Painless (43 page)

“I like where you’re going with this,” Christos said, “but I’m serious about this. I want to paint a nude portrait of you.”

“What?!” I practically jumped out of my chair. Sitting nude for a portrait was fine when someone else was doing it, but I didn’t think I could. “Why?”

“I want to paint you nude for my upcoming solo show at Charboneau.”

“Nude?” I gulped. “As in fully?” I winced.

“Is there any other kind?”

“You mean nude nude? Not just bathing suit nude?”

“Nude nude. Fine art and bikinis don’t go together. Bikinis usually go on hot rod magazine covers.”

“I know you talked about doing things differently after hanging out with your dad the other night. But I was thinking maybe you meant finding different models or something.”

“I did,” he grinned his dimpled grin.

Nervously, I said, “I didn’t think you meant me.”
 

“You,” he murmured seductively.

I squeezed the neck of my T shirt together, as if it were hanging wide open like an unbuttoned shirt and I was braless. But I was covered. Why did I feel the desire to wrap myself in blankets or maybe step into a deep sea diving suit with one of those giant old fashioned diving helmets? Oh yeah, because Christos was suggesting not only that he paint me nude, but that he show off the painting in a public gallery where anyone could come in and see it. Worse, someone was likely to buy it and hang it over their mantelpiece.

How to break the bad news to Christos that his idea made me a tad uncomfortable? “Ahh…It’s awesome that you want to paint me. I’m totally flattered. But can’t we do it with me all dressed up? Like a regular portrait? Like your dad’s portrait of your grandad? He’s all dressed up.”

“I could do that, but I don’t think it would be the same.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” I joked, “it would be a painting of me. Problem solved.”

He shook his head and smiled his dimpled grin. As always, it had panty dropping powers. But I wasn’t going to let it work its magic on me this time.

I shook my head defiantly.

“Here’s the thing,” he said confidently, “there’s a woman inside you that I’ve seen from day one. But usually, she only comes out when you’re backed into a corner. Most of the time, that woman you are meant to be is hidden from the world. You’ve spent so many years hiding that strong, confident side of you, you barely know she’s there. But I see it all the time. I want to paint that woman and share her with the world. I want everyone to know how amazing Samantha Smith is. Not can be, but is. You are amazing,
agápi mou
. And I want everyone to know it. I suspect that if you can find the courage to sit nude, your confidence will shine through in the portrait.”

“Can’t I be confident with my clothes on?” I asked nervously.

“You can, but it’ll be that much harder for your confidence to shine through,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because posing clothed doesn’t require the same courage as posing nude. If you’re gonna pose nude, you’re gonna have to dig deep and bring out your courage.”

“What if I end up being nervous while you’re painting me nude? Won’t that show up in the painting?”

“Yup. That’s why I’m asking you, not telling you. Feel free to say no. Because if you’re doing it because you feel obligated, that will show through too. You have to dig deep and find that intrinsic strength of yours and willingly bring it out so I can capture it in paint. You have to
want
me to paint you nude. Then we can show the world together how amazing Samantha Smith really is.”

“Wow,” I smiled, “I kind of like the sound of that! You know what would make me really look strong?”

“What?”

“If I wore a Viking helmet.”

“Huh?” he frowned.

“Like one of those Valkyries from Norse mythology? They’re totally badass. I would look awesome!”

He made a funny face. “Take a moment and picture a portrait of you, sitting in the nude, wearing a horned Viking helmet, and tell me that’s not ridiculous.”

My brows pinched together. “You were the one who suggested I look strong. Horns are cool.”

“Yeah, but nude? Maybe with a sword and chain mail armor and a big shield. But that would look like you were pretending to be strong. Strength doesn’t come from armor or weapons. It comes from inside, from your heart and your determination. That’s what I want to paint.”

“You have a point. But I still think nude with a Viking helmet could be awesome.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically.

I frowned and folded my arms across my chest, “You’re the artist. Figure out a way to make me look awesome. It would be a first. I mean, you said it yourself, how many nude portraits of women wearing Viking helmets are there?”

“I’m guessing none,” Christos said.

“See? It’ll be a first!” I was totally into my idea now.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said thoughtfully.

