Her release hit her like one of the waves cresting below the house. She screamed, a high, shattering sound that wiped out the last of the silence in the fortress. Her internal muscles clamped around me, milking me, pulling me deeper into the void she had demanded we fill.
"God, Tessa!" I roared, throwing my head back, unable to watch anymore, overwhelmed by the sensation.
I spilled myself into her.
It was a torrent. Years of ink, of watching from the sidelines, all of it poured out of me and into her. I pulsed and pulsed, emptying myself completely.
We stayed like that for a long time. Standing in the room, swaying together, locked in the reflection.
Slowly, the world came back into focus.
Tessa slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool glass of the mirror. Her breath fogged the surface, obscuring her face in a mist of her own making.
I stayed buried inside her, my arms wrapped around her waist, my face buried in her neck. I breathed in the scent of her, sea salt and sweat, sharper now, realer.
"Did you see?" I whispered, my voice wrecked, rasping against her skin.
She lifted her head slowly. She looked at the reflection. The fog on the glass was fading, revealing her face again. Her glasses were gone. Her hair was a disaster. She looked thoroughly, completely ravished.
And she was smiling.
A small, terrified, victorious smile.
"I saw," she whispered.
"Good," I said, pressing a kiss to the smudge of charcoal I had left on her shoulder. "Because that’s the only picture I’m ever going to draw of you again."
"Simon," she murmured, her hand coming up to cover mine where it rested on her stomach. "You're shaking."
"I'm overwhelmed," I admitted. “I never thought you’d let me, and I wanted you so badly that I couldn’t see straight, which is kind of a problem for an artist.”
She let out a soft, breathy laugh that turned into a groan as I finally, reluctantly, withdrew. The separation was a physical loss, a cold ache rushing in to fill the space where I had been.
I adjusted my clothes, zipping up with fumbling fingers. I turned her around.
She leaned back against the mirror, legs trembling, looking at me. Her grey eyes were clear. Sharp.
"You really think I'm a masterpiece?" She asked, a trace of insecurity still hiding in the corners of her voice.
I reached out and took her face in my stained hands. I didn't care about the mess.
"Tessa," I said, looking right into her soul. "I would hang you in the Louvre and burn the rest of the collection just to make sure people focused."
She grabbed my wrists.
"Draw me," she commanded. "Later. When the heat breaks. Draw this."
"I will," I promised.
"And Simon?"
"Yeah?"
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine.
"Next time," she whispered, "don't make me look in the mirror."
My heart stopped.Next time.
