Page 50 of Painting Celia

Celia felt embarrassed for him, negotiating like a child begging for a treat. Leaning back against the door frame, she clutched her robe closed. She’d stopped dripping but was still cold. A shiver ran through her as he moved in closer, eyes on hers, willing her to agree.

“That was my time for my own thoughts,” she said. “You want to show everyone.”

“I do, but it won’t be like that,” he said. “When you see, you’ll understand. It won’t be you. It’ll be abstract, anonymous.” He bit his lip, holding his breath.

“I thought I was alone!” She heard her voice raising and lowered it to a whisper on the last word. Alone? No need to wake Andrew. This was complicated enough.

“Celia, that’s the point. You with your guard down, it’s beautiful. Please.”

He swayed closer, determined eyes still focused on hers. The pressure she felt to give in ran deep.

She wavered, and he saw. Eyes narrowing, he let his hand slip down the door frame, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

For a moment, she thought he was reaching for her and felt more thrill than fear. The shock of it! Her heart was pounding, her skin tingling where she’d anticipated his touch. His arrogant pressure was…exciting? That couldn’t be right.

The surprising response in her body snuffed out her defense. She was already accustomed to giving in to his will, had been practicing for weeks. Why bother fighting him? He’d paint it even if she said no.

•••

He saw her capitulate. Shoulders softening from defiance to resignation, eyes lowering, the subtle tilt of her head in concession. He wanted to paint that change too, capture the transition from stiff to submissive. He could paint a whole series of her.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll pose.”

She was so fully his in that moment that he raised a hand to trace her skin. He trailed her collarbone thoughtfully with a finger, seeing brush strokes in his mind. This delicate surrender limned in a pale and fragile yellow against a field of warm colors, umbers and golds. This was the second painting.

The soft light from inside the house fell across the angles of her neck, barely highlighting the warm lines and shadowed planes. His fingertip wandered to her throat, thinking of the exact color right there on her skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Her breaths were coming quicker, the pulse visibly beating in the hollow of her neck. The closer he looked at her, the more he realized he’d missed. Her lines were perfect. He wanted to see more, inspect her in a low light.

His gaze traveled up to her lips.

“Celia,” he said. The revelation of her was overwhelming.

“León,” she whispered, “I can’t.”

His eyes snapped back to her face. “Can’t what?”

Their position finally dawned on him. He’d backed her up against the door frame, wet robe clutched to her, towel still wound atop her head. Her eyes looked up at him, liquid and bright, full of soft distress. He’d felt quite possessive then, touching her like he owned the lines of her. But she wasn’t his—he’d barely gotten her to agree to pose.

Painting. This was about the painting. He could draw art out of her, but she had to agree to help. This wasn’t the right way. He stepped back, lowering his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little caught up.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to break the spell. “I’ll go. It’s just the painting.”

“Just the painting,” she repeated, shivering.

León shook his head, trying to come back to himself.

“In the morning, okay? Can you sit tomorrow?”

She nodded mutely, eyes wide. He noticed his breaths were coming faster too. He’d gotten too engrossed in seeing her. It was excitement over the series he could make.

“This will work out,” he said. “You’ll see. I can do it.”

•••

She wondered who he was trying to convince. He said he was leaving but stayed. What was he waiting for? For a moment, she’d thought he was about to kiss her. Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

She remembered Andrew, her friend, his friend, lying naked in the next room. She couldn’t kiss another man with one in her bed already. That wasn’t her.

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