Moonlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the campus art studio, washing my canvas in a gentle sapphire light. I smile at the hue, brushing my fingers against the untouched canvas as if to tint my fingers with the pigment, wistfully yearning to keep it with me forever like a patch of dried paint on my skin.
I didn't realize I could become so attached to a color, but as I watch the shadows from the passing clouds send the light across the room in patterns, I can't help but smile at the memories associated with it — the night at the creek, Micah and I lost within each other while surrounded by a field of forget-me-nots; the moonlight cast over us in that terrifying maze, shadowed only by the rain clouds that drenched us as he pressed me against the wall and set my body — and heart — on fire; and nearly every single night since that I've spent in his arms, mesmerized by his ink-coated skin under the sapphire hue as our bodies intertwine.
I always thought red was the color I'd associate with passion and fervor and love — flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and the imprint of his hands against my skin when he grips my hips while our bodies are tangled together — but as I hold my hand up to watch the moonlight color my skin, I can't deny that moonlight seems a more fitting color.
Moonlit fields, messy bedrooms, and long expanses of highway — falling in love with Micah has been a collage of moments under star-spotted skies, moments that are etched into my soul with invisible ink that shines a little brighter under the cloudless midnight sky.
When the creak of the studio door pulls me from my daze, I drop my hand in my lap and smile at my boyfriend as he walks across the dimly lit studio. It's deserted tonight — mostly because Thanksgiving Break officially started yesterday and most of the students who live on campus already made their way back home. Halle and I usually go back to Winter Hill, but I opted to stay behind to spend the holiday with Micah this year. We probably could have stayed at my apartment for a little more alone time since Olivia is staying with her parents over break, but with Cooper and West both leaving tonight for break, my heart broke at the thought of Luke alone in that big house.
Glancing back at my easel, I study my canvas, following the lines of pencil I've already sketched as my outline. We were tasked with painting a self-portrait for our midterm project, and while portraits are my specialty, I've never actually done one of myself. My cheeks warm slightly when Micah's hands wrap around me, pulling me back against his chest as he rests his chin atop my head and considers the soft strokes of pencil on the canvas.
The sketch is nearly complete — a shadow of charcoal strokes showing what my painting will look like in a few weeks.
"Your nose wrinkles," he says softly, hovering his finger above the canvas as if he's scared to touch it as he sweeps his finger across the bridge of my sketched nose. "When you smile like that, your nose wrinkles."
I smile at the thought that he's memorized the details of my smile, and when he tilts his head down, I can feel the vibration of his chest as he chuckles and gently grazes his thumb against the bridge of my nose, "Yeah — just like that."
Dropping my head back against his chest to meet his gaze, I kiss the palm of his hand still hovering near my nose, taking my time to truly appreciate him as he palms my cheek and caresses my temple softly. Even upside down, he's handsome — so handsome it hurts. His eyes, usually a stormy shade of grey, are lighter than I've ever seen them, and I memorize the shade of blue, already desperate to find the perfect color match from my collection of sketching pencils at home.
His cheeks are flushed and hair damp from his post-practice shower, and the smell of his cologne warms my chest and relaxes the tension in my shoulders as I turn my cheek and nuzzle into the soft fabric of his hoodie.
"I've missed you," I admit, twisting myself around on my stool to properly wrap my arms around him. It's been almost two weeks since his birthday, and due to his basketball schedule ramping up with away games, we've spent more nights apart than together. I don't want to admit it, but falling asleep without the gentle beat of his heart lulling me to sleep while his fingers comb through my hair has become almost impossible.
"I've missed you, too," he murmurs, tilting my chin up until our gazes lock. "More than I'm willing to admit. More than I know I should have. More than I thought possible."
I grab the front of his hoodie and tug gently, tilting my chin up a little more, silently asking for a kiss. His lips twitch, and he leans down and connects our lips. I open my mouth, tightening my grip on his hoodie, and the softest groan vibrates in his mouth when he slides his tongue into my mouth and tastes the sour candies I was eating earlier.
His hand cups the side of my throat, brushing his thumb across my pulse point before slowly pulling away.
"I have an essay due this weekend for a book I haven't even started," he steps back, hand extended to help me slide off my stool. "So as much as I'd love to make this a memorable weekend for you full of romantic gestures and cheesy as hell couples shit, I have to read."
