Chapter Twenty-One The Artisan
Chapter Twenty-One
The Artisan
All I could say about the day was that it was productive. It was no secret that I lost time in the studio more often than anywhere else, but I hadn’t realized how late it was.
The town house looked rather strange compared to its neighbors on the outside.
Most of these homes were warily lit with hints of curtains or bustling company concealed within—but Petronille’s home was dark.
Only one homely light on the ground floor, the rest of the building seeming utterly void, leaving an ominous absence of human life.
A soft hum of the gramophone welcomed me after I cracked the front door.
A classical piece, a Russian composer. Around the corner in the living room, she sat with her knees pulled to her chest as she wrote in a journal.
For once, she looked truly delicate, vulnerable, less like the combative creature that clawed its way out of her.
She did not demand anything of me upon coming home. Which was a relief, but equally a concern.
“Petronille?”
Her eyes shifted subtly from her paper before returning to it, not even bothering to move her head.
“Don’t be like that.” I caught my tongue clicking against my teeth as my bag and coat slipped from my shoulder and to the spare chair in the corner. “Something is wrong.”
“When has it been right?”
“Pessimistic.” I shoved my hands in my trouser pockets, standing before the curled-up woman.
She continued to write, though it was in French, so not very helpful in deciphering her current state of mind.
“Is there something I can do?” I offered.
“No.”
“You want something, or else you wouldn’t be pouting.”
“I want many things.”
“Name one.”
Her diary snapped shut. “I want to not be repulsive.”
“Repulsive? Are you referring to your attitude as of late?” I teased, but I caught a sharp twitch of her lip, then I noticed the light dappling her waterline—tears.
“Why else would my husband avoid me until he is forced to talk to me?”
“Is that right?”
“You tease me. Constantly. Leading me on. Pretending to be interested, only to leave me sitting with my palms open and not a crumb given.”
“What do you mean?”
She raised her voice. “You know exactly what I mean!”
“I promise you, I don’t.”
“The fruit, the touching, the attention—” She gulped. “You can’t even go all the way!”
“I see my efforts are most appreciated.”
“You are a horrid rake, and you know it!” She stood from her seat, but I snatched her wrists.
“A rake?”
“Let me go.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere. It comes from you! You insufferable tease!”
“Petre.” I searched her face for some indication of drunkenness, but there were no cups or wine in sight. She was drunk on insecurity fermented by her own delusions. “Tell me”—I spoke steadily—“why do you think you disgust me?”
“Because you won’t . . .”
“Won’t what? Tell me when.”
“Our wedding night, you—”
“You were drunk.”
“And when we were right there on the couch—”
“Barely conscious.”
“But then the fruit—”
“Petre!” I shouted, jolting her slightly in my grip. “You couldn’t even ask me for what you wanted. How was I supposed to assume you wanted anything more?”
I saw the knot bob in her throat, her lip twitching again. Like the words she was choking on, the words she was going to say before biting them back.
“When I greet you, it is like I cast some sort of shadow over your mood. How am I to guess what you want from me when I’m not even welcome in your dwelling?”
“I just . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I don’t know what you’re used to, and you are under no obligation to tell me, but do not mistake me for whatever sad, limp pieces of flesh who have had you before.”
All she did was stare at the spot on the couch.
I grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look me in the eye. “Stop doing that to yourself. While I don’t think you’re ready, I also think letting you believe you are something disgusting would be a disservice to you.”
The way she looked at me then was something I would never forget. I’d never seen her look so hungry. Eating every word I spoke until she craved more when they stopped.
She was silent for a moment, but that was how I knew she was sober. I took in everything, from the feeling of her skin warming under my palm to the way her pupils grew large, in danger of sucking me into the deep-brown abyss that were her eyes.
“Do you believe me to be awake now?” She drew nearer. “Conscious enough?” She stood on her toes to close the distance. Slow enough that it felt like she may have been scared I’d run off. “Sober to your liking?”
Her lips just barely touched mine, inviting me without making the move herself. They were soft and pink like fresh marmalade, possibly tasting like it too. I had to know.
I kissed her gently, closing my eyes to fully feel it. My hand at her jaw smoothed over her cheek and to her head, letting my fingers weave through the fine silk.
Her gasp was so gentle, it made my heart hurt.
