Read Online Work of Art ~ the Collection by Ruth Clampett - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Clampett
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dreaming, I can really feel the texture of his jeans.
My hands keep moving up, pressing on his thighs and feeling every tense muscle. Finally, I get to his crotch and my fingers press everywhere, but I can’t find his cock. I panic, not understanding what has happened to it, but then he reaches down and strokes my face with one hand while unzipping his fly with the other. He pulls his cock out and it’s substantial . . . how could I have missed it? He lifts my chin and watches as I take him in my hand and rub him against my wet lips.
Suddenly, instead of the darkness, we’re in a painting . . . something like a Jackson Pollock with paint splattered everywhere, and my mouth is moving over him as we float through the abstract landscape. I feel lost in his heat, the scent and feel of him. His humming gets louder and he starts thrusting. I’m jolted awake just as I feel his cum hit the back of my throat.
I pant, tangled up in my sheets, as I come down from the dream and slowly grasp that I’m in my bed alone. The dream comes back to me in pieces, my stomach churns as I realize that I’m the art slut in the dream. I swallow the bile edging up my throat. Even the idea of lowering myself to that level is enough reason to never see him again. It’s four in the morning, and I curl in a ball and don’t sleep another wink until my alarm goes off at six.
Wednesday afternoon Adam calls me in from the studio. I sit down in his office and he shares that Alistair has asked him if he’s comfortable with me taking on a writing project for him.
I explain to Adam that Jonathan and I met at Max’s show and he offered to review my work and look at samples.
“I thought he was just being polite. So I’m confused why he’s wants to hire me for a project when he hasn’t seen my work yet.”
Although I need to find out what’s going on, I’m happy to see Adam not only doesn’t mind, but also encourages me to do the work. As long as I do it on my own time, I have his blessing.
He pulls off the Post-it, hands me Jonathan’s number and tells me to use his office to call him. After he leaves for a meeting, I dial the number.
“Is Mr. Alistair available?” I ask his assistant, “Ava Jacobs calling.”
There’s a short pause.
“Ava!”
“Hi Jonathan.”
“I’ve had a good chat with Adam. Since we’re colleagues, I felt compelled to speak to him before talking to you, and I’m happy to report he was encouraging about the idea of you working on a project for me.”
“Yes, he just told me. I’m so glad.”
“Well, let’s meet to discuss it. Are you free for drinks tomorrow evening?”
“Absolutely!”
“Meet me at the bar at the Chateau Marmont at six-thirty. Give them my name when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, Jonathan.”
After I hang up, I clap my hands together excitedly. My first professional writing job for a real client who isn’t Adam! Nothing against Adam, but it’s like working for my dad. I happily float through the afternoon.
The following evening, I dodge a pack of paparazzi as I pull up to the valet at the Chateau Marmont. It must suck to be a celebrity, I think as the pack of animals with cameras strapped around their necks pace just beyond the entrance to the driveway.
I’m glad I put extra effort into my appearance. I have a silver silk shirt tucked into gray wool slacks. My hair’s down and smoothed back, and I’m even wearing high-heeled sandals. I certainly look more sophisticated and elegant than I feel inside.
Jonathan greets me at the entrance to the bar.
Moments after we’re seated, his cell phone rings, and he looks at the screen then back at me apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ava. May I take this briefly?”
I nod, and he scoots his chair back from the table and turns away.
“Yes,” he says quietly into the receiver.
“Yes, she’s here . . . No, we haven’t discussed it yet, we just got here.” He sounds frustrated. “Yes, you’ve made that
My hands keep moving up, pressing on his thighs and feeling every tense muscle. Finally, I get to his crotch and my fingers press everywhere, but I can’t find his cock. I panic, not understanding what has happened to it, but then he reaches down and strokes my face with one hand while unzipping his fly with the other. He pulls his cock out and it’s substantial . . . how could I have missed it? He lifts my chin and watches as I take him in my hand and rub him against my wet lips.
Suddenly, instead of the darkness, we’re in a painting . . . something like a Jackson Pollock with paint splattered everywhere, and my mouth is moving over him as we float through the abstract landscape. I feel lost in his heat, the scent and feel of him. His humming gets louder and he starts thrusting. I’m jolted awake just as I feel his cum hit the back of my throat.
I pant, tangled up in my sheets, as I come down from the dream and slowly grasp that I’m in my bed alone. The dream comes back to me in pieces, my stomach churns as I realize that I’m the art slut in the dream. I swallow the bile edging up my throat. Even the idea of lowering myself to that level is enough reason to never see him again. It’s four in the morning, and I curl in a ball and don’t sleep another wink until my alarm goes off at six.
Wednesday afternoon Adam calls me in from the studio. I sit down in his office and he shares that Alistair has asked him if he’s comfortable with me taking on a writing project for him.
I explain to Adam that Jonathan and I met at Max’s show and he offered to review my work and look at samples.
“I thought he was just being polite. So I’m confused why he’s wants to hire me for a project when he hasn’t seen my work yet.”
Although I need to find out what’s going on, I’m happy to see Adam not only doesn’t mind, but also encourages me to do the work. As long as I do it on my own time, I have his blessing.
He pulls off the Post-it, hands me Jonathan’s number and tells me to use his office to call him. After he leaves for a meeting, I dial the number.
“Is Mr. Alistair available?” I ask his assistant, “Ava Jacobs calling.”
There’s a short pause.
“Ava!”
“Hi Jonathan.”
“I’ve had a good chat with Adam. Since we’re colleagues, I felt compelled to speak to him before talking to you, and I’m happy to report he was encouraging about the idea of you working on a project for me.”
“Yes, he just told me. I’m so glad.”
“Well, let’s meet to discuss it. Are you free for drinks tomorrow evening?”
“Absolutely!”
“Meet me at the bar at the Chateau Marmont at six-thirty. Give them my name when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, Jonathan.”
After I hang up, I clap my hands together excitedly. My first professional writing job for a real client who isn’t Adam! Nothing against Adam, but it’s like working for my dad. I happily float through the afternoon.
The following evening, I dodge a pack of paparazzi as I pull up to the valet at the Chateau Marmont. It must suck to be a celebrity, I think as the pack of animals with cameras strapped around their necks pace just beyond the entrance to the driveway.
I’m glad I put extra effort into my appearance. I have a silver silk shirt tucked into gray wool slacks. My hair’s down and smoothed back, and I’m even wearing high-heeled sandals. I certainly look more sophisticated and elegant than I feel inside.
Jonathan greets me at the entrance to the bar.
Moments after we’re seated, his cell phone rings, and he looks at the screen then back at me apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ava. May I take this briefly?”
I nod, and he scoots his chair back from the table and turns away.
“Yes,” he says quietly into the receiver.
“Yes, she’s here . . . No, we haven’t discussed it yet, we just got here.” He sounds frustrated. “Yes, you’ve made that
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