I untie my apron and toss it onto the counter before turning back to my canvas.
"That's okay, I have a few sketches due next week that I could work on." I reach for my canvas, but he beats me to it, lifting the large frame with ease and walking toward the back holding room as if he's done this a million times before. I smile at the gesture, following him into the room.
I'm a little surprised when he remembers which part of the drying rack is mine, and I watch as he easily finds an empty rack within my section to place my canvas. I'm already stepping back toward the studio when his soft intake of air freezes me mid-step.
His eyes are locked on the biggest canvas in my section, the main piece in my portfolio. The piece that I placed my heart and soul into with each stroke of my brush. And when he blinks back the shock and moves the canvas into view, I take a nervous step back until I'm flush with the wall, hands shaking as I study his face for his reaction.
I've never — I've never loved a piece the way I love this one. I've never felt so proud, so connected to a piece the way I do with this one. And I know, deep down I know that if he doesn't like it, my heart would be crushed.
"Jos —" his voice is hoarse, his eyes widening slightly as they roam across the canvas. The huge canvas. The canvas that was bigger than me — the canvas I needed Ben to help me get down and put away every day.
I take a shaky breath and step closer, stopping beside him to look up at the canvas that I haven't seen since the day I submitted my portfolio.
It's an image of a museum hallway with three portraits hung up along both walls. A woman stands admiring the first portrait on the left, her fingers pressed gently against her lips in concentration as she considers the painting. Three little girls are painted in the background behind her, deeper into the hallway. Two of them are playing, smiling while running through the halls, their hands outstretched toward each other while the third little girl stands off to the right, looking up at the final framed portrait on the right. Only, if you look closer, the portrait is empty — a white canvas untouched.
I bring my hand up to my chest, nervously rubbing my throat as I watch him study the piece. When his eyes dart to the next canvas and he pulls that one into view, his jaw drops. He quickly rifles through the other four portraits until he gets to the final portrait in the portfolio — the framed white empty canvas.
Carefully moving the drying rack back to the main portrait with the woman and three little girls, he shakes his head in awe.
"They're meant to be seen in a certain way. With the six portraits hung up on the wall in order and the main piece at the end of the hall. I nod toward the biggest piece in the collection. It's supposed to feel like you're really there, inside the collection.
He nods, bringing his hand up to the canvas, but not touching it.
"The portraits are all prominent women in history," he muses, sliding the drying rack back to the one portrait he'd seen before tonight — of Frida Kahlo. "Women who have paved a path. Women who have changed the world in some way or another. Altered it somehow, for the better."
I nod and smile up at him when he looks over his shoulder for confirmation. When he looks back to the rack of paintings, he stops on the empty one.
"And the empty one —" he slowly goes back to the main piece. "It represents the future — the future little girls who look up to the women of the past, the little girls who might someday become one of them."
His eyes are fixed on the little girl in the back, looking up at the blank canvas in the painting. I can't bite back my smile and I nod, taking his outstretched hand when he extends it to me. He pulls me close, tucking me under his arm before looking back up at the painting.
"This is...this is incredible, Josie."
"That's what I keep telling her."
I squeak in surprise, almost choking on my gasp as I turn to see Professor Riesling standing in the doorway to the holding room. Her eyes linger on my painting for a second longer before meeting mine. "I keep telling her to submit her application for the art exhibit, but she doesn't think she's good enough." She tuts as if the thought is preposterous and glances up at Micah. "Though I'm sure if you were the only one to tell her she's good enough, she might just believe you. Who cares about the opinion of washed-up old artists anyway." Her lips twitch in a playful smile.
"You're not washed up or old, Professor Riesling." I roll my eyes and smile when she waves off my comment. "And that application deadline was November 5th. I couldn't even apply if I wanted to."
She takes a slow breath, considering me for a long moment before casually shrugging her shoulders. "The application folder is sitting on the top of my desk. Now, I haven't looked through it yet, so if one more application were to suddenly be added to the folder by the end of Thanksgiving Break, I would have no idea of knowing."
Taking a step back, she offers a wink before turning on her heel and disappearing into the studio. The sound of the studio door creaking shut echoes through the space before silence settles between us.
I stare at the empty doorway, breath lodged in my throat.
