Page 14 of Learning Curves

It was nearly eleven when Michelle got home from the party, later than she’d been out in years. Usually, she couldn’t wait to escape from social gatherings with her coworkers. She would put in the necessary appearance, talk to the right people, and then leave.

Tonight, she’d been drawn into a conversation with Audrey in the back garden, and it had been .

.. exhilarating. As she entered her house, Michelle was buzzing with energy.

She shut the door behind herself and leaned against it, closing her eyes.

Her pulse sped pleasantly through her veins, her body warmed by the whisky she’d consumed, even though she’d made sure she was no longer tipsy before she got in her car to drive home.

She was sober and yet not. The buzz she felt now hadn’t come from alcohol. It was ... what? The result of stimulating conversation? She and Audrey had talked for hours, eventually making their way in from the garden to freshen their drinks and get some food.

They’d found a quiet seat on the patio and compared notes on some of their favorite artists, a topic Michelle could talk about endlessly. Her passion for the women whose art had largely been overlooked by society in favor of men like Van Gogh and Picasso was limitless.

Michelle had been thrilled to learn that she and Audrey shared a love for Rosa Bonheur, Clare Atwood, and Alice Neel.

And then Audrey had introduced her to Hannah Hoch, who Michelle had somehow overlooked but was now completely intrigued by.

She would be researching more about her this weekend, that was for sure.

Perhaps she could even secure one of Hoch’s photomontages to add to her private collection.

Something bumped Michelle’s leg, drawing her attention to the fact that she was still standing against the door to her garage, eyes closed and daydreaming about art. She smiled as she opened her eyes, looking down to find Muse standing there, giving her a curious look.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I had fun tonight,” Michelle told the cat.

Muse sniffed her shoes as if to see who she’d been out with. Michelle had never been able to shake the feeling that Muse was still waiting for Kelly to come home, checking Michelle’s clothes for any trace of her, hoping that one day her favorite person would come back for her.

Even if she could communicate with the cat, Michelle wouldn’t have the words to explain that her human had abandoned her. Kelly wasn’t coming back, not for either of them. The happy buzz receded from Michelle’s veins, and she missed it immediately.

Muse meowed at her, then started walking toward her food bowl, pausing every few feet to look over her shoulder and meow at Michelle again.

Michelle followed, her mood further deflating as she realized the cat had only greeted her because she was hungry.

“This is why you have dry food in your bowl, you know, so you aren’t dependent on me for your supper.

” But Kelly had always given Muse a small amount of wet food in the evenings.

Michelle hadn’t intended to continue the habit, but she’d felt guilty denying Muse something she enjoyed so much, and so . .. here she was.

After giving Muse her evening treat, Michelle poured herself a tumbler of whisky and walked to her bedroom, hoping to recapture the buzz she’d felt earlier.

Her whole house was a showcase for her private art collection, but she kept her most cherished pieces in the bedroom.

Here, she could admire them every day without having to share them with guests . .. not that she had many guests.

Michelle sat on her bed, staring at the large oil painting that hung on the opposite wall.

It was one of Eliza St. Claire’s dark and stormy seascapes.

The painting depicted a lone woman staring out over the tumultuous waves as a full moon gleamed through the clouds overhead.

It was moody and beautiful, possibly her favorite painting in her home collection.

Her walls were adorned with an eclectic mixture of paintings and photography, except for the wall to her left, which contained floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves.

The shelves were filled with a variety of books, sculptures, carvings, and other treasures she’d gathered over the years.

All of them told a story, and she knew them all by heart.

The whisky warmed her stomach, mellowing her mood.

She finished it more quickly than she probably should have, then set the empty tumbler on a coaster on her nightstand.

She lay back in bed, gazing up at the ceiling.

She still felt keyed up, restless. One of her hands slid back and forth over the duvet, enjoying the texture of it beneath her fingers.

She missed touching another person. She missed being touched.

Her breath hitched as she recognized the sensation building inside her for what it was.

