He hesitated.
It was like a rope was twisting around my gut.
Then, I kissed him.
His lips were so soft, unlike the skin of his hands. To my surprise, he leaned forward. His tongue was warm and the taste of wine was richer. His hands settled on my shoulder blades before smoothing down low on my back. His tongue danced with mine, his grip on me tight and secure.
He twisted our positions, my back hitting the cushions of the sofa before his body separated from mine.
I sat up to reach for him again, but he placed a hand on my chest, pushing me back down.
He looked down at me with something like pity, or disappointment, or both.
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I took in a shaky breath. “What is wrong with me?”
“What?”
“I must be hideous to you.God!You can’t even stand to sleep in the same room as me, never mind be near me!” I slapped my hands over my face, trying to hide the inevitable flush. I hoped the cushions would engulf me, eat me up between them, so I might disappear like spare change.
I was so foolish. It had never been this hard to catch someone’s attention; he was aman, for God’s sake! Perhaps something was wrong with me instead of him.
A light chuckle was heard, and I removed my hands from my face. “Why are you laughing at me.”
Arkady shook his head, amused at my tantrum. “Is that really what you think?”
“How else am I supposed to take it!” I slapped the decorative pillows when my arms flopped beside me.
“Petronille, we have to work on your confidence.” He leaned over so his arm rested on the sofa backing as he hovered. “You’re intoxicated. I prefer to have you in better spirits and conscious when I do decide to pursue you. Don’t you agree?”
I gulped, staring up at him. “What about our wedding night?”
“You seemed a bit peeved.”
“I was.”
“And you wanted me to have sex with you then?”
“Yes,” I huffed. “It’s what you’resupposedto do!” My voice came out more like a squeak, an irresolute statement.
“I think we are past the point of doing things therightway, don’t you?”
I shrugged and glanced away.
“We can argue about it tomorrow. Sleep off the wine.” He moved some hair away from my face, some sort of glimmer in his eye at the thought.
“Only if you would at least entertain breakfast with me.” A hiccup bubbled in my throat, mortification burning into my cheeks. “You have to give me the chance to argue.”
“Deal.” He stood from the sofa and approached the corner chair to settle himself.
I wanted to call out to him again, but I didn’t want to ruin the clever exchange.
As he settled, his pants wrinkled, and I could see now that they were likely self-hemmed. The seated position exposed the small pattern on his socks. He didn’t bother taking off his dress shoes. Those shoes were scuffed to all hell, his collar unstarched, suspenders out of date. Yet, he pulled it off. Just the way he held himself was intrinsically fashionable.
He leaned back in the seat and grabbed his pipe. It was as if he had always lived here, making a home out of the parlor room. Perhaps it reminded him of his mess of a studio.
He pulled out a book from a pile on the floor, taking great care in opening it, inspecting the table of contents, the foreword, things nottoo many would spend such time on. His attention to detail made sense for an artist. I should have suspected it might bleed into the other parts of his life, his mannerisms.
I wanted to be studied. I wanted to know what he would say. If I let him get close enough, truly close, what would he say if I promised I wasn’t listening? How did he speak of me when I wasn’t by his side? What was it like to be perceived by someone whose entire life was art? Would he see the beauty in my potential, or would he just see raw material?
