Serena
I flung the windows open. The studio was stiflingly hot.
The fans did nothing but blow hot air around and move the fabrics I was trying to cut.
Or maybe the fans were working, and I didn’t notice because I was anxious and frustrated since my meeting with Charles. He was quick to react. So far, I’d heard nothing.
The man only worked when it came to causing me misery. The more pain he could cause, the happier he was.
After reading Antonia’s notes, I made some of my own, adding context and color where I could to give her as much to work with as possible.
I gathered all correspondence with Charles, sent over all missed visitation notices, and everything else that pertained to him, Harper, and me.
There were so many pages that it could’ve been a thick book.
After Antonia read through everything, she told me I was a saint and had more than enough to win. It didn’t matter if Charles had the judge in his pocket; the violations of our divorce decree and custody were irrefutable.
It was validating to know I wasn’t blowing Charles’ failures out of proportion.
I’d worked hard to keep a level head for Harper’s sake, but it skewed my perception of right and wrong.
I tried to keep the guilt at bay—the guilt of letting Charles’ behavior go unchecked—reminding myself that I was acting now.
Then there was Apple. I had no idea why she was so interested in tearing me down. I left. She won. Yet, I was still the subject of her torment, like she was a high school bully.
I considered what Enzo had mentioned about the attacks potentially tying back to Charles or Apple.
Charles wasn’t capable of the level of sophistication. He was careless, and no doubt would have left breadcrumbs trailing back to him.
Apple was mean and manipulative, but she was never violent. She used words, whispering in people’s ears, to get what she wanted without getting her hands dirty.
But there was no one else I could think of who would want to hurt me.
I wanted to call Minnie, but I hated that she was already in the middle of the never-ending war between Charles and me.
The fresh air filtered into the room, blowing the sheer curtains around. Picking up my drawing pad, I went over to the slightly oversized wicker chair that appeared in the corner a week ago and flipped open an empty page.
I shut my brain off and drew what instinct demanded.
The picture slowly took shape, and I realized I was creating a grove of pistachio trees, reimagining what I thought it looked like where Enzo grew up with his family.
He looked like an even blend of his parents. There were pictures of them scattered throughout the house. Like the ones of Harper that were slowly being added to his walls, and her drawings hanging on his fridge.
Enzo gave us so much that it was hard to keep track. A home, safety, happiness, support. A princess bedroom for Harper. Those were the first things that came to mind. If I sat longer and thought harder, I could fill pages with everything he was providing for us.
What was I giving in return? Headaches? Ruined plans? Killing? Sleepless nights when Harper had a nightmare?
When I added it all up, it seemed so unbalanced.
Stop. You can’t keep a tally sheet.
“Am I interrupting?”
I jumped in my chair, narrowly missing falling off.
“I’m putting a bell on you, so you don’t sneak up on me anymore,” I muttered as I righted myself on the chair.
“What do we have here?” Enzo said. I froze, realizing too late what had happened. Somehow, in my surprise, I threw my sketch pad across the room. The one that had my drawings of Enzo.
Please talk about one of the mannequins. I prayed.
I turned to face Enzo, who was flipping through my book, a smile on his face.
“A lot of these pictures of me aren’t finished. Why?” He flipped the sketchbook around, showing me one of the many half-finished drawings. This one was a full-body mapping of the tattoo on his throat, but stopped there.
I shrugged, standing with my hand out, making a give-me motion. God, I couldn’t even look at him. I was so embarrassed. It wasn’t a few pages in that book. At some point, I had dedicated an entire notebook to drawing different parts of Enzo.
From him in a suit, to what I’d imagine was underneath before I knew. I hadn’t opened it up until now to draw the pistachio grove.
“This one is nice, but the body is blank when you know I have tattoos here.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he set the notebook on the table and undid the buttons to his shirt.
I turned to him, unable to look away, embarrassment washing over me.
We were together, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit how long I had been crushing on him.
“You see, I saw you start with the tattoos here.” He pulled off his shirt and dragged his hands down this body, stopping at his ripped abs. “It seems you forgot that I have more.”
Enzo pulled off his belt, the buckle clinking as it hit the floor.
Michelangelo would have salivated over him, a body made to be drawn and immortalized.
