Page 39

THIRTY-NINE

Canvas of Fire

Vivianne

The heat of the fire radiates outward, dispelling any chill to the room. Though the flue vents the smoke, the faint fragrance of pine reassures my senses and brings an innate comfort. In my mind’s eye, I envision snowcapped mountains and trees bearing the weight of winter in their boughs.

The world outside struggles through winter, but this fire provides protection against the bitter cold and warms my soul. I relax amid the crackling of dry wood succumbing to the flames.

I hold still while Paul sketches, the light scratching of his pencil the only sound besides the crackling of the fire and my soft breaths. I stare into the flames, entranced by the fire dancing along the wood, thinking about the beauty that arises out of such destruction.

“I have that one down.” Paul clears his throat, pulling me from my reverie.

The scraping of his chair over the floor has me twisting around. He said five paintings will make up this collection. We have four more poses; I sense each one will reveal more. Perhaps it’s best he eases me into the poses, allowing me to acclimate to exposing more of my body to his artistic eye.

Far in the back of the room, Anthony reclines in one of the thick leather chairs he pulled away from the fire. The elderly man clutches a book in his hand. His eyes pinch tight in concentration, darting back and forth as he reads the pages. He glances up as Paul moves forward and catches my stare.

With a slight incline, he acknowledges me and then turns his attention back to his book. Paul said Anthony would be present throughout the session, but he’s the oddest escort I’ve ever had. While thankful for his oversight, I wish for his absence.

With him present, nothing will happen with Paul, and I want more of what happened between us in the cave.

I tilt my neck, looking up as Paul closes the distance. He places me sitting before the fire, one leg bent in front and the other stretched out to the side.

“May I?” He reaches for the robe draped over my back, exposing my shoulders.

“Yes. Whatever you need.”

He slips the robe off my shoulders, revealing my breasts to the fire. I still retain some degree of modesty because my waist and hips remain covered, but the heat of Paul’s gaze sears my skin. He takes the next hour to sketch in silence while I watch the flames burn.

“If you would,” he says, “lie on your side and hold yourself up on your elbow.” He positions me as he desires.

I assume the pose, feeling awkward with how to position my legs until he guides me into place. Reclining back on my elbow with my legs stretched out, he keeps me facing the fire.

“I’m going to adjust the robe again.” His fingers graze my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I hold my breath, barely daring to move, as he pulls the silk down and over the curve of my hips. I expect him to stare. Instead, his gaze washes over my body—not with lust, but rather with the critical eye of a master assessing a subject.

As he did before, Paul arranges the fall of the fabric to his liking, easing the robe low on my hips to accentuate and expose the contours of my body.

Whenever his fingers graze my skin, I bite my lower lip, fighting the urge to let out the sounds bubbling within me.

A whimper, a sigh, maybe even a moan.

His touch ignites something deep within me, and I can’t bear to let him see how intensely I feel it—how every brush of his hand turns the moment into something electric, something undeniably sensual.

His touch is both intimate yet discreet, a blend of artist and man. From his professional demeanor, I see the artist—the experienced master—assessing every detail of the light as it plays against my curves. But then there are moments, brief yet unmistakable, when his gaze shifts—when the man looks at me, and I catch the glint of desire in his eyes.

He sees not just the lines and shapes to be captured but the allure of my body, and that mix of focus and hunger leaves me breathless.

He tilts me forward, nudges my supporting elbow back a bit, and then he adjusts my head, smoothing out the lengths of my hair. Every touch is an exquisite torture, unraveling me piece by piece.

His fingers seem to linger just long enough to make my heart race, my skin electrified under his touch. It’s maddening, the way his hands glide over me—always professional, always just shy of intimate—yet each brush of his fingertips sets off ripples of longing.

It melts me from the inside out, leaving me aching for more, desperate for a touch that goes beyond the artist’s purpose. It’s an unbearable dance between restraint and desire, and I want nothing more than for him to abandon that careful composure.

“Are you comfortable?” He scans my position on the fur. The pose isn’t comfortable, but he sketches quickly.

“I can hold this for a bit. I’ll let you know if it gets too uncomfortable.”

“Good.” He nods, his expression softening. “The next one will be easier.”

Already, my elbow aches, the discomfort seeping deeper as the minutes pass. Despite the fur cushioning my body, the hard floor digs into my hips, a dull, persistent ache grounding me in the moment.

Paul’s footsteps retreat, and the scrape of the chair across the floor echoes, telling me he has positioned himself in front of the canvas again. The sound of the chair’s legs dragging is harsh against the soft crackle of the fire.

