As I entered the gallery, the smell of turpentine and jasmine hung in the air — not the cloying scent of cheap air fresheners, but real resin, mixed with the smoke of incense sticks and the damp coolness of the old building. I actually hate openings: that forced smiling, the clinking of champagne glasses, the hollow compliments. But Marlene had begged me to accompany her to this exhibition. Her nephew, the painter. The big chance. I was just the appendage, the dutiful wife doing her job.
My husband had stayed home, buried in his files. “I don’t have the head for that sort of thing,” he’d said, pressing a fleeting kiss to my forehead. I’d nodded. It was easier not to push him. My marriage to Thomas was like a calm river — steady, predictable, without eddies. He was a good man. Reliable. But sometimes, in quiet nights, I wondered if I would ever again feel that wild beat in my heart that reminded me of my own aliveness.
I wove between the guests, a smile fixed on my face that didn’t reach my eyes. The paintings on the walls were large-scale, abstract, in earthy tones. Not bad, but they left me cold. I was looking for Marlene when I suddenly stopped. A man stood before one of the paintings, his back to me. His shoulders, the way he held his head slightly tilted, the broad hands clasping a champagne glass — my heart skipped a beat. I knew that stance. I had loved it years ago.
“Lena?” he said, without turning around. His voice had barely changed, perhaps deeper, rougher. I swallowed. “Jakob.”
He turned. And there he was, my childhood friend, the man who had gone to Australia ten years ago without a word. His face was etched with fine lines, his skin tanned by the sun. Those gray eyes were still as piercing as I remembered. Only now they knew something I didn’t.
“You look incredible,” he said, and I felt the years between us melt away. His gaze traveled over my face, lingered on my lips, and I felt naked, though I wore a simple black dress. “I’ve missed you,” he added quietly, just for me.
I knew I had to say something. That I should ask about Marlene, chat politely, then leave. Instead I stood there, my feet nailed to the floor, letting him look at me. My pulse throbbed in my throat, in my wrists, between my legs.
“Me too,” I heard myself say. The words came softly but clearly. It was the truth.
He smiled, and that smile opened a door in me I thought I had long closed. “I’m only in town for a few weeks. I’m living in a small apartment upstairs, subletting. An artist’s studio. Would you like to see it?”
The question hung between us, charged with unspoken possibilities. I looked around: Marlene was nowhere to be seen, the guests fluttered like moths around the paintings. No one was watching us. “Yes,” I said. “Now.”
He took my hand, and his fingers closed firmly around mine. We went through a side door, up a narrow staircase. The steps creaked under our feet. The smell of turpentine grew stronger, mixed with something else — paint, canvas, and the musky scent of his body. The apartment was a single large room: a bed in the corner, easels, paintings everywhere, paint tubes, rags. The window was wide open, the cool night air streaming in, billowing the curtains.
As soon as the door clicked shut, he turned to me. His hands settled on my shoulders, and he looked at me as if studying a painting he wanted to create. “I’ve thought about you often,” he said. “About your skin, your mouth. The way you laugh.”
I couldn’t answer. My breath was shallow. He stroked his thumb over my collarbone, and under his touch, my whole body opened up, as if I’d only been waiting for this. “Kiss me,” I whispered.
His lips met mine, and it was like coming home. His kiss was demanding but not rough. He tasted of champagne and salt and something dark I couldn’t name. I let myself fall, my hands gripping his shirt, tugging at the fabric, wanting to feel him. He laughed softly into my mouth, loosened my fingers, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. His body was warm under my hands, the skin smooth, the muscles firm. I let my palms glide over his chest, over the light hair, down to his stomach, where the skin was even softer.
He pushed the straps of my dress off my shoulders. The fabric slid over my breasts, and I stood before him, wearing only a narrow slip. He stepped back to look at me. “You’re more beautiful than in my memory,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “Turn around.”
I obeyed. I heard him catch his breath. His fingers traced down my back, over the curve of my waist, leaving a burning trail. Then he knelt behind me, and his lips touched the spot just above my ass. A kiss, then another, his tongue painting circles on my skin. I moaned softly, leaned back against him, felt his hardness through his pants against my buttocks.
“Come here,” he said, standing and leading me to the bed. It was only a thin mattress on the floor, but it was covered with white sheets. He laid me down on it, carefully, as if I were precious. Then he knelt beside me, his eyes dark with desire. He bent down and took my nipple into his mouth. I arched my back as his tongue circled it, sometimes gentle, sometimes with firm pressure. His hand wandered over my belly, under the slip, and I was ready, already dripping wet.
“Jakob,” I gasped. “Please.”
He smiled, a wild, hungry smile. “I want to taste you,” he said, and pushed the slip aside. His mouth found me, and I cried out. His tongue penetrated me, bold and sure, while his nose rubbed against my clit. I grabbed his hair, held him tight as he ate me like I was the last meal. Waves of sensation rolled through my body, and I felt myself opening, the tension swelling inside me. He sucked gently on my clit, and I came with a scream, my pelvis bucking against his face.
He didn’t relent, licking me through the orgasm until I lay exhausted. Then he straightened up, stripped off his pants, and his cock stood erect, wet at the tip. It was long, thick, with a slight curve. I sat up, took him in my hand…
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