Her nightgown was silk, thin enough that I could feel the heat of her body on my palm, only making me hold tighter as if she would melt through my fingers.
I found myself picturing her body again, the way it was splayed out on the table.
I couldn’t remember exactly where her beauty marks were, but I remembered they were favorably placed.
The pattern of her birthmark was tawny, or was it more of an earthy soil?
It only made me want to see her like that again.
To take another look. To remember. Just one more peek to hold me over.
She removed her lips from mine to trail them across my neck, gently sucking on my skin.
I closed my eyes and tilted my head, allowing it for now.
I needed her under me, on me, clinging to me. I wanted her nails to dig into my skin and pull out every organ. Her breasts pressing against my chest made me want to squeeze them, to grab her and crush her bones in my grasp.
“Stop,” I gasped, not sure if I was willing to create distance.
She kept kissing, nipping gently, and I didn’t let her go.
“Stop . . .”
She bit my shoulder with her teeth this time.
“Petre!” I grabbed her hair and tugged her head back, tears in her eyes and a smirk on the corner of her lips. Then her soft lips curled into a cruel smile.
“Why is it so hard for you to accept me?” she asked with playful humor in her tone, but behind it was a sharp simmering of rejection.
“I’m afraid.” I took a deep breath to control myself. “Of hurting you.”
“Why?” She raised a brow. “Do you think about hurting me often, Arkady?”
I let out a shaky breath, though it may have been a slight tremor from my body and the dopamine that question prompted.
Against her lips, I whispered, “All the godforsaken time.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, a daring sharpness to her words. “Be rough with me. I am not a porcelain plate, I won’t break.”
“You’re not ready.”
“Try me.” She was breathless, desperate to prove herself. “Pleasing a man is an art, but it isn’t hard. Let me have my hand.”
“I don’t think you want me to be the one to tame that attitude of yours, I promise,” I hissed, my grip tightening on her hair.
“By God, I’m begging!” Her tone was exasperated with a bratty edge as her knees nearly buckled from the thought.
Fine, if this is what she wants.
Like steering the reins of a horse, I yanked her by her hair, forcing her to her knees.
She yelped when I let go, looking up at me from the ground. Those big brown eyes, which I thought would hold malice, were filled with a hungry determination that I could only imagine was fueled by my stubbornness.
“Let us use this as a lesson.” I stood straight. “Do what you wish—but you must tell me what you’re doing as you do it.”
She frowned, her brow twitching. “Must everything be a lesson?”
“How else do you tame a brat like you? Structure is important,” I teased.
She balled her fists on her thighs, her eyes falling lower.
Forcing her to restrain herself unless she could commit to an action was the only way I thought she might think before she acted on her impulses.
An alienist had taught me this at one point, though it was for intrusive impulsions rather than hypersexuality.
I was sure it worked all the same. Saying a thought out loud could put it into perspective.
She touched my pant leg, squeezing my thigh, her lips moving but no sound audible.
“What was that, dear?”
She glared at me, eyes squinting as if to figure out if this were a ruse or genuine—it was undoubtedly both.
“I’m touching you.”
“Where?”
“Do you have eyes?”
“Where?” I repeated.
“Your thigh.” She glanced back at her hand, then her other joined it on my other leg. “Both of my hands are touching your thighs.”
I nodded at her to continue, reaching into my pocket for my pipe.
She watched me relight the old tobacco, taking small puffs to foster the embers.
Leisurely, I took in a breath, blowing the smoke down at her.
She coughed, her nose wrinkled like she was about to sneeze.
“If you’re done, we stop here.” I tilted her wrist up, checking her dainty timepiece before dropping it, her hand landing in her lap. “It’s been ten minutes already.”
“I’m . . .” Jaw tensed, she crawled closer on her knees.
She placed her hands to the front of my hips, one of her fingers hooking into my waistband.
She stared up at me through those featherlight lashes, placing her cheek on my thigh.
“I’m touching your belt, my head is in your lap.
” She took a deep breath, her hand smoothing over the front of my pants, cupping my cock through the fabric. “I’m holding you.”
“Say it.”
“Your cock is in my hand, and you’re getting stiff.” She smirked as if she’d achieved some grand victory.
I took another inhale of smoke. “I am a man, after all. What will you do about it?” I tilted my head at her and moved my foot forward, the leather shoe slipping under her gown. Then I tipped my foot up on its heel.