"I want to taste every part of you,” he says again in my ear, this time slower as his hand creeps under the hem. My skirt pushes higher up my leg as we continue to move our bodies against one another.
I stop moving and just stand there panting, feeling dizzy with need. I’m hyper aware that his fingers are now tracing circles on the upper part of my thigh. They are almost connecting to the cotton covering my most intimate place. On an exhale, he touches me so softly, I feel as though I might have just imagined it. As he grazes my sensitive flesh on the top of my legs, my breath hitches.
I’m frozen in place knowing I need to stop this, but I’m unable to pull away.
His eyes penetrate mine, daring me to stop him. But just as quickly as this game has started, it ends as he pulls his hand away.
“No, not yet. I want you to be only mine. Your thoughts, your body, your every desire. Until you’re ready, I won't kiss you, I won't touch you, I won't taste you.”
I’ve never experienced a more emotionally charged moment in my life. Every inch of my body demands his touch. The anticipation I feel is exhilarating; this rush is a delicious torture. I never want this feeling to subside; I never want it to dissipate.
“I wish I could know what it feels like to be yours,” I whisper. “I wish I could fade into you.”
He places the softest kiss on my forehead.
Being with Ryder is like being a stargazer at a solar eclipse.
He renders me blind.
THE BUZZER SOUNDS as I rub the sleep out of my eyes. Alexandre has already left for work, and I’m alone, submerged in the comforts of my bed. The buzzer rings again.
Jumping out of bed, I head to the front door. When we had renovated the pre-war apartment, we’d decided to leave the original location of the intercom in the foyer. Not the most convenient location when the doorman is buzzing.
“Yes,” I say while holding my finger over the button on the wall.
"You have a package, Mrs. Harrison."
"Send it up please¸ Raymond."
I run back into my bedroom and into the bathroom, grabbing my robe that is hanging from a wrought iron hook that matches the decor of the room. My body slips into the robe, and I tie it tightly around my waist. As my hand reaches out to open the door, someone knocks. I assume I’m getting a small package. Maybe it is the pair of shoes I had ordered from Saks Fifth Avenue online earlier this week, but what greets me as I look through the peep hole is quite different. Standing beside the courier is a large crate. I’m perplexed and intrigued as I open the door.
"Mrs. Harrison?”
“That's me. What do we have here?”
"I work for Cameron Philip Gallery. I’ve a delivery for you.”
“It would appear you do.” I smile at him.
I open the door wider, allowing him to enter. The young man who is no older than twenty walks into my apartment and leans the crate against the wall in my foyer.
“Let me help you open it, ma’am.”
I laugh at his reference to me. “Please don’t call me ma’am, but yes, I would love some help with this. Is that okay?”
“I work for the Gallery, that’s what I’m here for.”
Reaching into his ripped and paint splattered jeans, he removes a box cutter. As he begins opening my surprise, I wonder what could be contained in such a large box. His muscles flex as he pulls open the crate and lifts the wooden top adjacent to the crate. From his back pocket he pulls out a pair of white gloves that he places on before removing the contents of the box. As he pulls out the painting that lies within, I gasp in surprise.
There she is, the woman with the haunted eyes, here on this beautiful canvas is beauty implied, the perfection of flaws. The ‘Imperfect Truth.’
The courier steps forward and pulls out a folded note.
“Mrs. Harrison, the man who purchased this painting wanted you to have this.”
My hands shake a little as I grasp the note tightly.
“Would you like me to hang the painting for you m-” He stops himself half way through the word ma’am. I smile at him letting him know his slip is okay; it’s actually welcomed as it lightens my mood considerably.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Oh, it’s Michael.”
“Michael, I would love if you helped me hang my painting.”
I guide Michael into the living room. The whole room is white, the walls, the couches, the nail studded tufted chairs. The walls are barren, the only colors coming from the black velvet bench sitting along the far wall. The area rug is grey with a silver leaf pattern woven within. A crystal chandelier sparkles in the center of the room. This painting will be exquisite within this pristine space. The splash of red on her face will add another layer to this lush interior. Michael makes quick work of measuring the large painting and securing it in its place. As I stand in awe in front of my new painting, Michael lets himself out.