It just … stopped. Like there was an invisible force field.
But that’s when Joe’s hand came up, and he cupped it behind mine, and he pulled my palm to his chest. I felt the impact before I realized what he was doing: the stonelike hardness of his collarbone beneath my fingertips, the spongy firmness of his pecs beneath, the warmth of his skin.
I could feel that he was looking at me. I could feel him encouraging me. And something else, too. Something that felt like longing.
Was it his or mine?
For a second, the air in my lungs felt tight.
“Don’t be shy,” Joe said. “I’m fine. Just do what you need to do.”
“I’m not being shy,” I said. But neither of us believed me.
Anyway, that broke the ice. After that, I closed my eyes and worked my hand around his shoulders and neck and chest before making my way up past the Adam’s apple and over the ridge of the jaw to his face.
Was it working? I wasn’t sure.
But I’d decided I didn’t have to decide.
I was just going to do it. I wasn’t going to overthink it or evaluate it or judge it.
I was just going to capture the moment. For better and for worse.
This was by far the most self-conscious I’d ever been around a model. Pull it together, I told myself. Doctors touch people all the time.
But I was no doctor.
Also, I’m assuming, doctors didn’t usually spend a ton of time with patients outside the office. Or have recent memories of altruistically kissing them in front of their ex-wives. Or have crushes on them they were in denial about.
The truth is, it was intense.
For one thing, we were so close to each other. You’re never just inches away from people for long stretches of time like that. I was close enough to hear him breathing, and even to feel those breaths as they brushed over my arm. I could smell his aftershave, which was scented like cedar and juniper, I decided.
For another thing, I was really touching him. I was going deep—working the pads of my fingers over every inch of his face, from hairline to jaw, exploring his skin, and the muscles beneath that, and the bone structure even deeper.
I mean, I was no stranger to other people. I’d dated guys. Flirted. Kissed. Gone to bed. I’d lived with Ezra for two years. But even people I touched all the time … I didn’t touch them like this.
The fact that I was exploring him for the sake of art didn’t feel too relevant in that moment. The what was much stronger than the why.
And the what was skin against skin. Breath swirling around breath. Eyes closed.
To be honest, my heart was thumping so hard, I wondered if he could see it. Like my shirt fabric might actually be quivering over it like an echo.
I tried to keep it professional, I really did.
I worked my way around the landscape of his face, as I’d done before with my own. I started with the bone structure, to get oriented. The solidness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw.
Then the pads of my fingers went searching for details. The arc of his eyebrows. The depth and number of laugh lines at his eyes. The length of his lashes. The angles of his nose. I spent a lot of time working around the edge of his mouth, trying to get the lines and angles of his lips just right.
I felt it all. The warmth of his skin under my fingers. The feathery brush of his hair. The imperceptible hum and vibration of being alive.
It was artistically erotic, too. Is that a weird thing to say?
What I mean is, the whole experience was full-immersion pleasure—both physically and creatively. Shimmering with possibility. Rich and buttery with satisfaction. Igniting my attention in some very special way. Pulling me through the moment with a mounting sense of longing.
Each thing I did, each move I made, made me want more of whatever that was.
When I felt ready to start painting, I followed my instincts.
I sketched out Joe’s torso—his outline leaning into the frame with that kind of friendly, Labrador retriever energy he had. I found myself so immersed in rendering his body—those shoulders, the pecs and forearms, the trim angles of his fingers, resting on his jeans—that I didn’t work too hard on the face. I wasn’t avoiding it, exactly. I was just following the parts that called to me. The neck, the earlobes, the flop of the hair.
Everything I’d tried to do since the surgery had been about trying to get to the product. But now I settled into the process. I just painted. I kept my eyes closed to “look” at Joe, but I opened them in front of the canvas. I wanted to see the colors. I wanted to watch the brushstrokes happen. I wanted to see the painting appear in front of my eyes.