Page 49 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“‘It ends in dust, in a quiet room, on a forgotten shelf. I choose not to focus on the end, for that is long and stretches toward forever, but instead, think of the life that flared and thrived in the in-between. For who has a more cautionary tale on the importance and brevity of life than those who have already lost theirs?’”
The silence sang out as René smiled, his teeth pearl-like, as he replaced the sheet on the pile. “I am in the presence of a master. I believe as you do: Life is fleeting. We have but a moment.”
Then he winked, teasing, and added, “Though it is a bit passé to refer so strongly to Death in your work, no?” I blushed, and he nodded to the paper. “What are you going to do with it?”
I squirmed in my seat. After all, this was for Death’s eyes only.
“You should share your work.” He leaned closer to the canvas, daubing in small strokes.
“I do ... at least, I have pieces published in a few magazines.”
His gaze was assessing. “Not as much as you should, I think.”
I blushed even deeper. “It’s the way of the world. It won’t be accepted.”
René frowned. “Why would I paint if no one could see it?” He gestured to the canvas. “It’s how I make myself known. It’s how I show the world the value of my existence. And in doing so, I give the world meaning. Your writings, they are the same. Keeping them to yourselfis a selfish thing.” He turned his attention back to the painting as I considered what he said.
I hadn’t been keeping my work to myself—it was the editors rejecting them. But I had to admit that the constant rejection made me slow to submit. Maybe I was letting potential noes stop all the future yeses.
His words sent chills over me as I pondered them.
“Come now.” He grasped my hands, cool against my warm skin. “Let us finish our work—so we can immortalize you in another way.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking as he painted, and when I returned the next day, we picked up right where we’d left off.
In the late afternoon, he laid his paintbrush down. “It is finished.”
I stood eagerly. He’d kept his work covered when I wasn’t confined to the couch.
He nodded. I walked to the easel and gasped. He’d painted with wild abandon. Shafts of light highlighted my hair as my eyes, regal and powerful, gazed at the viewer. I sat confident in my presence—serene but strong. He’d depicted me as royalty.
“It’s amazing,” I breathed. “Everything you promised and more.” I’d thought him talented, but this was a wonder—the work of a master.
His green eyes held me there, a question open between us. Our business was nearly finished. I had no more reason to stay, and desperately wanted a reason to.
My curiosity got the best of me. “What will you do now that our time is ending?”
He stepped closer, giving me enough time to reject him. I made no move to leave, and welcomed his touch. He traced a finger along my collarbone, pressing the pad of his thumb into my birthmark. He ran it along my plunging neckline. A pulse drummed between my legs and I gasped, my nipples pushing against the fabric of my dress. His firm hands skated along the outline of my figure, and he lowered his mouth to my neck.
“I believe our time is just beginning,” he whispered, the heat of his breath caressing my skin, making me wild for his touch. “I didn’t tell you the other part of what I knew when I saw you that first day.”
I curled my fingers in his hair, hurrying his kiss along. But he waited, teasing.
“What did you know?” I panted.
“That you would be mine.” He kissed me.
I groaned with pleasure as we crushed together, almost devouring one another in our urgency. I plucked at his buttons, him pulling at my corset. We landed on the couch in a pile, limbs tangled as we shed our clothes. He pulled me on top of him, his clever painter’s fingers sliding down my body, skimming my hips, and slipping into the warmth between my thighs. I couldn’t look away from the intensity of his eyes, such a unique shade of green. I sank around his fingers slowly before he filled me. I gasped with pleasure, every sense, every nerve heightened. He grabbed my hips, rocking me forward, the spark of pleasure within reach. It had never felt thistogether, thisperfect. The sensation raced to my fingertips, through the ends of my hair. I felt ready to break apart.
René’s expression only saidmore. He knew just where to touch me, familiar with my body as he was with a canvas, rocking me forward again and again, until—with a cry a century in the making—my world blurred. René shuddered beneath me, and his groan drove the ache within me, making it stronger and stronger. A wave crashed over us, our voices mingling, our sweat glowing in the golden light of the sunset.
In the aftermath, with René’s arm wrapped around me, I blinked in disbelief. Sex had never beenthis. There was no pretense, no fear, no dishonesty—only truth and transcendence.
It wasn’t long before I wanted more. We stayed that way, making love again and again before the day slid into the night.
“Marguerite, there is one thing.”
There, the name. I yearned to tell him the truth, but instead I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. I was already thinking of the blond with the rosy breasts. Maybe he, like Jacques, had a secret wife somewhere. “What is it?”
