Hecuba. What would she be like once she knew
precisely what pleasures a man’s body could bring her? John was petrified by
the idea—in more than one sense.
He took a steadying breath and shook off his reverie. He
would deal with that complication later. For this last brief window of time, he
must think more about art than about her. “I’m going to make you a naiad,” he
said.
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A water nymph?” she asked.
“Specifically the nymph who seduces young Hylas and drowns
him while trying to love him,” John said pointing at a mossy bank on the right
side of the painting, where a nearly nude youth reclined on one elbow. A
leopard skin thrown over his hips was his only concession to decency. His
hunter’s spear was tumbling from his hand as he stared in astonished surprise
at absolutely nothing on the pond’s edge.
Hecuba leaned closer to the canvas. “Rushmore,” she said,
looking at the painted man’s face, “is that you? ”
John felt a dull flush clamber up the back of his neck at
the amusement in her tone. “I hadn’t the time to secure the services of a male
model and I have always been more comfortable painting from life.” He pointed
to the figure of Hylas. “I tried to make his features more youthful and perfect
than my own, but I’m not quite sure if I succeeded. He needs to be someone
worth taking advantage of—someone so helpless and beautiful that abducting him
is plausible.”
Hecuba’s gaze flickered over John from neck to knees. She
might as well have run her hand over the length of him the way his body
responded to that look. She turned back to the painting, comparing the nudity there
with what his current clothing revealed. “He doesn’t look helpless—he looks
ready,” she said. “Look at the tension in his thighs, the way he’s half-rising
from the ground—he isn’t running away, he’s running toward .” She smiled.
”Poor boy.”
The fond tone and the latent heat in her expression
galvanized John. It was just the expression he needed for the painting.
It also made him want to throw her to the floor and fuck her
until she screamed his name.
But he couldn’t do both—he had to choose one. “I’ve taken
the liberty of selecting a costume,” he said.
She followed him behind the screen, where he’d unearthed a
bundle from some long-forgotten theatrical something or other. The gown was
constructed of ivory fabric then covered with layers of sequins and netting and
tulle in shades of teal and turquoise. The whole mess glittered and fluttered
like a trapped butterfly between his outstretched hands. “It’s a little more
complicated than the last one,” he said in apology.
Hecuba stared at it for a long moment as though he’d offered
her a rotten apple from the ground beneath the tree. “No,” she said at last.
Disappointment pricked at him like a thorn in the side.
“Because it makes you look too exposed?” he guessed.
She rejected that with a most unladylike noise. “Because
it’s too ballerina-pretty,” she replied. Her expression was frank. “Do you want
me to be a monster or don’t you?”
John found himself speechless. Hecuba took the glittering
netted thing from him and began turning it this way and that, sifting through
the diaphanous layers. “Naiads are supposed to be pretty,” he stammered.
She made that sound again, an earthy grunt of rejection that
against all expectation sent the blood rushing to his cock. “This one is also
supposed to be fatal. She pursues her own pleasure to the point where it
destroys an innocent young man.” She knelt and spread the costume out on the
attic floor then glanced up at him. “May I make some slight alterations?” she
said.
John swallowed half a dozen perilous suggestions for other
things she might do from that position. “Please,” he said simply.
Hecuba gripped one shimmering turquoise panel of tulle and
pulled.
With a shearing sound, the small panel tore away from
precisely what pleasures a man’s body could bring her? John was petrified by
the idea—in more than one sense.
He took a steadying breath and shook off his reverie. He
would deal with that complication later. For this last brief window of time, he
must think more about art than about her. “I’m going to make you a naiad,” he
said.
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A water nymph?” she asked.
“Specifically the nymph who seduces young Hylas and drowns
him while trying to love him,” John said pointing at a mossy bank on the right
side of the painting, where a nearly nude youth reclined on one elbow. A
leopard skin thrown over his hips was his only concession to decency. His
hunter’s spear was tumbling from his hand as he stared in astonished surprise
at absolutely nothing on the pond’s edge.
Hecuba leaned closer to the canvas. “Rushmore,” she said,
looking at the painted man’s face, “is that you? ”
John felt a dull flush clamber up the back of his neck at
the amusement in her tone. “I hadn’t the time to secure the services of a male
model and I have always been more comfortable painting from life.” He pointed
to the figure of Hylas. “I tried to make his features more youthful and perfect
than my own, but I’m not quite sure if I succeeded. He needs to be someone
worth taking advantage of—someone so helpless and beautiful that abducting him
is plausible.”
Hecuba’s gaze flickered over John from neck to knees. She
might as well have run her hand over the length of him the way his body
responded to that look. She turned back to the painting, comparing the nudity there
with what his current clothing revealed. “He doesn’t look helpless—he looks
ready,” she said. “Look at the tension in his thighs, the way he’s half-rising
from the ground—he isn’t running away, he’s running toward .” She smiled.
”Poor boy.”
The fond tone and the latent heat in her expression
galvanized John. It was just the expression he needed for the painting.
It also made him want to throw her to the floor and fuck her
until she screamed his name.
But he couldn’t do both—he had to choose one. “I’ve taken
the liberty of selecting a costume,” he said.
She followed him behind the screen, where he’d unearthed a
bundle from some long-forgotten theatrical something or other. The gown was
constructed of ivory fabric then covered with layers of sequins and netting and
tulle in shades of teal and turquoise. The whole mess glittered and fluttered
like a trapped butterfly between his outstretched hands. “It’s a little more
complicated than the last one,” he said in apology.
Hecuba stared at it for a long moment as though he’d offered
her a rotten apple from the ground beneath the tree. “No,” she said at last.
Disappointment pricked at him like a thorn in the side.
“Because it makes you look too exposed?” he guessed.
She rejected that with a most unladylike noise. “Because
it’s too ballerina-pretty,” she replied. Her expression was frank. “Do you want
me to be a monster or don’t you?”
John found himself speechless. Hecuba took the glittering
netted thing from him and began turning it this way and that, sifting through
the diaphanous layers. “Naiads are supposed to be pretty,” he stammered.
She made that sound again, an earthy grunt of rejection that
against all expectation sent the blood rushing to his cock. “This one is also
supposed to be fatal. She pursues her own pleasure to the point where it
destroys an innocent young man.” She knelt and spread the costume out on the
attic floor then glanced up at him. “May I make some slight alterations?” she
said.
John swallowed half a dozen perilous suggestions for other
things she might do from that position. “Please,” he said simply.
Hecuba gripped one shimmering turquoise panel of tulle and
pulled.
With a shearing sound, the small panel tore away from
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