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"I can't, Beau. Please. I'm not a doctor and you're not my patient," I insisted, still without looking at him.
"Our secret, Ruby," he whispered. "It will be our secret," he chanted. "Go on. Look at me. You can do it. Look at me," he commanded.
Slowly, like one hypnotized by his words, I turned my head and gazed at him, at his sleek, muscular torso, at the way the lines of his body turned into each other. Could I do what he asked? Could I look at him and detach myself enough to see him only as something to draw?
The artist in me demanded to know, wanted to know. I rose and went to my easel and flipped over the page to work on a blank one. Then I took the drawing pencil in hand and looked at him, drinking him in with long, visual gulps and then turning what I saw into something on the page. My fingers, trembling badly at first, became stronger, firmer as the lines took shape. I took the most time with his face, capturing him as I saw him in my own mind as well as how he looked to others. I drew him with a deep, strong look in his eyes. Satisfied, I moved to his body and soon I had the outline of his shoulders, his sides, his hips, and his legs. I concentrated on his chest and his neck, capturing the strong muscle structure and the smooth lines.
All the while he kept his eyes fixed so firmly on me; it was as if he were a mannequin. I think he was testing himself as much as he was testing me.
"This is hard work," he finally said.
"You want to stop?"
"No. I can go a while longer. I can go as long as you can," he added.
My fingers began to tremble again as I moved down the drawing to the small of his stomach. Now, with every turn of the pencil, I felt I was actually running the tips of my fingers over his body, slowly working my way down until I had to draw his manliness. He knew I had reached that point, for his lips tightened into a sensuous smile.
"If you have to come closer, don't be afraid," he said in a loud whisper.
I dropped my eyes back to the easel and drew quickly, sketching so fast I must have looked like someone in a frenzy. I didn't have to look up at him again. The image of his body lingered on my eyes. I know I was flushed. My heart was pounding so hard, I don't know how I continued, but I did. And when I finally stepped back from the paper, I had drawn a rather detailed picture of him.
"Is it good?" he asked.
"I think so," I said, surprised at how really good it was. I couldn't remember drawing a single line. It was as though I had been possessed.
Suddenly, he rose and stepped up beside me to look at the drawing.
"It is good," he said.
"You can put on your clothes now, Beau," I said, without turning away from the drawing.
"Don't be so nervous," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
"Beau . . ."
"You've already seen all there is to see. No reason to be shy anymore," he whispered. When he put his arm around me, I tried to move away; I willed my feet to carry me off, but my command died somewhere on the way and I remained beside him, as pliable as soft clay, permitting him to turn me around so that I faced him and enabled him to kiss me. I felt his nakedness against me, his manliness harden.
"Beau, please . . ."
"Shh," he said, wiping my face softly with his palm. He kissed me tenderly on the lips and then he lifted me into his arms and carried me back to the lounge. As he lowered me onto it, he went to his knees and leaned over to kiss me again. His fingers moved quickly over my clothing, unbuttoning my blouse, unzipping my skirt. He undid my bra and peeled it away. My breasts shuddered, uncovered, but I didn't resist. I kept my eyes closed and only moaned as he kissed me on the neck, the shoulders, and then nibbled gently under and over my breasts. He lifted me gently and slipped my skirt down over my hips, quickly burying his face in the small of my stomach. His kisses were like fire now. Everywhere his lips touched me, I felt the heat build.
"You're wonderful, Ruby, wonderful. You're as pretty as Gisselle on the outside and far more beautiful and lovely on the inside," he said. "I can't help but love you. I can't think of anything else but you. I'm mad for you," he swore.
Wonder filled me. Did he truly love me with such passion? In a moment of exquisite silence, I heard the gentle tapping of the rain and felt a warm shudder pass through my body. His fingers continued to explore me, stir me. I seized his head in my hands, intending to stop him, but instead I kissed his forehead, his hair. I held him against my bosom tightly.
"Your heart's pounding and so is mine," he said. He looked into my eyes. I closed them and then, as in a dream, I felt his soft lips move over my cheek, in my hair, then lightly over my eyelids and finally my lips again. This time, as he kissed me, he slipped his fingers under the waist of my panties and drew them down.
I started to protest, but he quieted me with another kiss.
"It will be wonderful, Ruby," he whispered. "I promise. Besides, you should know what it's like. An artist should know," he said.
"Beau, I'm afraid. Please. . . don't. . ."
"It's all right." He smiled down at me. I was naked below him and his nakedness was against me. I felt him throbbing. It took my breath away, made it harder and harder to talk, to plead. "I want to be your first. I should be your first," he said. "Because I love you."
"Do you, Beau? Do you really?"
"Yes," he swore. Then he returned his lips to mine, slipping himself in between my legs at the same time. I tried to resist, keeping my legs tight, but as he prodded, he continued to kiss me and whisper and nudge me
