Chapter Sixteen
“You looked so serious just now. What were you and Leo talking about?” Nick held up a wine glass and a bottle of Malbec.
“Just a taste. I have to drive home.”
He handed her a half-glass of garnet wine. She sniffed, then sipped. “Wow. Powerful.”
He brought his glass to his nose and snuffled like a bloodhound. “Suave,” he crooned, “with notes of blackberry and pencil shavings.”
“And just the faintest hint of gym socks,” she parried.
“A fine wine for looking at dirty pictures.” He turned down the volume on the Brazilian jazz blaring from the speaker on the sideboard, and then gathered an armful of books. “You haven’t answered my question, though. What was up with Leo?”
Panic fluttered in her throat. She took another sip of wine. “You don’t trust your friend?”
“Absolutely. But I also know that expression on his face. He was up to something.” He raised one perfect eyebrow.
Reluctant to stir up trouble, she chose her words carefully. “He was—concerned. About you. Something about trifling women in your past.”
With a thump, Nick set the books on the coffee table and dropped onto the couch beside her. The worn cushions sagged under his weight, sending her sliding up against him. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I can’t believe he told you about…”
She laid her hand on his knee. “He didn’t give me any details, Nick. He just asked if I was trifling with your, um, affections.”
“Shit.” He slumped against the seat back, sighed up at the ceiling, then rolled his head toward her, his smooth confidence replaced by a crumpled resignation. “Clara, I’m sorry. He has no business grilling you.”
“Hey, it’s okay. He obviously cares about you. It was weird, though.”
“Well, he helped me through a hard time a while back. He means well, but he can be overprotective.”
“Think nothing of it.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to overprotective friends. I have a few of those myself.”
They clinked and sipped.
Nick raised his glass again, “To anthropology. Without it, I wouldn’t have come to your shop, and I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Okay. To anthropology.” Another clink, another sip. At this rate, she’d need a cab home.
“I almost did archeology, you know.” Nick grinned. “As a kid, I read about King Tut. I used to dig up stuff in my back yard: old bones, rocks. I set up a ‘museum’ in the potting shed.”
“What changed your mind?”
“A trip to Pompeii in my freshman year. Boom. Horny history nerd changes his major. Have you seen those frescoes?”
He set his wine glass down and leaned across her toward the book on the coffee table. His shoulder brushed against her breast. That fleeting contact was the first time a man touched her there in a year, a little whisper of stolen pleasure.
Nick opened the book he’d chosen, The Erotic Art of Pompeii and Herculaneum.
“I think this is the one Leo wanted to show us. Most of these are frescoes from brothels discovered when Pompeii was excavated in the eighteenth century. See?”
The images were cracked and faded, but still remarkably well-preserved, considering they’d survived centuries of burial in volcanic ash.
“Here’s Priapus, god of sex and fertility.” The bronzed Roman god wore a serious expression and an impossibly enormous erection.
“And these are from the walls of a brothel.” A short-haired man reclined against cushions while a wide-hipped woman with elegantly upswept hair straddled him.
Nick’s hand brushed hers as he turned another page. “This one’s from the public baths.” A naked woman with a serene expression sprawled on a bed while a toga-clad man crouched before her, his face to her shaved pussy.
They shaved back then?
“They’re, um, lovely.” She took another sip of wine and cleared her throat.
Nick closed the book. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Clara?”
“Not at all,” she lied. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was his solid, warm body pressed against hers, thanks to the saggy couch, but despite her embarrassment, she itched to see more. “I’d love to visit Pompeii someday.”
“You should.” His dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “It’s eerie, walking those streets. Any minute, you expect someone in a toga to emerge from a doorway and beckon you inside.”
She pointed to the page. “Into a brothel like this?”
He chuckled. “We have this silly idea people long ago were stuffier about sex, but in many cases, they were much more relaxed about it than we are today. Like in here. This is one of my favorites.”
Nick opened the next book across his lap and revealed engravings of white-wigged ladies and gentlemen cavorting half-dressed, their turgid genitals on display.
“Paul-Émile Bécat. Early twentieth century. Notice how his drawings pay homage to an era devoted to pleasure.”
Nick’s long forefinger traced the drawing, a young woman wearing only her wig, white silk stockings, and a dreamy expression, impaled on the rigid cock of a dark-haired young man wearing only a poufy shirt. The two of them balanced on an ornate chair, while he glanced over his shoulder to a male visitor standing primly in the doorway.
“His specialty was illustrated playing cards, like these. He was quite prolific.”
As he flipped through page after mesmerizing page, a tingling warmth built between her thighs. When she leaned in closer to examine the drawings, the slippery, sloped leather cushion slid her up against his leg. He didn’t meet her eye, but the book trembled slightly in his hands, and his breath brushed warm against her cheek.
