But it was foreign as well. I had expected it would be so, even as I hoped that soon it would come to feel the same, and I would forget entirely that I was naked.
Yet I could not. I was aware of every inch of my bare self, on display for Sandro to see and study; could feel each breath—his and mine—as it stirred the air around me, causing the strands of my hair to move ever so slightly, whispering against my skin. And I could feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, could feel every place that they studied as though they were hot coals brushing against my skin. His gaze was a caress, one of heat and light and warmth on a body which was always hidden away from the world; and far from feeling exposed, as I had been anticipating, I felt free and strong and uninhibited. I leaned into his gaze as one would lean into a lover’s embrace.
Every so often he would look up and meet my eyes, and neither of us would look away for a long moment. Then he would return to his sketching, his eyes continuing their beautiful dance over my body.
My heartbeat and breath began to quicken. Despite my initial chill as I had disrobed, the room now felt quite warm, almost too much so. Yet I did not speak, did not move, could not have if I wanted to. I did not want to break this spell, did not want this delicious enchantment to end. Did not want to go back to hiding myself from him, now that he had seen all of me, body and soul.
I could not have said how long it was before Sandro rose from his chair. “We should stop here for today, perhaps,” he said gently.
I blinked twice, like one awakening from a deep sleep. “Very well,” I said, wondering if he could hear the reluctance in my voice, and what he made of it if he did.
“Do you need any help dressing?”
In my imagination, I said that yes, I did, and just the thought of his hands on my body was almost too much to bear. Could that simple act be wrong after the intimacy of what had just occurred? “No,” I said aloud, resisting the temptation. “I … I believe I can manage on my own.”
“As you wish,” he said. He stepped closer, picked up my shift off of the chair, and handed it to me. I shivered as his fingers brushed mine.
I stepped into my shift quickly, suddenly as eager to cover myself as I had been reluctant to do so a moment ago. I pulled on my dress as well, then donned my shoes, and when I was finished I looked up to find Sandro studying me as though he had never stopped.
The air between us felt heavy, laden with so very many words that we could not say, that we wanted to say but knew we must not.
It was he who looked away first, clearing his throat and running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “And are you … would you be able to return the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Very good. I…” he faced me again. “I cannot say how long this will take, Simonetta. To fully execute the vision that I have. It may take some time, and with these other commissions—”
“It is of no matter,” I said, cutting him off. “I shall be here as long as you need me.”
“I think that I shall always need you,” he said softly.
I swayed slightly where I was standing, wanting to step into his arms, to fall against him.
He walked me to the door, took my hand, and kissed it soundlessly. His lips were like a brand against my skin, as though he was marking me for his own.
25
That evening Marco sent word that he was to dine with Lorenzo and some other dignitaries in the government. I know he had been hoping to be appointed to a government post, and so naturally he would seize this opportunity. It was just as well: I still had no interest in speaking to him. I do not know what time he returned, as I had already gone to bed. He was just leaving the following morning when I went downstairs to break my fast.
“I hope that we may dine together this evening,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“As you wish,” I said indifferently.
I made sure that dinner was ready when he arrived home, and sat through an hour of him telling me of his engagement the night before, though I plainly did not care. Later that night he returned to our bedchamber, though he did not attempt to exert his husbandly privilege, for which I was glad.
The next afternoon I returned to Sandro’s workshop again. It went much the same as the first time. I undressed and took my position, and we spoke little, save for when he had me turn to one side, then to the other, then put my back to him, so that he might sketch me from all different angles.
Even when I could not see him, I still felt his eyes on me, caressing and brushing against my flesh. My skin hummed. When I left that day, I felt somehow drained but exhilarated as well, as though we had made love without touching.
It was nearly a week before Sandro had me return; he had a commission coming due, so he needed to spend his time finishing it before he could return to our painting, as I had begun to think of it. It had not escaped my notice that this was not a work that had been commissioned; no patron was supplying him with the money (and therefore time) to create it. It would be a work of art in the truest sense, born only of Sandro’s own inspiration and passion and diligence and hard work.
The third time I went it was somewhat later in the day, and so the fire burning in the hearth and the candles scattered about the room were crucial to providing light in the fading afternoon. He welcomed me, and I undressed and took my place. It was easier each time, though the feeling of his eyes on me had yet to lose its force.
This time, though, instead of taking his usual seat, he hesitated. “I have a specific pose I would like you to take today, Simonetta,” he said. “If you would.”
I smiled. “Whatever you need.”
He took a step toward me, then stopped, looking unsure. “May I…” He cleared his throat. “May I touch you?”
A blush rose to my cheeks; I was sure he could see it, but there was no help for it. “Yes.”
He reached up to gingerly take my face in his hands. The rough cloth of his shirt brushed against my skin, and I shivered. I knew he felt it, but, thankfully, he made no comment. He gently tilted my head to one side, then stepped back slightly. “Yes. Just like that.” He reached out and placed a hand lightly on my bare left hip. The warmth burned through me. “Shift your weight into this hip—yes. Yes, exactly.” As swiftly as his hand was there, it was gone, and I felt a pang of loss at its absence.
He reached up and pulled a strand of hair across my right shoulder, letting it fall across my chest. I waited for his hand to move lower, to brush against my breasts, but it did not. I told myself that I was not disappointed.