can’t identify.
“Absinthe.”
Absinthe. A strong anise-flavored liqueur illegal in my time because of its druglike properties. Powerful stuff. Addictive and known for causing madness. Toulouse-Lautrec, Baudelaire, Degas. They were all absinthe drinkers, as was Oscar Wilde. Didn’t the Englishman say something about absinthe making you see things as you wish they were, then as they really are?
I blink. Once, then again. It doesn’t do any good. Everything around me starts to move. Dizziness overcomes me, then a pounding in my head. I feel consciousness slipping away from me and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop Paul Borquet from suddenly pushing his fingers in between my labes, thrusting up into me. He’s caught me by surprise again, and the throbbing sensation blocks off my thoughts, my ability to enjoy the pleasure of his thumb rubbing my clitoris. What’s happening to me? Am I waking up? Is the dream over?
No, I don’t want to wake up, not when it’s getting this good. Oh, damn—
—damn!
CHAPTER SIX
Paul Borquet pushed open the window and hung out over the second-story sill. He looked down into the courtyard below where moss grew between the flagstones and the plants in the garden were covered with straw. Breathing in deeply, he cursed the grayness of the day. Merde, he needed more light. Only a faint glow stole through the open, airless window of his studio and hung over his shoulder, trying to enter his domain.
Containing his annoyance, though only barely, Paul pushed the low and broad divan with the unconscious girl closer to the window. She lay upon the couch, not moving. Pale, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tear himself away from looking at her, her glorious cloud of red hair floating around her head, her full pink lips, firm breasts. Her skin was so smooth, so flawless. Skin like perfect white clouds on a fresh spring morning. He couldn’t believe she was here with him.
He’d acted quickly after the redhead passed out from the effects of the strong liqueur, carrying her in his arms, then taking her by hansom cab back to his studio. Once inside the closed conveyance, Paul pressed himself against her, caressing her sleeping body, pushing aside her red velvet cloak while his other hand snaked around her shoulders until one of her breasts rested in his palm. Squeezing firmly, his thumb and forefinger found her nipple which, though she was unconscious, hardened under his touch.
Now, watching her with a mixture of pleasure and excitement, he drew renewed energy from her. He held her captive with the green enchantress as her manacles, but he couldn’t take the chance of her escaping him. He was still gripped by the fear she would disappear, vanish into some unknown dark shadow, an abyss of black magic that haunted the deepest recesses of his mind.
He picked up his cane and came toward her, wielding the handle about, as if he were painting the heavy air between them. Then he pulled the handle off the cane to reveal the silver blade of a knife, its sharp point catching the glint of the lighted candle overhead. He took the precaution of securing her by cutting the silken fringed cords from the pillow and wrapping them around her wrists, then tying her to the curved, closed opening on the gilded caning framework of the divan.
Next, with the sharp tip of his cane, he lifted off the piece of midnight blue silk he’d laid over her naked breasts, her chest heaving up and down so slowly that if he laid a feather between her breasts it wouldn’t move. He could see the trembling pulse in her neck and the bubbles of perspiration between her thighs. He must capture that purity, define the graceful, continuing line that swirled in elegant curves from her white shoulders down to her hips, then down to her ankles.
“I can deny my passion no longer, mademoiselle,” he whispered, admiration enriching the deep, hypnotic tones of his voice, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. The effects of the absinthe put her into a state similar to that of s’évanouir, losing consciousness during sex.
He dampened a clean, white, preprimed linen canvas and made a quick, deft pencil sketch of the redhead reclining nude on the couch. He could see in his mind her red hair scorching the canvas like brilliant fire, the pink of her nude flesh layered in rich, wayward strokes, her skin as luminous as a winter moon.
He wet his lips, then with the saliva on his tongue, licked the bristles of his sable brush until he formed a perfect point. He dipped the reed into the green-and red-orange mixture of oil paint and applied a flat plane of flesh tones to the cardboard canvas on the easel, filling in the empty spaces in his drawing and blinking several times to clear his blurring vision. He was near exhaustion, having not slept for two days. Or was it three? He didn’t know.
He marveled as the color from his brush was partially absorbed into the linen, giving the painting a curious fluidity and an effect of movement that came alive on the canvas. He could almost feel her breath on his face as he painted her. He must have more absinthe to continue his work. He swallowed liqueur from his flask, its wormwood flavor lingering on his tongue and dulling his appetite. He was feeding off his creative frenzy, a frenzy that forced him to put aside everything else but his need to paint this beautiful girl.
He dipped his brush into the pale ivory, blues and greens on his palette, oblivious to the strong scent of oil and turpentine that prevailed in his studio. His nostrils stung with a different scent. The smell of the girl. It was a sharp sexual odor, blending with the mixture of her perfume and sweet body smells. He sniffed the air, the headiness of her aroma overwhelming him.
He painted for what seemed like hours, never giving a thought to anything but the joyous parade of color taking shape on his canvas. Pink dawn, crushed yellow buttercups, the flyaway feathers of a bluebird. Listening to the dictates of his mind, his fingers had a will of their own. His brush fluttered impulsively but unerringly, finding a harmony of color that vibrated with energy.
He watched the girl, still in a deep sleep, stretch her arms upward, easing the tightly knotted tension in her shoulders. Her playfulness gave way to a moody restlessness as she struggled against the silken bonds restraining her, though not hurting her. He smiled, undaunted by the redhead’s show of defiance.
He gazed at the girl who called herself Autumn Maguire, her eyes closed, her long lashes resting against her cheeks like sooty smudges. Unaware of his personal torment, she twisted her body like a lazy caterpillar reveling in a floral paradise, pulling on her restraints, parting her legs to reveal the curly red hairs around her pussy, and arousing him. A light sweat sparkled on her nude body like the glitter of a perfect diamond emanating its own light, her mouth open, her wet tongue licking her lips.
He breathed in deeply. That’s what was missing in his work. He must capture that erotic expression on her face. He put aside his sketch, deciding to use her body as his living canvas. He took a dry brush with very soft bristles and painted her breasts with dribbles of her sweat, then down to her rib cage, over her flat belly and lingering in the soft thatch of her jouet, her toy. She took a deep breath as she spread her legs and a sweet, satisfied smile lighted up her face. Her mood was light, carefree as Paul continued painting bubbly beads of perspiration all over her smooth, nude breasts.
When she was fully aroused, he put his fingers into her pussy and wiggled them inside her until he felt her languette, clitoris, become hard and pulsating. His fingers pressed deep inside her, exploring the moistening contours with tender strokes. Although her voice was barely above a whimper, in the heat of the moment it was raw and husky.
“Oh…ooohhh…” she moaned, a look of ecstatic torment on her face. She squeezed her closed eyes tighter as a slow, warm pleasure filled her. Did she ejaculate? No, she couldn’t have, not yet. He wasn’t ready. He put his hand between her legs. Wetness stained the silk. Droplets. Not nearly enough.
Exhausted, he rested his head in his hands, but his body didn’t relax. His pupils were dilated, his breathing heavy. A cordon of muscle bulged out at the side of his neck and his passion steeped upward in a heightening spiral of anticipation. His painting was not done, though he felt godlike, all powerful, fueled by a terrifying but irresistible need to create. To do so, he must capture her fluids. But how?
The redhead was stirring. Bon. He ran his hand over her breasts, and was rewarded by