In the last few years of her marriage, her sex life had died a slow and agonizing death, and since the divorce, well .

.. Michelle had started to wonder if her libido had abandoned her once and for all.

But tonight . . .

She ran a hand over the front of her blouse, savoring the warmth of her own skin through the silky fabric.

When she reached the waistband of her trousers, she hesitated.

She’d never been good at this, at giving herself pleasure.

She tended to get too caught up in her thoughts, and her fingers never seemed to bring the satisfaction she sought.

Kelly’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Are you even able to get yourself off, Michelle? Because you haven’t been doing a very good job with me lately ...

Michelle pushed her ex-wife from her thoughts.

This was a skill set she needed to improve because she had no intention of marrying again, and she’d never been the type for casual relationships.

Michelle had accepted that she was happiest on her own.

Some might call her set in her ways, but she liked her home to be just so.

She liked controlling the temperature on the thermostat and putting on her favorite music while she cooked and not having to listen to Kelly snoring at night.

She liked coming home from a cocktail party and finding herself sprawled in her bed beside an empty glass of whisky, lost in her thoughts and not having to explain herself to anyone.

Her hand crept lower, sliding down the center seam of her trousers, and her breath caught at the warm tingle of arousal that blazed in her core. When she exhaled, it was with relief, followed quickly by frustration with herself for having neglected her needs for so long.

She rubbed herself over her clothing until she could feel the dampness of her arousal through the fabric.

A needy ache had built in her core, and she was breathing faster now.

She’d forgotten how good this felt, and now she wanted it to last forever.

At the same time, she was already impatient for release, because good lord , it had been a while.

Emboldened, she sat up and began unbuttoning her blouse, sighing with pleasure as the silky fabric slipped from her shoulders to land on the duvet. She moved it aside, then transferred her attention to her trousers, unfastening the button and pushing down the zipper.

She shimmied out of them, then lay back on the bed, teasing herself over her underwear, which was already wetter than she’d anticipated. She closed her eyes, imagining someone else’s hands on her body, a lover she refused to look at, afraid to know what face her imagination might conjure.

She didn’t want to fantasize about her ex-wife, but who else was there? In her mind’s eye, she saw a hand with neatly trimmed, unpainted nails skimming across her stomach, a turquoise ring on the middle finger. Kelly’s nails had always been painted, and she hated turquoise.

Relieved, Michelle surrendered to the fantasy.

She slid out of her bra and underwear, one hand caressing her breasts while the other slipped between her thighs.

She let out a little whimper as her index finger found and circled her clit, shocking her with a jolt of arousal. Yes. Oh, she’d needed this.

In her fantasy, honey-brown hair cascaded over her chest as her lover focused on Michelle’s breasts.

Rose-petal-pink lips brushed against her skin.

More, Michelle begged silently. She craved the feel of a warm body on hers, a hot tongue pressed against her clit.

She imagined her fantasy woman burying her head between Michelle’s thighs.

Just the thought made her throb. Michelle rubbed harder, eager to get herself over the finish line before the fantasy faded.

Her fingers felt good, but they weren’t quite enough.

They almost never were. After stroking herself for what felt like an eternity, she started to get frustrated.

She was no closer to coming, and her wrist had started to hurt.

With a sigh, she paused to give herself a breather. Her core ached for release, making her impatient. And then she remembered the present she’d bought herself after the divorce, the vibrator still in its packaging in the drawer beside her bed. Perfect.

Relieved, she sat up and slid to the edge of the bed, hissing a little at the way the duvet rubbed against her sensitive flesh.

She retrieved the plum-colored box. The packaging boasted that the device had arrived fully charged and ready for use.

Eagerly, she opened the box and pulled out the black bullet-shaped item inside.

It was softer than she’d expected, almost like skin.

Her clit throbbed in anticipation. She pressed the little button on the base, and .

.. nothing happened. She pressed again, harder.

Still nothing. Michelle bit back a groan of frustration.

Perhaps it had arrived charged, but after leaving it in her drawer for a year, the battery had gone dead.