His Canvas (5 page)

I did.

He popped the morsel inside, placing it on my tongue like a
priest giving sacrament, and I closed my lips on his fingers, giving them a
good, long suck. Blood darkened his cheeks and his pupils dilated at the sensation.
"Very nice," he murmured. "Now push your panties aside and put
your fingers on your clit."

Almost as if I were in a trance, my fingers went to the apex of
my thighs and slid the crotch of my panties over my vulva. I was wet and
aching, the flesh of my pussy burning hot and soaked with my juices. I wanted
very much for him to touch me there again, but doing it to myself under his
supervision was somehow just as good, if different.

"Don't forget to keep your hand moving on my cock," he
said. I swallowed. I'd already forgotten, so enraptured was I by the thought of
him fingering me by proxy in public. I gave his cock another gentle rub, and
his intake of breath and fluttering eyelids told me I'd hit on something he
liked. He fed me another morsel of food, and I sucked at his fingertips again.
The spices mixed with the taste of his skin, making him sweet, savory, a
delight in and of himself.

"Using only your clit, bring yourself to orgasm," he
said. I scratched my nails over his cock, feeling the contours of the bulbous
head and the veiny shaft through the fabric, but I did as he ordered. I spread
my lower lips with my hand, and, using only one finger, I began to gently
circle my clit. It was so small, but it still stood at attention, as erect as
any penis and just as needy for release.

I flicked it, circled it, faster and faster, struggling to keep
my activities a secret above the table while I tried to simultaneously keep a
strong, steady pace on Malcolm's cock while he fed me. Slow, fast, eat, suck.

I watched his eyes flicker as I brought him closer to release,
his hips nudging up into my hand in tiny thrusts. He started leaving his
fingers in my mouth, just for a moment, and then a moment more, and when a bit
of savory sauce escaped, he dabbed it away with a napkin. "No
worries," he told me, and his voice was deep and husky, thrilling me to
the core. When at last my orgasm came, I had to bury my face in his
shoulder—large, warm, solid—as I gritted my teeth and rode it out. My whole
body clenched and released, and underneath my hand I felt his cock jump as he
came, too. A bit messier, to be sure, but probably no less satisfying.

When I took my hands away, I found the meal had been finished,
and I was just getting my first sip of wine when the waiter brought our check.
Malcolm paid, and together we exited the booth, he donning his long coat first,
and I couldn't help but be a little satisfied that I'd given him some pleasure
in return. And he hadn't run away this time. I'd have to count this as a
victory.

As we meandered back toward the subway in silence—not exactly
comfortable, but not tense or awkward either—I realized he had been right. It
had been the best meal of my life.

Now if only I could remember what any of it had tasted like.

*

We stopped in front of Malcolm's mansion. We still hadn't said a
word to each other since the restaurant, and now I was starting to feel a bit
awkward. It's not every day that you feel yourself up at your companion's
insistence on the first date. It's not every day that your date comes in his
pants. It's not every day you do both of those things out in the open, like a
couple of subway perverts. I'd once asked Felicia if Anton's semen contained
some kind of mind-altering that made her just go along with whatever he wanted
to do and forget why she agreed to do so, but now I was beginning to wonder
just what kind of hold Malcolm Ward had over
me.

I mean, hell, I wasn't even his wife. And his cum hadn't even
touched me yet. I had no excuse. None at all.

"I'm not running away again," Malcolm said suddenly.

I started. I hadn't even gotten that far in my thinking.
"Are you saying you're not running away and then running away and saying
you didn't because you said you weren't going to and therefore what you are
about to do is not running away?" I asked him.

For the first time, I think I'd left
him
speechless.
Although it had less to do with my shocking libido or scandalous thoughts than
my improperly organized brain. "What?" he said, confused.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Never mind. Okay, so you're not
running away. What does that mean?"

He looked up at his ridiculously huge house. Why would a single
man need such a huge house? I had to wonder. I mean, aside from storing boxes
full of eight-track tapes and incomplete collections of the Encyclopedia
Britannica. What is a house if not a storage unit, I ask you?

