And now Cohen blushed harder, because yes, that was exactly what he meant. River smiled, biting her lip a little in a way that made him nervously excited.
I watch Bake-off,she told him.I like to take ideas from it for new flavours for the ice creamery. So, I know what fondant is, Cohen.
He sighed.Okay, look. My secretary Michelle has a daughter. She’s six,he explained.She had a birthday and wanted a space-themed cake. My secretary couldn’t find a fondant topping anywhere that had the right colour of blue with glitter, so I made this one up for her. And then she couldn’t find a baker who could apply the ink correctly so—
But now River held up her hand to stop him from writing any more.You mean you baked a six-year-old girl a space-themed birthday cake with a handcrafted fondant topping you calligraphed yourself?
Cohen went as red as his wine, because yes, that was exactly what had happened. And if he felt soft and unmanly before, he felt doubly so now, realising that under his hard and jaded exterior lay the soul of a Jane Austen reading, calligraphy-loving bread and cake baker.
Look, I like my secretary and her daughter and—
He started to protest, but River pushed the pen from his hand, surprising him by wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing him softly. At first, he could hardly move, simply sitting there, enjoying the feel of her lips nipping at his, of her cheek cool against his flush one. But then, when her tongue slid against his lips, ducking into his mouth and pressing against his teeth, he lost all control. He crushed her to him, becoming almost aggressive against her mouth, pure desire and want emitted with every desperate exhale. He started to shrug his shirt off, intent on moving this to his bedroom and feeling more of her skin against his, when she abruptly broke away, stopping their kiss and taking a step back.
I want you to show me,she wrote.
Show you what?he asked, desperate to put his mouth on hers again.
This,she held up in one hand the bottle of edible ink, and in the other a brush.Show me how you do this.
He frowned.I don’t have any fondant to hand. You can’t use paper with that ink either – it’s too porous. You need something soft, slightly warm. Otherwise it won’t work. I’m really sorry, I don’t have the right canvas for that ink today. But next time I’ll make sure—
But River pressed the brush and ink into his hand anyway.
He had to rub his eyes twice before he believed what she wrote in her notebook next.
Cohen. I’ll be your canvas. Let me be your fondant.
He stared at her, mouth hanging open, and she took advantage of the moment, kissing him quickly, pushing her tongue into his mouth and swiping it against his before she pulled away. And then, making sure he saw the clear intent in her eyes, she started to unbutton her dress.
It was a tea dress, short sleeved, calf-length and nipped in at the waist. River bit on her lip as she slowly loosened the buttons from the top down, exposing the creamy expanse of her collarbones before the white of her bra came into view. Cohen inhaled sharply when she carried on, showing the dip between her breasts, which he longed to lick and kiss, before she stopped at her waist, just a flash of her stomach and belly button showing.
His mouth went dry when she turned around, pulling the dress from both shoulders and letting it fall to her waist. She pushed her hair from her back to one side of her neck, tilting it up to light – an open invitation for him to begin. She looked over her shoulder at him, her hazel eyes soft and warm.
It would have been enough just to stand her and look at her like she was. Half-naked, her back on display, her shoulders ripe to be kissed. But he held himself together, his hands shaking as he dispensed ink into a tray, finding a soft-bristled brush from his calligraphy table. He dipped the brush into the ink, a swirl of glitter soaking the bristles, before turning back to River, putting a hand on her back to pull her further into the light.
He tried to ignore the thrill he felt at the way she shivered when his hand touched the bare skin of her back, tried to ignore the hardness that was now pulsing almost painfully between his legs. He tried to empty his mind, letting the peace of calligraphy, of River’s presence, wash over him.
Tonight, he was an artist and she was his canvas, and he would do justice to the beauty of her body.
He started low, at the curve of her lower back. He applied a simple stripe to start, just to see how the ink took to her skin. And it was glorious, like a starry sky, a whole new universe written on this woman. Still, he took a deep breath. Because he wanted this to be perfect, and he knew he could do better.
He dropped to his knees behind her and, putting his hands on her hips, pulled her towards him. He licked a clean stripe where he’d painted, sucking the paint from her body, swallowing down the sweet taste of sugar and ofher.
She shuddered in front of him, and he planted a kiss on the damp flesh. Running a hand from her neck to her buttocks, he started again. A few strokes of his brush, and then he dipped for more ink. He went back to her, embellishing the marks he had already made, licking away his errors. Within ten minutes, her lower back was covered, and he turned her to the mirror so she could see his work.
She smiled at him. He’d painted upon her a star, a star bursting with light and life and flecks of ink, swirling against the creamy peach of her skin.She gestured for her notebook, and Cohen placed it gently into her hands.
You’ve made me beautiful,she wrote.
But he shook his head.You were already beautiful,he replied.You’re always beautiful.
She stared at the design on her back, bringing a hand to her hip and pressing a light finger against the ink. Her fingertip came away blue and glittery, and she sucked the ink from her finger.
More,she wrote in her notebook, though the written words were unnecessary, because he could see the silent entreaty in her eyes.And he was more than happy to oblige.
He went to put the paintbrush on her upper back, but River stopped him. While he watched, his tongue a leaden weight in his mouth, she went to the straps of her bra, pulling them down before unhooking the garment in the back. Without a second thought, her eyes on him all the while, she removed the item, fully baring herself to him and his brush.
Cohen stared at her, the brush shaking in his hand. Mentally, he was finally sending Uncle Israel that thank you note for the calligraphy set. Mentally, he was thanking the Jewish faith for Bar Mitzvahs, which now and forevermore would be the best thing ever. Mentally, he was sending atake thatto the memory of disappointment in his father’s eyes. But more than anything else, he was mentally thanking any and every God who might exist for sending this perfect woman to him.