I've had my application filled out since the day I finished my portfolio. I just — I couldn't do it. I couldn't submit my application to the art exhibit. I couldn't stomach the thought of hundreds of people staring up at my collection, their eyes narrowed as they calculate all the ways I could have executed it differently, of all the ways I could have done it better.
"This art exhibit," Micah murmurs, interlacing his fingers with mine to gently pull my attention. "Tell me about it, Jos. That professor seems to think you should apply. What's holding you back?"
I hesitate for a moment, deciding how much to tell him, and when I look up to meet his gaze, the words come tumbling out of my mouth — unfiltered and raw, "Every year the Art Department holds an art exhibit for the sophomores. It's supposed to showcase some of the most promising art that was submitted to the art school. I've — I've dreamed of being a part of it before I even got my acceptance letter to USW. My parents used to take me every year when I was a kid to see the art and every single time I stepped into the convention hall I would dream of the day that I'd see my art displayed for everyone to see."
Micah's brows twitch, and I know he's not understanding. He doesn't interrupt me, though. He simply brushes his thumb across my cheek and lets me explain at my own pace.
"And then I got accepted to USW and that dream didn't seem so far away anymore. And the reality of it hit me. The thought of having my work displayed for hundreds of people to see. The thought of watching each of them look up at my collection and see something less than. The thought of watching them glance at it in disinterest, in distaste, before walking away. I know I shouldn't care. I know that art is subjective, I know not everyone will like it and that's okay, but I can't —" I bite down on my cheek to keep myself from crying. "I can't stand there by myself and watch my dream turn into a nightmare. I can't handle that, Micah. I've poured my whole heart into this collection, I can't —"
My voice breaks at the exact moment that the first tear slides down my cheek, and before I can haul in a shaky breath, Micah has me enveloped in his arms, held so tightly to him I can hear the steady beating of his heart through the thick fabric of his hoodie.
And that's when I break.
I hide my face in his chest and cry — I cry because every time I imagined myself standing in front of my own collection at the USW art exhibition, my parents were right there beside me. I cry because this collection of art means more to me than I'll ever be able to express. I cry because that little girl staring up at that empty portrait, staring up at the prospect of the future — that was me. I cry because I suddenly realize that my fear of rejection, my fear of standing there and watching everyone judge what I hold so close to my heart...that fear isn't just letting me down, it's letting her down. It's letting the five-year-old version of me who walked hand in hand with her parents through the convention center, wide-eyed and mesmerized by the art down. And that breaks my heart more than anything.
I'm letting her down.
But I can't — I can't do it.
Micah holds me close, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other cradling my head while his thumb caresses the shell of my ear softly. He lets me break, he lets me cry, he lets me shatter right here in his arms without even flinching, and when I finally tilt my head back to meet his worried gaze, I lick the tears coating my bottom lip and shake my head.
"I can't." I shrug, swallowing a sob.
"And that's okay," he murmurs, tucking my hair behind my ear and caressing my cheekbone. "If that's a boundary — if showing your art to the public is a boundary of yours, that's okay. It's your art. It's yours. It's a part of you. And while I don't think there's a single person on earth who could look at this collection with anything other than awe and resounding appreciation, I understand if that's a chance you don't want to take. And I don't fault you for that." Tilting my chin up gently, he kisses my cheeks, replacing the tear stains with a gentle blush that warms my face.
His lips linger on my cheek before sliding over and connecting with mine. It's soft and sweet and delicate enough to express how genuine his words are. And that sense of understanding sends a flood of warmth across my skin. Grabbing the pocket on the front of his hoodie, I pull him closer, tasting my tears on his lips as I slide my tongue across the seam of his mouth.
He hesitates for a moment, surprised that I'm taking the sweet moment and asking for more, but when I tug softly on his jacket and moan against his lips, any hesitance he was harboring evaporates as he takes my face between his hands and slides his tongue into my mouth.
One, two, three steps and he has me pinned to the wall. I slip my hands beneath his hoodie, sliding my palms up the muscled expanse of his abdomen. I trace the line of hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans, and when I reach for the button of his pants, he bites down on my lip.
A gasp at the silent reprimand, and before I can run my tongue along the bite, he's already on his knees, hoisting my leg up over his shoulder and pulling the lace of my underwear aside. He doesn't give me time to catch up, to process what's happening before he uses his thumb and forefinger to part me before dragging his tongue up to my clit.
