Page 11 of Iron Blade

“When you go to bed with socks on, you rarely wake up with both feet covered.”

I was beyond pretending that I cared about the art. They were lovely, but I had seen them before in Paris, London and at times, Milan. I didn’t come here to see them for the hundredth time. I came to watch her looking at them…

“You sleep with socks on?” Her brow arched, before coming down again to a neutral position as she composed herself.

“No, lass,” I chuckled, stepping closer to her.

She didn’t step back. She stood her ground until I was barely a hand’s breadth away from her, our foreheads almost touching.

She was keenly aware of me, just as I was of her. Her heat, and the sparkle in her eyes. The slight rise and fall of her chest under the modest neckline that cruelly started above her cleavage. But that didn’t stop my imagination from seeing their rounded shape even beneath the dark black professional attire. Hell, I could close my eyes and see every curve already, and it made me lick my lips in anticipation.

“What do you sleep in?” she whispered.

Her lips parted. Was there a hitch in her voice? I wanted more of that. More of her unsettled.

“Nothing.” I could smell her light, floral perfume. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Like driftwood and oak, but with a hint of feminine musk. “You? I imagine you in an emerald, green negligee - sheer, your breasts as bare as Liberty over there.”

She gasped; her round breasts threatened to break free of the constraints of her frock.

Was she getting aroused? Did she feel the crackle of electricity that existed within our words? Was she ready to let me bed her?

She shook her head, her shoulders tugged back. She acted like she could shake off the magic between us the way a dog shook off the water from a bath.

But the electricity was still there. Pulling us together like an invisible string that would smash us at the hips until we cried with ecstasy.

She turned, walking away. Her normally purposeful gait was a little shaky, and I took great pride in that.

“Sleeping in the buff is freedom,” I called out to her. Just to tease. To get more of those reactions that I craved. Her indifference could be maddening. Her walking away? Devastating. “That’s Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité.”

I rattled off the French slogan: Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.

She paused. With a slight turn of her head, and I saw the upward turn of her cheek. She was smiling.

“In that painting’s case,” she said with a small smirk pulling up her burgundy lips. “It’s Liber-tits, Egali-tits, and Fraterni-tits.” She then turned towards me, the small spin the most sensual thing I had ever witnessed in my life. “And there’s nothing fraternal about you sleeping in the buff.”

Ah, there it was. A small hint that she felt the same. That there was nothing brotherly about my approach was accurate. There was also nothing collegial about it. I wanted her in a simple, biblical sense.

She turned her head to the next painting, her mouth parting, as it always did, when she was stunned by a great piece of art.

“Pero breastfeeding her father Cimon,” she said wistfully. “The Seven Works of Mercy by Cerevaggio, I think, was the most famous version of this story. I don’t know this one… who is it by?”

Hearing her talk about art was the greatest aphrodisiac. She may as well have been parading around naked. Though, if she had, I think I would have plucked out the eyes of every straight man, and gay woman in the entire gallery.

This woman was crafted by whatever higher power existed especially for me, and me alone.

I turned to face the art. It was a modern version of Pero and Cimon, as she had rightfully identified. Cimon was sentenced to starve to death. His devoted daughter had visited him every day and nourished him with her own breast. When the guards found out, her act of charity moved them all to pardon them both.

I stood behind her, daring to get closer than propriety allowed. One eager breath and I’d be against her, spooned like a familiar lover.

“This was painted by a woman.” Her comment gave me pause.

“Why do you say that?” I leaned in just a little further.

The hair that loosened from her bun moved with my breath.

How I wanted to close that gap and fall into her warmth. I wanted to make a place for myself against her skin, cocooned with her arms around my neck.

“He’s got a decent latch,” she whispered.

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