I didn't care who said it. "Don't say shit like that. It's creepy. Fuck."
Immediately he looked contrite. "I'm so sorry. I've offended you. It was just a stray thought. I've taken to saying what's on my mind lately, and I didn't stop to think how it sounded. I'll never mention anything like that again."
I took a deep breath, and firmly pushed my feelings down. If I didn't feel them, they didn't exist. "No. No. Why did he say the head of a dead cat is the most valuable thing in the world?"
He tilted his head. "Because no one can name its price," he replied. Then he frowned. "But now that I say it out loud to you, I'm starting to wonder if he wasn't wrong."
I could sort of see it as a sick joke, but it was one that had completely turned me off from the jittery excitement that had dogged me all morning. If I were someone else, I might have responded differently, laughed or something. It was true, in its own way. But still.
Malcolm stood up. "Sadie," he said. "Are you all right? You look very pale."
Dead cats make me pale, I wanted to tell him, but I didn't. Plenty of things would make me pale, and I wasn't about to share them with anyone. You never knew who could use a weakness against you. Sharing triggers was a surefire way to get got. I shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal. "I'm fine. Why is it so warm in here?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
"Ah, that." He smiled. "I read that one of the best ways to keep a model happy is to make it warm enough in your studio. I'm going to paint you today."
"Yeah, Lis told me." I looked around. "So where's your canvas and easel and stuff?" All I saw was a large white cloth in the middle of the room, and a collection of pots of paint and brushes on a small, low table next to it.
"I had planned on you being my canvas."
My eyes shot back to him, but he was deadly serious. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I want to paint your naked body," he said.
Okay, that got me nervous and jittery again, in the delicious way that made me warm and shivery all over. "I don't believe we discussed nudity today," I said.
"Then you do not consent?"
It was such a weird way to say it, but his face was open and honest, as though he meant nothing by it. He truly wanted me to be his canvas, naked beneath his brush. The thought excited me. I swallowed.
"I consent," I said. "I would love to be your canvas."
An almost imperceptible relaxing of his shoulders. He had been worried I'd turn him down. "If I go too far," he said, "you must tell me. I will stop whenever you say stop."
A zing of anticipation zipped up my spine. "Okay," I said. "I will tell you if you go too far." But I had no intention of telling him to stop.
There was no screen for me to change behind today, so I held his gaze and shed my coat, tossing it carelessly to the floor. I wore a cardigan underneath it, and I unwrapped it and tossed it down as well. My ribbed t-shirt joined them, and I stood before him in my bra, jeans, and boots.
The cherry wood of his eyes was almost eclipsed by the expanding of his pupils, and the skin of his face became lightly flushed as he watched me disrobe. I felt powerful, keeping his attention to me. He wore simple clothes today, only an old t-shirt and jeans, but they showed off his physique quite nicely. Well-muscled, but not overly so. Long waisted. A swimmer's physique. I licked my lips and bent to take my boots off.
"Let me help you," he said.
My breath caught, but I didn't tell him no. Instead I stood back up and waited. After a moment of drinking me in, he closed the gap between us, his bare feet slapping against the floor as though he were deliberately making a large amount of noise, as if he were flushing out prey from the shadows of the woods.
He knelt at my feet, bringing to mind the last time we were in this position, and he had licked me until I came. His hands ran up and down my thigh, and I felt the heat of his fingers through the denim of my jeans. I was already unsteady on my feet, and he made me more with each gentle stroke of his palms, as though he were soothing a skittish horse. I almost liked that comparison, actually. Strong and wild, he tamed me, but only with my consent. He found the zipper on one boot and slowly slid it down. The warmth of the leather fell away, and he wrapped one arm around my leg, his hand cupping my ass, as he nudged me onto the other foot, sliding my boot off. It clattered to the floor, and I winced, realizing I was wearing a thick pair of socks that one of my friends had knitted for me. It was too cold to wear anything else, I'd thought, and I hadn't thought ahead.
Embarrassed, I laughed. "Sorry about the socks. I know they're not—"