I gasp, my knees buckling as I grab a handful of his hair to steady myself.
"Micah," I moan, my hips already moving to match the pace of his tongue. "I —" My eyes roll back and I drop my head back against the wall, the muscles in my thighs already starting to shake in anticipation of the orgasm coiling tightly in my stomach.
The creak of the studio door sounds, echoing through the silence and my eyes fly open, wide and terrified as I look toward the doorway to the drying room. No one can see in here, they'd have to walk in to see us, but that's usually the first place someone goes when they come in. They have to grab their piece to start working on it.
Micah, well aware of our situation, only adds more pressure to the quick flicks of his tongue on my clit, and I squeak in warning as three sets of footsteps walk into the studio. Voices — male voices — echo from the far side of the studio.
"Come on, baby," he murmurs against me, and I catch a flash of his smile as he looks up at me. "Count to forty-five, let's test my theory."
"Are you insane?" I hiss, eyes darting toward the holding room entrance.
A sharp pain shoots up my leg and I look down to see a red mark of his teeth on my inner thigh.
"Did you just bite me?" I squeak, indignant.
"Count, Josephine." I can hear the threat in his voice — the threat to keep me here in orgasm purgatory until whoever is out there walks in here.
His lips find my clit again, and while there's a part of me that knows this is a bad idea, I can't seem to hear it screaming at me as lace my fingers through his hair and start to count.
"One, two, three...five, seven, um..." I swallow back a moan and clench my eyes shut, trying to focus. "I lost my place, do I have to start over?"
His teeth graze my clit and I jump at the rush of pleasure that shoots up my stomach.
"I'm not starting over — fifteen, sixteen...oh God, Micah," I grind myself against him, digging my fingers into his shoulders. "Oh, my God. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-three, veinticuatro, veinticinco, veintiocho, veinte... veintisiete."
I close my eyes, letting my body lose itself to the rhythm of his tongue, to the feel of him slipping another finger inside of me, to the heightened sensation of goosebumps racing up my chest.
"Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty, thirty — oh —" I give up on counting when my stomach tenses, my legs nearly give out, and I tug on his hair so hard I'm surprised I'm not ripping it out of his head.
I moan his name. Loud.
And before I can have the sense to be embarrassed, my orgasm floods through me, setting my body on fire, and lighting up every nerve in its wake.
Micah jumps to his feet, his hands on my waist to keep me upright while my legs shake, buckling at my knees. My head rolls against the wall until my cheek is pressed to the cool surface and I moan softly with each aftershock pulsing through my trembling body.
Micah fixes my dress for me, lifting my still limp chin to press a kiss to my lips before wrapping his arm around me and guiding me out into the studio. That's when the mental haze of my orgasm begins to dissipate and I remember that I just came — loudly —- on the other side of this wall. And as my eyes desperately search the dim studio — the now painfully silent studio — my cheeks blaze when I see Ben sitting at his usual easel, his sketch pad out on the counter beside him, his hand frozen in his bag as if he were searching were something before he was....interrupted. By me. By my orgasm.
Oh, God.
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out, and when Micah notices, he nods toward Ben — and the two other guys sitting by the spinning wheels, wide-eyed and holding back amused smiles — as casually as he can as he leads me toward my own easel and grabs my bag for me, looping it over his shoulder before steering me out of the studio and through the hall toward the parking lot.
Silence that's all I hear. Silence.
"Did he — do you think he heard?" I whisper, mortified. I cover my mouth, glancing around as if there's any chance he could hear us now, outside and halfway across the parking lot.
"There's a hundred percent chance he heard." He pulls his helmet over my head and clips it into place, and I catch the unmistakable air of satisfaction radiating from him as he tugs gently to secure the strap. "And if he didn't, I don't mind carrying you back in there for an encore performance. Maybe then he'll stop trying mentally fuck you every time he sees you."
My jaw drops.
"He doesn't do that!" I swat his hand away.
Micah snorts sardonically. "Of course he does that. Every time he looks at you he's imagining what you look like naked, what you taste like, what it feels like to touch you," he caresses his knuckles down my cheek. "What it feels like to fuck you."
He leans in, and the warmth of his cologne is heady and intoxicating as he brings his lips to my ear to whisper, "And now he knows that when you come, it's with my name on your lips."