"I think it means I would like to continue to explore our
artistic relationship," he said at last. "I believe a union between
us could be quite fruitful."

Now I had to stare at him. "You're kidding, right?"

He looked down at me. He really was very tall. His beautiful
dark eyes narrowed as his brows drew together in worry. For a moment, he looked
almost... betrayed. "No. I'm not kidding. What makes you think that?"

I raised my eyebrows. "You're really talking about our
artistic
union being fruitful?"

His mouth dropped open. "Oh!" he said. "Oh, yes,
I can see where you might be getting the wrong impression. But yes, I meant
that. I would like to explore... other mediums."

"And I still inspire you?" I asked.

To my utter shock he reached out and ran his thumb down the side
of my face. "Yes," he said huskily. "Very much so. Please come
back here tomorrow at two in the afternoon."

A queer feeling curled in my stomach at the touch of his finger
against my cheek. "I, um, I have to work tomorrow..." It sounded like
the lamest excuse ever, but his touch, though it inspired anticipation in me,
also gave me a strange little quiver of longing. Longing, and regret. I had no
idea what to do with it, so I backed away and he dropped his hand. I felt the
loss like a blow.

"Will Felicia not give you the day off if you ask?"

I had to think about that. "I don't know," I said.
"I don't think I've ever asked her for one."

"Then I'd say you're due. Be here. Tomorrow. Two." And
he turned and walked up the stairs and into his house.

What a weird fucking guy,
I thought. Definitely not
crazy, though. Not by a long shot.

I turned and went home.

Chapter Six

I awoke to the phone ringing in my ear. Groggily I rolled over,
grabbed my phone, and answered. "'lo?" I muttered.

"So you had to get your loverboy to ask me to give you the
day off?" Felicia's voice buzzed in my ear and I winced.

"What?" I said. She sounded angry. I couldn't imagine
why. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She huffed into the phone. "I'm talking about Malcolm Ward
calling me up and saying you needed the day off today so he could paint
you."

This was news to me. I mean, we'd sort of left it at
maybe
yesterday. That he'd taken matters into his own hands rankled. "I didn't
tell him he could do that," I said, indignant. "I told him I'd ask
you for the day off. Or just the afternoon, if you need me in the morning. Do
you need me this morning?"

"Do I ever need you?" Felicia asked.

"Yes. All those times you got on the front pages of the
tabloids with your indiscretions? Remember when you first got married and I
covered for you? Remember all those times you forgot you had to go to one of
those fancy dress parties and I just so happened to have it on my calendar and
you showed up fashionably late without clay under your fingernails?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.
"Yes, well, fine. I know I need you. But I don't need you today. It's a
Monday. Nothing every happens on Mondays."

Even I had to admit this was true. "I suppose," I
said. "So he wants to paint me, huh?"

"I thought you said he took photographs."

"He says he hasn't found his medium yet."

"Oh jeez. What a twat."

For some reason, I felt defensive. "I don't think so. He
has some talent. The photos he took definitely show promise. You know, if they
weren't of me. Maybe if he had a really beautiful woman to photograph he'd do
better."

"He could have a really beautiful woman to photograph. He's
rich. He wants you."

"Oh. Thanks," I said, crankily.

"You know I didn't mean it like that. Anyway, he called and
asked for you to have the day off. I said yes."

I laid in my bed and blinked at the ceiling. My clock was just
about to tick over to my alarm, which was... strange. "Wait, he called you
at six in the morning?"

"Late last night," she corrected me. "I'm
gathering he's rather eager to see you again. You fucked him yet?"