“Really?” I was kind of surprised.

“Really. Let me mull it over. It might actually work. But you’ll have to wear pigtails like Brunhilda.”

“What? I hate pigtails. They make me look five.”

“That’s the deal,” he grinned.

“Seriously?”

He shook his head. “Maybe not. Pigtails might be a bit much. But I’ll think about that helmet. So you’ll do it?”

“I guess?” I smiled nervously. “But no spread legged crotch shots, right?”

He grinned, “What, no wide open beavers?”

“You keep talking like that and you can forget it,” I giggled.

“I’m kidding. You only see beavers in porn, or maybe tattoo art. I don’t want to scare off the fine art buyers.”

“What! Are you saying my lady bits are scary?” I stood up from my chair and turned to face him.

He jumped out of range. “I’m sure some men might feel that way…”

I lunged at him, but he dodged. “Take that back!”

“I was thinking of gay men!” he said as he jogged out of the studio. “They’re probably afraid of your beaver because they’re worried about getting their dicks too close to those huge teeth!”

“Huge teeth? Is that supposed to be an apology?!” I shouted as I chased after him. “Anyway, mine doesn’t have any teeth! And it doesn’t look like a beaver! Come back here! I’m going to tear your nuts off and feed them to the squirrels outside!”

“Wouldn’t you rather feed them to your beaver?” He called as he ran into the living room.

“It’s not a beaver!” I shouted as I followed him around the couch. “It’s a pussy! You said so yourself!” As I was about to grab his shirt tail, he jumped over the couch, out of reach. “At least you could call mine a lion or a jaguar. There’s nothing sexy about beavers.”

He ran to the far side of the living room and stopped. “What do you mean? I bet male beavers think female beavers are totally hot. The guy beavers are probably like, ‘Dude, check out that chick’s tail. It is so big and flat and rubbery, you could use it as a swimming pool cover.’”

“Swimming pool cover?” I scoffed, creeping toward him, one step at a time, hoping he wouldn’t notice I was stalking him like the jungle cat that I was.

Christos frowned, backing up a step. “What? Beavers spend a lot of time in the water. They think about these things.”

“Beavers build dams! What does that have to do with swimming pools?” I asked skeptically, inching toward him.

“Duh. A dam causes water to pool up, hence pool covers.”

I shook my head, moving slowly forward. “I don’t think so. Anyhow, why the obsession with beavers all of a sudden?”

“You’re the one who’s been drawing wombats all the time.”
 

He was almost at the base of the stairs. If I moved slowly enough, maybe he’d be lulled into a false sense of security so I could catch him. I cracked a smile, “You’re incorrigible.” I took another step toward him.

“What are you and your jaguar gonna do about it?” he taunted.

“My jaguar is going to eat you alive,” I growled. If he ran upstairs, he was mine. There was no way he could escape.

At the last second, Christos dodged right and ran toward the front doors. He was outside quicker than a cheetah.

“Come back here!” I shouted as I ran after him, right on his heels.

===

My breath pumped in a steady rhythm under the covers of darkness. The movement of my body and the liquid feeling of my limbs consumed my focus.

Christos was only a few paces ahead as we ran along the dark streets outside the Manos house toward the trailhead nearby. I meant, our house. Where we both lived.

I still managed to find time to run three days a week, despite all the craziness in my life over the last several months, and was in good shape. But Christos stayed several steps ahead no matter how fast I went. Despite all the drinking he’d been doing, he was still an amazing athlete who put me to shame. I could tell he could leave me in the dust if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He teased me with the proverbial carrot on a stick. In this case, it was a hunk of man meat on the stick. Or should I say his man meat on a stick. Either way, I wasn’t letting him or his stick get away.

When we reached the trailhead, he bounded up the slope like a weightless gazelle. Now he really did leave me in the dust, but I pumped my legs hard to keep up.

My heart pounded and my lungs burned when I reached the top of the trail. Christos stood at the edge of the small clearing, taking in the view. I took note of Spiridon’s old wooden bench, the one where Christos and I had kissed many moons ago under the stars. I think it had been the first time I’d ever been topless outside in my entire life.