Soon, the rhythmic scratching of charcoal fills the room, joining the crackling of flames and the whispering warmth that envelops me. I close my eyes, letting the sensory experience wash over me—the scent of pine lingering in the air, the flickering warmth of the fire, the gentle scrape of his pencil across paper.

It’s all a dance of sensations, a lullaby that makes me feel both exposed and protected, melting into the space between his artistic intent and my vulnerability.

I find myself drifting, my body settling into an unexpected state of calm. The warmth of the fire and the gentle scratch of Paul’s charcoal lull me into a relaxed trance.

I thought this would be awkward, even uncomfortable, but Paul’s presence has a way of soothing every apprehension. Everything about him makes me feel completely at ease.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I catch myself nodding off, my head dipping forward before I jerk awake. As I blink, Paul’s figure fills my vision, standing over me, his gaze gentle.

The scent of sandalwood and musk floods my nostrils, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. I breathe in deeply, savoring the heavenly aroma as heat unfurls through me—not just from the fire, but from his nearness.

“Do you want to take a break for the night?” Paul’s whispered words find me yawning, but I don’t want to stop. I clutch at the silk and pull it up to cover my breasts.

“I guess I was more comfortable than I thought.” Somewhere along the way, I stretched out, easing off my elbow. My body still feels warm, his presence somehow making the space feel safe and intimate. “I’m sorry. Did I ruin the pose?”

“No,” his voice softens, a hint of something deeper there, “it was perfect.” He lets his gaze linger on me for a second longer, his eyes darkening with something unspoken. “But if you’re tired…”

I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips. “I’m fine now.” I resume the pose he placed me in, my heart thumping a little faster. “Do you need me to…”

His eyes crinkle with mirth, but there’s an underlying warmth in his expression, a desire that smolders there.

“No.” He lets out a small laugh, the sound almost a rumble in his chest. “That sketch is finished.”

I blink, feeling a flutter of excitement. “Wow.” Curiosity takes over as I crane my neck, trying to peek over his shoulder at the easel. “Can I see?”

His soft laugh heats my cheeks. Now, why does that make me blush?

“No peeking,” he says. “Not until it is finished.”

“You artists are infuriating with your don’t-look-until-it’s-finished attitude.”

He helps me sit, lifting the robe over my shoulders to maintain a sense of decency. “If you’re okay for more, I’d like you to stand for the next pose.”

“Okay.”

He helps me to my feet. I clutch the robe closed, once again feeling shy and awkward. I let out a small laugh, realizing the innuendo in my words. “How do you want me?”

The truth is, I’d let Paul do anything he wanted with me, and the thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me.

He guides me to the side of the fireplace. Flames lick along the length of the main log, and the embers pulse with heat, glowing brighter as currents of air feed their hunger.

“Face the fire,” he says. “We’ll remove the robe.”

My body stiffens with that comment. I will be naked, not that it’s unexpected. Paul paints nudes, and I agreed to not only one painting but a series of five poses.

His fingers brush at my shoulders and grip the silk. Slowly, he lowers it off my shoulders, encouraging me to withdraw my arms from the sleeves. With my back to the room, I feel less exposed, but that will change.

“Place your hand on the mantel,” he says.

I reach up, my fingers trembling slightly as they meet the cool stone. The massive fireplace is over six feet long, the opening easily coming to my chest. The mantel rests at the same level as my shoulders, and the warmth from the fire caresses my exposed skin.

His grip on my wrist is firm yet tender, lifting my hand to exactly where he wants it. His hands move with purpose, sliding around my waist, and I feel the heat of his body radiating into mine.

His touch is commanding but gentle, his fingers splayed as they press against my sides, guiding me. I flow with his gentle insistence, turning slowly toward the center of the hearth, my body yielding to his every prompt.

My breath catches when his hands linger, the weight of his presence wrapping around me, and I only stop when his touch eases, releasing me.

The air between us feels charged, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting something deep within me.

He crouches before me, and his hands flow across the curve of my hip and down the length of my leg. More gentle pressure as he positions my right leg slightly forward, pointing my toe.

“Good.” He stands, taking a step back, his head cocked as he assesses the pose. “Turn your head slightly and bring your chin around until it almost touches your shoulder.”

I comply.

“Now, look down at the fire.”

He gives a few more commands, angling my face exactly as he wants. He said he wouldn’t reveal my identity to the world, but there will be suggestions. I trust him to be good to his word.

Finally satisfied, he retreats to his easel. Again, the room descends into silence. The log crackles and burns as flames lick along its length. The rustling of Anthony’s book sounds out the passing minutes, and through it all, the scratching of Paul’s charcoal creates the next piece of his series.