I bit my lip. My dreams had been full of Malcolm, of things that
we hadn't even done to each other in the waking world. I had no idea what kind
of relationship we had, but it was certainly sexually charged, even though I
hadn't even touched his bare cock. Or his bare skin. Or... well, much of
anything, really. I'd never been with a guy as reserved as Malcolm. He seemed
to only want to touch me, and was largely uninterested in reciprocation. I'd
once thought, after one too many blowjobs with one of my exes who never told me
when he was about to come—it's called common courtesy, my god—that it would be
lovely to have a man worship my body and never ask for anything in return. But
I was finding out that I was pretty randy to worship Malcolm myself. He did
have a wonderfully hard body—what I had felt of it under his clothes—and sex
seemed to draw him out of his shell. He would have been fun to play with. It
would be really fun to see what made him tick.

"No," I said at last. "I haven't fucked him yet.
But I plan to."

"Good," Felicia said. "I don't think you've
gotten laid since you started working for me, and that's too damn long."

"I have!" I said, though I couldn't quite remember
when. "It's just that you get laid enough for the both of us."

"I don't think it works like that," Felicia said.
"You don't get to average sex out across multiple people."

"I know." Boy, did I know. Maybe my unbelievable
attraction to Malcolm was because of how long it had been since I'd just gone
out and had fun with a guy. I was a ball of repressed sexual energy, clearly,
and Malcolm had picked up on it. Perhaps that was why he thought I was so
magnetic.

"Well, whatever, go over to his studio, get painted, get
fucked."

I made a face, though I knew she couldn't see it. "Damn,
that sounds like you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad," she said. "I'm just cautious about
this guy. What kind of man calls up your employer to ask to give you the day
off."

"A rich man used to getting his way?" I guessed.

"I suppose."

"You sound like you don't like him."

There was silence at the other end of the line for a long
moment. "I don't think he's good for you," Felicia said. "You
said he's damaged. You always try to save the damaged ones and it never works
out."

I sighed. "I know." I remembered the way he stood up
and belted out a classic barbershop tune and dumped his wallet out to help a
hobo he'd never met before and probably would never see again. And then told me
Allah said he should, even though he wasn't Muslim. Absently, I rubbed one of
my tattoos, feeling the marred skin beneath. He was weird... and probably
damaged... but... "But he's... different. I think."

"You think?"

"I know. I know he's different."

Felicia sighed on the other end of the line. "I know I
can't talk you out of it," she said finally, "so try not to fall into
the trap of trying to fix him. Please?"

"I won't," I promised.

"Okay. Have fun today. Go get a massage or something
beforehand. You deserve it."

I smiled. Felicia was always trying to take care of me, when I
was the one who always took care of her. It was sweet. "I will. See you
tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

*

I arrived at Malcolm's mansion ready for anything. A good
massage will do that for you. Gazing up at it, I heaved a sigh and steeled
myself to once again enter the hoarder's den.

Except when I tried the door and it opened easily into the
foyer, I was greeted with the sight of boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes.
Circling around, I peered into the long stretch of the house behind the
entrance and saw still more boxes, and a group of men making more boxes,
putting stuff into them. What the hell? I thought.

I didn't even call out this time, just started up the stairway.
Reasoning that Malcolm wanted to paint me in his studio rather than his
bedroom, I went all the way to the top floor.

A wave of heated air hit me as I stepped into the room to see
Malcolm setting up a large drop cloth.

"Are you moving?" I asked him.

He looked up at me. His eyes were still haunted, smudged with
dark circles. "No. Why?"

My mouth twisted. "You know there are a bunch of guys
packing up your stuff and putting it in boxes downstairs, right?"

"Oh, that." He shrugged. "Yes, I know. I have
decided to get rid of my things."

I blinked. "Just like that? You, uh, have a lot of
stuff."

"Yes, I know. I've decided that it doesn't make me happy.
I'm going to give it away."

I just never knew what to expect with Malcolm Ward. "You're
giving all your things away? What about the really valuable stuff?" My
mind went immediately to the sculpture that had been sitting in his foyer, the
one by the student of Rodin. I would have liked to have touched that sculpture.

"What about it?" he asked. "I couldn't care less
about how valuable something is to other people." He smiled. "Do you
know what the most valuable thing in the world is, Sadie?"