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“I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone do a painting of me. It’s kind of weird,” he said, trying to peek under the cover.
I slapped at his hand.
“Not yet!” I pushed him down on the bed. “I’ll do it. When I’m ready.”
“You’ve only kept me in suspense forever,” he groaned, laying back and pulling me with him. He tried to kiss me but I wouldn’t let him.
“Okay.” I got up. “If you really want to see it, let’s do it.”
I went to the canvas and pulled off the sheet. Dale blinked, staring quietly, studying it carefully. I waited, chewing on my nail until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Well?”
“Well...” He cleared his throat. “It’s not exactly what I was expecting.”
“I know.” I threw up my hands. “But I was experimenting. Every time I tried to put you down in portrait form I couldn’t do it.”
He studied it, frowning, speechless. It made me nervous.
“This,” I nodded toward the abstract. “This is really you.”
“Here...” He pointed as he spoke. “This is my music, right?”
He touched the misshapen music note.
“Is this my father?” He pointed to a shadowy figure. I nodded.
“Everything is here. Even you, over here in the corner right?”
I nodded again.
“Why in the corner?”
I shrugged.
He pulled me back onto the bed, tucking me easily beneath him. “You should be right in the middle.” He kissed my forehead, pressing my hand over his heart. “Right here.”
I smiled.
“Well, I’ve never had anyone do a painting of me before.” He nuzzled my ear. “I’m more than a little flattered.”
I shrugged again, embarrassed. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
“Thank you.” He pulled back to look at me, tracing the outline of my face gently with his finger. His eyes were soft as he touched my lips and whispered, “Sara, sometimes I don’t think you’ll ever know how much you mean to me.”
I kissed him, letting my mouth tell him what I felt, what I wanted. He kissed me back, the feel of him a relief as he let his weight press me into the bed.
His hands moved up under my t-shirt, sliding up my sides, making me squirm.
“Ohhh, ticklish?” he inquired, his fingers finding his way up under my arms. I squealed and writhed and tried desperately to get away.
“Stop, stop, stop!” I cried, laughing too hard to get the words out in anything but a gasp.
But he went on, persistent, tenacious, until I was howling with laughter, trying to buck him off me, off the bed, but having no luck at all.
That’s when my door flew open.
My stepfather’s voice boomed above our heads. “Get the fuck off her!”
