“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he positioned her to capture the look he wanted, the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder. The moment was hers, and it was liberating.
He paused, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the very sinews of her soul laid bare beneath the light that bathed the room in a warm glow. “Your arm,” he began with characteristic brevity, lifting Joy’s left arm gently but with an assured touch, “let it drape over the chaise, like water flowing over river stones.” His fingers brushed against her skin, guiding her limb into a languid curve, every motion deliberate, reverent.
“Extend your other arm along your side, just so.” He positioned her legs at an angle, creating a composition rife with both innocence and suggestion.
Joy felt the warmth from his hands linger on her shoulder, a stark contrast to the cool air that kissed the rest of her exposed skin. Her breath hitched, heartbeats fluttering like caged birds against her chest. The sensation of his touch was not one of mere physical contact, it was almost sexual to her inexperienced skin.
“Turn your head towards me, just a fraction,” Moses said. He shifted her chin with the softest pressure from his thumb, a feather’s touch that sent a tremble through her core. He then reached up and removed the pins from her hair, one by one, bringing the waves forward and draping the length around her breasts. She shivered at the sensation of her hair brushing over her nipples.
His hands withdrew, and she felt an inexplicable loss, like the sun slipping behind a cloud, stealing away the warmth of day. Yet there remained a connection, as if spun from the gossamer threads of shared vulnerability. It was a delicate balance between artist and muse, each beholden to the other in this intimate waltz of creation.
Mr. Russell stepped back, the heels of his boots silent upon the small carpet. Joy’s breath hung suspended in the air as she watched him survey her form from afar, his gaze drinking in every exposed inch of her. His eyes roamed with a critic’s scrutiny and a connoisseur’s delight.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, more to himself than to Joy, though the word struck a chord within her, resonating deep inside.
Joy’s heart danced a skittish rhythm, moved by the intensity etched into the furrow of his brow and the slight parting of his lips.
His hand glided across the paper with a fluid grace that seemed to defy the mere mechanical act of drawing. He studied her a moment, pausing the pencil, then lowered his gaze and went back to work. “Mrs. Sinclair, would you tilt your chin ever so slightly? Yes, just there.”
Joy complied, her gaze shifting upward in a dreamy fashion that bespoke thoughts far removed from the confines of the drawing room. She wondered what he sought in the quiet repose of her features or the subtle parting of her lips. Did he find the longing hidden within the depths of her eyes, or the hint of audacity that colored her spirit?
“Perfect,” he breathed out as if the word itself held power. Occasionally, he would pause, his keen eyes tracing contours not yet committed to the page. His gaze lingered briefly on the curve of her waist before returning to meet her own. “Mrs. Sinclair, hold that look. It speaks volumes without uttering a single word.”
She couldn’t help but wonder what story her eyes told him—was it one of a widowed woman rediscovering her wants, or the tale of a reserved heart secretly yearning for adventure? Her breath hitched at the thought, and she hoped that whatever narrative lay within her gaze, it was enough to imbue his artwork with a life of its own.
“Your expression... Would you allow me a moment of boldness?” He set his pencil down and approached, his movements deliberate. “I wish to capture not just the serenity but also the spark—that flicker of intelligence and wit I’ve glimpsed in our conversations.”
For a heartbeat, she felt exposed, but then she remembered that here, she was not just Mrs. Sinclair, widow of a man who never truly saw her, she was a muse to an artist who sought to capture all she was and all she could be. With a nod, she granted him his request, her eyes alight with trust and a playful glint of mischief. “Like this?” she asked as she held his gaze and dared him to uncover every layer of her being.
“Exactly like that,” he confirmed. Returning to his spot, Moses sketched with renewed fervor, lines flowing onto the page with unbridled enthusiasm, as if trying to keep pace with the revelations unfolding before him.
Then he placed his pencil behind his ear and again set down his book, a soft clatter against the silence that enveloped the room. His eyes remained upon Joy, studying her form with an intensity that made the air around them thrum with anticipation. Suddenly self-conscious under his penetrating gaze, she felt a blush creep across her cheekbones, her heart drumming a nervous rhythm.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he began in a low timbre that sent a shiver down her spine, “to truly capture the fervor of passion, I require a tableau vivant of ardor. Would you...?” He hesitated, the words hanging between them like a delicate tapestry.
“Would I what, Mr. Russell?”
“Animate your beauty,” he said, closing the distance between them. “With your hands, coax out the ripples of pleasure. Touch your nipples to make them aroused.”
The request surprised her, but it shouldn’t have with all the permission she’d given him already. With a tentative hand, Joy reached for her breast, fingers brushing the silken skin before grasping her nipple, pinching gently. A gasp escaped her parted lips as a jolt of sensation shot through her, unlocking something primal within. “Like this?” Joy asked, her thoughts quivering with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
“Yes,” he replied, his eyes capturing her every movement. “Allow yourself to explore, to feel.”
Emboldened by his encouragement, Joy’s touch became more daring, rolling the sensitive bud between her fingertips, each pulse of pleasure blooming deeper than the last. Her late husband had never awakened such sensations, had never fondled her breasts in his quick ruttings. The tingling warmth spread, unfurling like petals between her thighs, and she paused, breathless. “Mr. Russell,” she managed to say, her eyes wide, “is that enough?”
He grunted in response, and his gaze lingered upon Joy’s figure, the intensity of his stare both unsettling and profoundly personal, as though he touched her without laying a finger upon her flesh. The air between them seemed to thrum with unspoken understanding as his eyes traced the curve of her breasts, down the slope of her waist, then back up to meet her own gaze. The look in his eyes smoldered with a silent acknowledgment, and with a simple nod, he affirmed her question and continued his sketching.
The scratching sound of pencil against paper filled the room, a gentle rhythm that accompanied Joy’s rising breaths. She watched him work, each stroke on the page a caress she felt upon her skin, and it dawned on her—the scars of her past were fading in this man’s presence.
As this revelation settled within her, a warmth spread through her chest, chasing away the remnants of her insecurities. Lost in contemplation, her fingers wandered back to her breast, playing idly with her nipple, rediscovering the pleasure she had so recently discovered.
The graphite danced in Mr. Russell’s hand as he rendered the final strokes upon the parchment. “Finished,” he declared. He placed his pencil behind his ear and set the book aside.
She rose, not even thinking about the dressing gown on the floor, and crossed the space unselfconsciously to where the book lay open on the table. The paper was more detailed than she expected in the short time.
It wasn’t the sensuous arch of her back or the soft roundness of her breast that captured Joy’s attention, it was her face—her eyes alight with a fire she had not known they possessed. They were not the smoldering, licentious orbs she had seen in the sketches of other women that Mr. Russell had done. Her visage was imbued with a different kind of emotion—a pure, radiant yearning that seemed to reach beyond the confines of the page.
What was the difference between her and these other women? What was she lacking?