“This is my favorite.” He turned the page to a rosy fantasy of ancient Greece. A dark-haired couple reclined on the ground beneath a tree, captured in mid-coitus. Both were naked but for Greek-style sandals. The male figure bore white feathered wings, and a quiver of arrows lay on the ground beside the lovers. Their bodies were beautifully rendered, smooth and ideal, their genitals exquisitely detailed. The girl lay on her back, the youth on his side, affording a complete view of his engorged cock parting her furry pussy lips. The artist perfectly captured their slow, languorous movement, the luscious union of their bodies.
Nick softly closed the book and laid it across his lap. He leaned back on the sofa and sighed.
So did she.
“How does he do it?” she asked when her galloping pulse finally slowed to a trot. “Those drawings are so, so…”
He flashed a bashful grin. “I think it has to do with really enjoying sex, really loving the human body. He drew every possible combination—men with men, men with women, women with women, mixed groups. He just enjoyed the gift of sensual pleasure.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Oh, I’m not so sure. Most of us wrap our sexual urges in so many other agendas, we lose our connection to our bodies, to the joy of…”
She giggled. “The Joy of Sex? You have that book too?”
“Of course, it’s a classic. The artwork is kind of charming, in a hairy hippie sort of way.”
Their laughter cut the tension between them.
She stretched and yawned. “Sorry, long day. So, you collect all this erotic artwork, and then you write about it?”
“Well, basically, yes. My book will explain shifting notions of sexual attractiveness throughout history.”
“And will this be a book we’d stock in our store?”
“If I do my job right, it will.” He gazed at her over the rim of his glass as he took a slow, languorous sip. When he set it, a scarlet drop clung to the corner of his mouth.
She stared, transfixed. Should she reach over to dab at the drop with her napkin? With her tongue?
She forced her eyes away from the tempting sight. Though she hadn’t finished her second glass of wine, the room seemed to spin. The explicit drawings, the sensual rumble of Nick’s voice, the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers, it all combined to create a powerful intoxication. She clenched her hands in her lap, crumbling her paper napkin.
When he flicked the tip of his tongue to remove the drop of wine, she let out an audible sigh of relief. He arched an eyebrow, then reached across her again and grasped another book. As the muscles of his back flexed beneath his thin sweater, her eyes caressed the tapered line from his broad shoulders to his trim waist.
She laid her hand lightly against his back. “Nick, I think I’ve seen enough sexy artwork for one night.” Her voice quavered. She gulped down the rest of her wine, then set her glass down on the coffee table—a little too hard. The force of her gesture knocked a chip out of the glass’s base. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m making you uncomfortable.” He swept up the shard with his napkin and flashed her a boyish smile. “I work with images like this every day. I forget others aren’t used to this sort of…Well, please know I had no intention of upsetting you.”
He took both her hands. She tried hard to force a calm expression, even though her pulse was racing. The amber flecks in his eyes danced in the candlelight. Their glow drew the truth out of her like a magnet tugging metal. Deep breath. Just ask. He won’t bite.
“Nick, how did you know when it was time?”
“Time?”
“To move on. To let someone in.”
He shifted away, but the saggy sofa cushion slid him back against her thigh. “Can’t fight gravity.” He chuckled and draped his arm across her shoulders. “Honestly, my body was ready before my heart was. Even if the heart is withered, nearly dead, the body goes on—eating, breathing, feeling, wanting.” He fingered a strand of her hair, his gaze far away. “A friend saw how closed off I’d become, and she…helped me.”
“How?”
“By seducing me. There was wine involved, and music. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He cupped her shoulder. “And I’m so glad she didn’t.”
Avoiding his penetrating gaze, Clara focused on the flickering candles. “Did you love her?”
“Not really. And yet—yes, very much.”
“Huh?”
“You see, I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Diana. She was unique in all the world. But she wouldn’t want me to spend the rest of my life pining for her, miserable, alone. My friend helped me see it’s okay to enjoy my life. She helped me realize that one day I might even love again. She told me it’s not something you can rush, but it will come in time if you relax and open your heart.” He laid his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “And I’ll always love her for that.”
“You don’t feel disloyal to Diana?”
“No, I don’t. Diana is always with me, in here.” He tapped his breastbone. “I haven’t forgotten her.”
“Wow.” She sank against the back of the sofa. “I need a friend like that.”
Close enough for her to feel his breath against her lips, he traced her jawline with his forefinger. Against her will, her lips parted.
“You’ll find one, when the time is right.” He glanced at his watch. “In any case, it’s late. I’m afraid I’ve had too much wine to drive. Shall I call you a cab?”
Her foolish half groaned inwardly, disappointed. If he’d let his hand drop from her face to somewhere below, would she have resisted? Or would she have clutched his warm, beautiful body like a lifeline?
But her wise half was relieved. Soon she’d decide. Soon, but not yet.
“Yes, thanks. Please do.”
“If you leave me your keys, I’ll drop your car at your shop in the morning. Or shall I bring it to your place?”