“I think this is something I need to rectify,” he said, walking to the table in the middle. He lifted it with ease and set it aside. Next, he grabbed one of the big chairs near the three-way mirror and put it down where the table had been.
Directly in front of me.
“I'm sorry it took this long to give you what you need.” Enzo pushed his pants down, taking his briefs with them as they hit the ground. He kicked off his shoes and socks, leaving him stark naked in my studio.
He walked over, grabbed the notebook and a few pencils, and handed them to me.
In a daze, I took the notebook and pencils.
“This could take a while,” I said, flipping to a fresh page.
“Take all the time you need,” Enzo said. “Now, how do you want me to sit?”
He plopped down on the chair, legs spread, one hand on the armrest, the other hanging lazily off his thigh, barely covering himself. “Like this?”
I swallowed; my throat felt like sandpaper. I’d taken figure drawing classes before, and more than once, the people were barely dressed.
I’d had the chance to see Enzo naked plenty of times by now. It was almost like he was allergic to clothes when we were in the confines of our room.
This was different. It was intimate, with only the two of us and the summer breeze flowing in. I pushed out every thought that wasn’t drawing or professionalism, squared my shoulders, and steadied my hands.
Analyzing him, I said, “Lean more to the left.” I nodded when I liked the way his position revealed more of the tattoos I’d been obsessing over. “Unflex your hand and let it hang naturally.”
I slipped into my drawing zone, put pencil to paper, and started.
Time passed, how much, I couldn’t say. The lines flowed, shaping Enzo.
He watched me, quiet and intent. In any other scenario, I might have hidden, shy and unused to that kind of attention, but right now, I was in my element.
Nothing felt more natural than drawing and creating, regardless of who was watching me.
I made a disgruntled noise, erasing a line that I hated with passion. Starting over again, I bent close to the paper, satisfied with the next try.
Enzo chuckled, keeping his voice low. He did that every so often, but I didn’t bother asking him what amused him.
I was too focused to care.
Glancing up, I did a double-take. Enzo was fisting himself, the piercing glinting at me as his hand went up and down, slowly jerking his cock.
“Keep going,” he said. “Ignore me. I can wait.”
I bit my lip, gripping my pencil hard. The sight of him made my mouth water.
His abs flexed, drawing my eye upward to the gladiator armor that traveled up his right arm to his shoulder.
Each leg was tattooed with a war scene, Greek Gods Ares and Athena hovering over each.
On his left side, fabric twisted upward, tying into the warrior armor on his right— all of it unmistakably Greek.
I wanted to drag my fingers across his body. To be beneath him as he slowly snapped his hips, wringing every bit of pleasure from my body.
Trying to keep focus, I turned my attention away from his abs and cock.
“I thought you were Italian, but this is Greek.” I pointed at his arm.
“Yes, but my mother was half Greek. She’s from Lampedusa, which is an Italian island, but many Greeks moved there for one reason or another,” he said, rubbing his arm. I nodded, noting to investigate that area more when I had the chance.
I looked at his face. His eyes darkened, filled with lust. I adjusted my position, squeezing my thighs together.
This felt like a game of cat and mouse. Who was what, I wasn’t sure.
I wanted to know more about his tattoos. About how he grew up. Questions about living in Sicily rose, but I tabled those for another time.
“How long did it take to get all that done?” I asked, taking a break to analyze his body once more.
I drew the corded muscles of his arms, memorizing the way his biceps flexed.
We could do this every day, Enzo laying himself bare as I took my time, drawing every inch of him until it was perfect, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
“Years. Started at seventeen, with my back, and finished around twenty-five, right before I moved here,” he said. “How’s the drawing?” He leaned forward, like he could catch a glimpse from where he sat on the other side of the room.
I closed the book. Taking my time, I dragged my eyes up his body, lingering on his cock. A shiver raced down my spine. I wanted to be bold, walk over and climb atop him.
“It’s coming along. I don’t hate it,” I said, as I watched him drag his thumb across his Prince Albert piercing. It was leaking, a white bead of precum forming at the top that Enzo expertly wiped with his thumb. “Your tattoos are a challenge to get right.”
I stood up, placed my notebook on the couch, and walked over to him.
Enzo spread his legs, making room for me as I knelt.
Staring up at him, I pushed his hands away, replacing them with mine.
“Open,” Enzo ordered.