She doesn’t move closer. “Want a tour of the art studio?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, clearing my throat again.
I haven’t looked anywhere but at her since entering the room. I glance around, and yeah, it’s pretty impressive. The walls are lined with bright paintings and taped-up sketches, with large unfinished canvases propped up against the wall. The room is thick with the smell of oil paint and turpentine, jars of water and brushes dotting every surface.
“Did you paint all of these?” I ask, pointing at the three easels in one corner and another, which Luisa is standing beside.
She shakes her head. “I’m not the only Musemage at the MA. We share the space.”
I walk over to a framed painting of a black cat stretched out in a pool of sunlight. I stroke the canvas, and gasp as I feel the soft fur of the animal beneath my fingertips. It wakes, and in one sudden motion, scratches me with a hiss. I pull back, sucking on my bloody hand.
“What the fuck!”
Luisa laughs. “Not one of mine, but Kitty is very protective of the muses.”
“God, there’s a lot of talent here.” I study each creation, one by one. “I forgot to say, I loved the art you did for the ball exhibition.”
She rubs the back of her neck and looks down at the paint-speckled floor. “Rafi told me how it changed for you. Something about a champagne bottle?”
I shove her lightly. “Oh, shut up.”
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “I’m sorry if yesterday freaked you out. Maybe it was presumptuous of me to kiss you.”
“No. I was wrong for saying what I said.”
“There is a way you could make it up to me.”
“Yeah?”
She gestures at the podium. “Model for me.”
I throw my hair over my shoulder. “Are you going to paint me like one of your Catalan girls?”
“Yes.” She runs her finger along the side of my silky shirt. “But you can keep your clothes on.”
I mask my disappointment. Not that I was eager to strip, but I was eager to keep the flirting going. Her face has gone all business now.
“I’m working on a new sensory portrait,” she explains. “I need a volunteer because I’ve tried using a mirror and painting my own reflection, but mirrors and magic are a dangerous combination.”
I take off my jacket. “What do I have to do?”
She signals to a chair. “Just sit there and let me paint a picture of your pretty face.”
I do as I’m told.
“What’s magical about that?”
She smirks, her gaze locked onto mine. I’m not looking away this time, I’m going to sit here until she blinks first. It takes a while, and by the time she looks back at her canvas, her lips are curling in a knowing smile. If she can feel what I’m feeling right now, then this is only going to end one way.
“The magic, with permission of course, is that on your face you will feel the parts I’m painting on the canvas. It’s meant to be very relaxing, and at the end of it, you get a portrait of yourself.”
I shrug. I can do that. With a nod of consent from me, she starts to mix the oil paints on her wooden palette. At first, I don’t feel a thing, I’m just mesmerized by how absorbed she is in her work. Her pixie cut shines dark mahogany in the light of the window, the section of hair that’s longer than the rest keeps falling in her eyes. Every time she pushes it back, my chest contracts. She dips her brush in blue and dabs at the top of the canvas. I feel a tickle on my forehead.
“Oh,” I say quietly, as her soft brush traces over one brow, then the other.
“How’s that?”
I nod, smiling. The invisible brush against my skin runs along my temple, and then the curve of my cheek. My eyes lock on Luisa’s as she glides its tip lightly over my lips.
“How does it feel?”
“Gentle,” I say, “Like the caress of a wing.”
She peeks over the canvas. “Too gentle?
“Maybe.”
She runs the brush across my mouth again, this time a little harder. My lips pucker to meet its feathery touch. I find myself imagining the brush is her finger, the paint her lips. She dips the brush lightly into my mouth, and I gaze up at her, lips closing around its invisible tip as she pulls the brush back out slowly.
A blush spreads across her freckled cheeks, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she resumes painting.
From my mouth, she traces longer, softer caresses down the side of my chin, then down my neck, stopping short of my clavicle. I feel a dull ache build between my thighs. I bite my lip. The seam of my jeans is a hard and welcome pressure. I adjust my position on the stool, squeezing my legs together tighter.
Luisa fills in the unpainted gaps on my face with a silky flicker across my eyelids, along my hairline, and my jaw. I imagine each stroke being made by her tongue. I blink the thought away.
Chill, Saskia. She’s only painting a portrait of you.
Slowly, she applies a few more wide strokes across my face, then follows the bridge of my nose, and stops. I didn’t realize how fast I was breathing.
“I’ve finished,” she says, so quietly I can hardly hear her.
I don’t want her to be finished. I want her to paint every inch of me. My jeans are still cutting into my core, and I push down against them, an idea forming in my mind.
“Is there any room left on the canvas?”
“Plenty.”
I tug at the top button of my shirt, my gaze trained on hers. “Then why stop?”
Her teeth catch on her bottom lip as I unbutton my top slowly, peel it off and toss it on the floor. “Keep going. Paint all of me.”
She may have a straight poker face, but I catch her eyes skimming my chest. My nipples are pert behind the lace of my bra