I’d shared so many wonderful firsts with Christos since we’d met. And I hoped that we would share thousands more over our lifetimes.

This clearing was also the place where Christos had first sketched a picture of me, the caricature showing me as a painter with the inscription, “World Famous Master Artist Samantha Smith. You can totally do it!” I still had that picture. Christos had bought a frame for it and it hung next to my drawing table in our studio.
 

Our studio.

This clearing was the place that Christos had said that only his family ever visited. I had been such a bitch that day. I’d wrongly accused him of bringing all his girlfriends up here to get their pants off and screw them. I’d been too dense and too angry to realize he was already calling me his family when he barely knew me.

Wow, how prophetic that had been.

And of course, this clearing was the place I had mocked Christos and told him his nude paintings were just trashy trophies of all the women he’d had sex with. I’d said that his paintings were an invasion of the women’s privacy, nothing more than exploitation porn on fancy canvases. Funny. That’s exactly what my mom had said when she saw Christos’ studio during Spring Break.

“That’s not art,”
Mom had said,
“That’s pornography. I hope you would never consider debasing yourself by deigning to strip for Christos. I should hope I’ve taught you better than that.”

I chuckled softly to myself as my mom’s words echoed in my head.

“What’s so funny?” Christos asked.

“I was just remembering what my mom said about your nude portraits when she was visiting.”

Christos smiled and nodded. “It seems to me she sounded a lot like you did back when we met.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” I sighed.

“We don’t have to do the nude portrait if you don’t want to,
agápi mou
. It’s totally up to you.”

“Thank you, Christos. But I don’t want to be like my mom anymore. It’s time for me to finally leave all that behind. I’m my own woman now.”

“Yes you are,
agápi mou
. You are all woman.” His eyes flashed darkly in the silver blue moonlight. “And that’s the woman I want to paint.”

“All you want to do is paint me?” I teased.

He tore his shirt over his head and tossed it on the bench. The heavy shadows on his face and muscled body from the moonlight made him look savage. The jagged lines of the tattoos on his rugged shoulders enhanced his dangerous appearance. His abs were sharp and rigid. I could imagine being chased through a forest by this awesome specimen of manhood a million years ago. I would gladly have let him ravage me.

“I’ll do anything you want,” he growled.

“Anything?” I whispered.

“Anything,” he hissed.

“Take me,” I said seductively.

He stalked toward me, crouched low. His eyes burned from under his brows. He looked ready to snarl like a beast.

I started to shiver with anticipation and a little bit of fear. The flames in his eyes were more intense than I’d ever seen them before. They were the blue fire at the core of the flame, the darkest, hottest part of him.

He stopped inches away from me and dug his fists into my long sleeve T shirt at the collar. His fingers knotted into the cotton. The muscles of his naked chest bulged and his shoulders knotted. Roped tendons and coiled veins popped on his forearms. His eyes held mine. I was mesmerized by his masculine power.

There was a sharp tearing sound as the savage man holding me in his fisted grip tore my shirt open. His lips peeled back over his teeth as cotton ripped and popped, splitting my shirt right down the middle. Hot passion glowed in his eyes as he forced the tattered shirt down my arms, binding my arms. I was at his mercy and I didn’t want to be any other place in the universe at that moment. I was his to have.

He tore my shirt open the rest of the way, freeing my arms. A month ago, I might have covered my bra and breasts with my arms out of shyness. Instead, I shrugged off the remnants of my tattered T shirt and stood proud while I thrust my chest at my man.

He stared at my breasts, devouring them with his hungry gaze. They were his. I reached behind me and unhooked my bra, letting it fall. He caught it before it touched the ground like an expert hunter and tossed it onto the bench like a slingshot. It landed on his shirt like an arrow hitting the bullseye.

The cool night air tightened my nipples into rigid buds.

 
I felt his manly desire washing over me. That desire was for me. For
my
womanhood. Mine, and mine alone. In that moment, I understood. My perfect man was
all
man. His lust had driven him to seek out the finest specimen of womanhood he could find. And he had found me. He had chosen me out of all other women to be his woman. Because
I
drove him wild,
I
ignited his passion,
I
made him crazy.
I
turned him into a desperate caveman. And now, I would be his cavewoman.