The thought of Nick on her doorstep triggered a shiver of panic. “The shop, please. I can walk to work. It’s not far.”
“Good.” He pulled out his phone, tapped on the screen. “The driver’s on his way.”
They waited together on his front stoop. Stars winked in the inky sky. The patchy lawn already sparkled with dew, and the sounds of the campus had faded to late-night quiet, just the occasional hum of a passing car. When Clara shivered beneath her thin shawl, Nick stepped behind her and wrapped his arms lightly around her shoulders. His hair tickled her temple as he murmured in her ear, “I’m so glad you came, Clara. Thank you for trusting me.”
She nestled into his arms, relishing the warmth. As long as she didn’t turn to face him, she was safe.
His voice rumbled through his chest. “I understand what you’re going through, because I’ve been there. There’s no pressure from me to do anything you’re not ready to do. But I’d love to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Maybe Friday?”
She stiffened. She’d nearly forgotten about her date with Doug.
His lips brushed against her ear. “You’re busy. All right, Saturday?”
The driver pulled up, the idling of his engine almost loud enough to cover the thundering of her heart.
“Saturday.” Gathering her courage, she turned slowly to face him. His tawny skin gleamed softly in the golden light of the porch lamp, like some ancient deity lit from within. She brushed her fingers along his jaw, and waited, barely breathing.
He closed the distance slowly, his lids lowered, his lips parted, and pressed his mouth to hers. That first soft contact was like a pebble tumbling into a pond, sending ripples of pleasure out and down, in ever-expanding waves, until her whole body tingled. One slow breath in, out, and then he kissed her again, oh so softly, the tip of his tongue gently probing, searching for hers. One small taste, and then he released her.
She swayed on her high heels, then tottered backward, nearly tumbling down the stairs.
“Whoa, let me help you.”
She clung to the hard curve of his biceps as she lowered herself into the car.
He pressed a soft kiss onto her fingertips before letting go. “Good night, Clara.”
She opened her mouth, but she’d forgotten how to speak, how to breathe. The driver pulled away, and she watched Nick fade into the summer night.
****
Nick stared after the retreating car long after it disappeared around the corner. Most of the houses around him were dark, the empty street silent except for the crickets’ song and the distant hum of traffic. But the night air seemed to vibrate with—what? Even though the chilly breeze raised goosebumps on his skin, a thrum of energy warmed his body.
That kiss—
He’d kissed a dozen women in the two years since Diana’s death, but never in that time had a kiss affected him like this one. The soft warmth of Clara’s thigh against his, her heavy, silky hair brushing his shoulder, the flush on her cheek and the whisper of her breath against his lips…It cost him every last atom of strength to keep from deepening their kiss, pressing against her, pulling her back inside the cottage. Would she have come? Or would she have bolted?
Eleven more days. Not much time to earn the trust of a woman whose loss was so fresh, whose heart was so barricaded. Despite the aching tension between his thighs, he was glad he’d held back. If he was careful, eleven days might be enough to start something important, something real.
But then what? He’d committed to a two-week seminar for graduate students, had spent more hours preparing for the class than he’d spend teaching it. Afterward, maybe a visit to his sister in Corvallis, only an hour away from Eugene, and his mother’s house in Portland. And now that Leo was single again, he might welcome his company…
He laughed aloud. Who’d have thought he’d be so eagerly planning a summer of couch-surfing instead of enjoying his spacious apartment in Berkeley? He seldom had time to explore the town he’d called home for five years, the town that would become his permanent home if he made tenure next year. When he took the job, he figured Berkeley was close enough to Oregon, close enough to his family. But now, Berkeley seemed much too far away. Nick threw a glance at his little Karmann Ghia, parked in the driveway. He was going to need a sturdier car for all the driving he’d be doing from California to Oregon.
His phone buzzed in his pocket: a late-night text from Enid Barthlesmann, his department chair.
—Enjoying your visit to the Ducks?
Why contact him so late at night? He pictured Enid’s round face, her cloud of white hair, her colorful jewelry clinking and jangling as she zipped through the hallways. He was lucky to have such a powerful ally, especially after last year, when a stupid decision nearly cost him his job. Without her support, he’d have been toast.
He texted back. Always fun up here. Leo sends his regards. How’s George?
—No better, no worse. Having a hard night. Everything on track for your July class?
—Yes, Ma’am.
—Good. Tenure committee meeting soon. Make your class sparkle, kiddo.
He tucked his phone away. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about sparkle. Tonight, he was going to bed alone, but basking in the glow of new possibility, maybe even new love. He stopped in the doorway and cast one more glance at the stars, sparkling like diamonds scattered on velvet.
New love? He’d spoken brave words to Clara about the possibility, but words were one thing, actions another. And yet, the buzzy warmth in his center spoke louder than mere words. He’d have to jump some hurdles—distance and that bald guy she was dating—but she was worth the effort. He knew in his bones he was meant to be with Clara.