t quite know what I’m saying thank you for. Perhaps it’s for the acknowledgement that he actually likes me as a person, and not just as a body. Or perhaps it’s for giving me this entire experience, for allowing me to create something with him. Or perhaps I’m even saying thank you for getting me off, or getting me water, or giving me comfort when I need it. I don’t know why I said it, but I meant it.
“No, Charlotte”—he smiles softly—“thankyou.” With that, he helps me down off the counter and waits for me as I pad off to the restroom. I come out to see him putting his ancient phone in his back pocket as he holds out his other hand, which I clasp. We swing our joined hands on our jaunt back through the studio. Once back in the converted closet, we plop down on thesettee again and I drape my legs over his, just like how we started. He lands soft kisses across my cheeks, and I return a few, although they make me feel shy. Which is hilarious considering everything we just did together.
He puts his hand to my cheek, and I feel his thumb brush my dimple. It reminds me of our pen pal exchanges and how far we’ve come. His faint smile makes me think that he’s remembering it too. All those postscripts and all our banter. My bad jokes and his mysterious alter-egos.
Speaking of…“Hey, Devo, er, Devlin?” I hesitate. “What do you want me to call you?”
“You can call me whatever you want now, MissCharlotte G. Faure.” I give him a pointed look at the use of my full name, but deep down, I’m impressed he remembers my middle initial from my very first tipsy email.
He just shrugs and smiles.
“So… Devlin,” I start, “who was I sending all those letters to for all those weeks? There was a Mark R. and a Sam G.”—I look up at the ceiling—“I know there were others, but I can’t remember.”
