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Setting the dish in my hand down, I take her chin in my fingers and press a kiss to her lips. “More than okay. It’ll be nice to see everyone.”
Sunshine lights her face in the form of a smile and I question the last time I saw her so bright. It’s been too long.
Right here, right now, I vow to make Shelly smile more often. Recent worries had stolen her smiles. Worry over herself, the baby, the move. I need to be better. Do better. Take some of that stress off her shoulders. Carry the burden and help her relax.
I flatten the empty boxes and take them to the recycling bin. Shelly and I cook dinner, then settle in front of the television to eat. When the episode ends, I carry our dishes to the kitchen and tidy up.
Back in the living room, Shelly sits curled in the corner of the couch with a book. I pad across the room, take her book, mark the page, and set it on the table. Slip my hand around hers, help her stand, then escort her up the stairs to my studio.
“What’re you up to?” she asks, brow arched.
When we reach the landing, I spin around to face her and walk backward until we reach the middle of the room. I frame her face in my hands and crush my lips to hers. She fists my shirt at either hip and draws me in until no space exists between us. It is just her and me and our personal bubble of bliss.
Our tongues tangle. Hands skim arms and waists. I graze the length of her spine as she kneads the sides of my neck. Fingers fist hair and tug. The kiss morphing from gentle to hungry in seconds. And when she tips her head back and gasps, I kiss my way down her neck and drag my tongue along her collarbone.
“I want to paint you,” I say against the hollow of her throat. “But not like before.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair and pull my lips from her skin. “How?”
I nip at her chin. “On canvas. Just you.” I tug at the bottom hem of her shirt and lift up. My fingers skim down her sternum, over the center of her bra, over her belly that is slowly swelling with our child. “No barriers.”
“Devlyn, I…”
“Abstract,” I answer quickly. “Or not. I leave it up to you.” My palm flattens on her lower abdomen and I splay my fingers. “So beautiful.” I drop to my knees, my eyes peering up at Shelly as my lips press to the skin beneath her navel. “Please.”
Gentle fingers comb through my unruly hair as she holds my gaze. Neither of us says a word for several heartbeats. And then her head slowly moves up and down.
“Okay,” she whispers into our bubble. “You can paint me.” She takes a deep breath. “However you’re inspired to.”
Once again, this woman astounds. Her love and bravery and confidence. Without much negotiation, she handed over an incomparable level of trust. Laid it in my hands, certain I would keep it, and her, safe. Something I will never abuse or take for granted.
I shift a few things around in the studio, run downstairs to grab several pillows and blankets, and set up a comfortable space for her to lie. As she disrobes, I prop a blank canvas on the easel and shift its position, grab my paints and brushes, and take a seat on my stool.
Shelly lies down on the pillows and shifts until she finds a comfortable position on her side.
“If you need a break,” I say, “just tell me. It’s late, so I promise not to keep us up here long.”
Shelly folds a pillow in half and stuffs it between her head and arm. “How long will the painting take?”
My head teeters left and right. “Several hours.” I lick my lips and swallow as my eyes trail over her curves. Take in her creamy, bare skin. “If we’re up here daily, a couple hours each time, maybe two weeks. Or less.” I trace a finger over my upper lip. “Also depends on how I paint you. The heavier the details, the longer it’ll take.”
She inhales deeply and swallows on the exhale. “Okay.” Then she closes her eyes and her entire frame relaxes. Not a hint of resistance or timidity dons her expression.
Damn, she is beautiful. Too beautiful.
Over the next four hours, my eyes flit between Shelly and the canvas. The bristles of my brushes dip in various shades of pigment as I take in the bow of her lips, the slope of her nose, the swell of her breasts and arch of her hip. Blending. Shaping. Contouring. One stroke at a time, I bring this incredible woman to life on canvas in an unfamiliar way.
Abstract art has never been my style. I appreciate the style, but feel odd painting it. As if I’m misrepresenting the subject. Much of my art resembles the muse. Clean lines and sharp detail. When you study the piece, you see my muse.
With this, though…
Shelly bares herself to me fully, and not just her flesh. Just out of reach, she exposes every piece of herself and grants me permission to portray her beauty and vulnerability in my artwork. Allows me the opportunity to uncover an unseen layer of her charm and magnificence. Paint her nude heart and impassioned aura.
I have no plans for anyone else to see this painting. This piece is personal. The most intimate art I will create.
But accidents happen. And although I’d never intentionally betray Shelly or her trust, I can’t take the risk.
So this piece will be as complex and stunning as the woman herself.
