I’ll wait until she isn’t busy?”
Davie’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He left the room again without replying and returned a minute later, still with no Francesca. He gave an apologetic grimace. Ian smiled and stood.
“It’s not your fault,” he assured. He held out his hand. “I’m Ian Noble, by the way. We’ve never been properly introduced.”
“David Feinstein,” Davie said, shaking his hand.
“Would you sit with me for a bit while I wait?” Ian asked.
Davie looked a little nonplussed by the hint that Ian was, indeed, staying, but was too polite to argue. He sat in a chair across from the coffee table.
“I can understand why she’s upset with me,” Ian said, crossing his legs and once again picking up the catalog.
“She’s not upset.”
Ian glanced up at Davie’s words.
“She’s furious. And hurt. I’ve never seen her so hurt.”
He paused, waiting for the sting that resulted from Davie’s honesty to fade. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
“I treated her in a manner I shouldn’t have,” Ian admitted finally.
“Then you should be ashamed,” Davie said, anger ringing in his quiet voice. Ian recalled that he’d said something similar to Davie and Francesca’s other two roommates at the tattoo parlor.
“I am,” Ian said, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly in regret at what he heard. He thought of Francesca’s freshness the other night, her sweetness. The memory of her pussy had been somehow lodged in his brain like a tenacious virus, only growing more vivid as he tried to rid himself of it: the silky, rose-gold hair between lithesome white thighs; creamy, plump labia; the slickest, tightest little slit he’d ever touched. He recalled spanking her and how he’d loved it . . . how
she
had. “Unfortunately,” he continued, addressing Davie, “my shame wasn’t sufficient to keep me away. I’m beginning to think no amount of it would.”
Davie looked startled. He cleared his throat and stood.
“Maybe I’ll just go and see how Francesca is coming along on that . . . project she’s working on.”
“Don’t bother. She’s not here anymore,” Ian murmured.
Davie did a double take and paused next to his chair. “What do you mean?”
“She snuck out the back door about twenty seconds ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, idly flipping the pages of the catalog. He took advantage of Davie’s apparent shock to hold it up.
“Yours?” Ian asked.
Davie nodded.
“I see what you must have been looking at. When did Francesca paint it?”
Davie blinked and seemed to come to himself. “About two years ago. I sold it at Feinstein last year. I was glad to see it come back on the market at this estate sale auction. I’d like to get it back, sell it for a price that’s worthy of the piece, and give the extra profit back to Francesca.” He frowned. “She’s had to sell a lot of her paintings over the years for practically nothing. I hate to think of what she must have let a couple of them go for before I met her. Francesca was living hand to mouth for years before we became friends. I may not have been able to sell her work for the price I think it’s worth, seeing as she’s still a relative unknown, but at least I gave her more than the price of a bag of groceries.” He nodded at the catalog. “If I can get ahold of this particular piece, I’m convinced I can sell it for an excellent price. Francesca is starting to make a name for herself in art circles. I’m sure the award she won from you, and the subsequent recognition, has helped.”
Ian stood and buttoned his jacket. “I’m certain your support of her work has as well. You’ve been a good friend to her. Would you give me your card? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about, but I’m running late for a meeting.”
Davie looked distinctively undecided, then reached into his pocket with the air of a man who would have to confess something major to a
Davie’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He left the room again without replying and returned a minute later, still with no Francesca. He gave an apologetic grimace. Ian smiled and stood.
“It’s not your fault,” he assured. He held out his hand. “I’m Ian Noble, by the way. We’ve never been properly introduced.”
“David Feinstein,” Davie said, shaking his hand.
“Would you sit with me for a bit while I wait?” Ian asked.
Davie looked a little nonplussed by the hint that Ian was, indeed, staying, but was too polite to argue. He sat in a chair across from the coffee table.
“I can understand why she’s upset with me,” Ian said, crossing his legs and once again picking up the catalog.
“She’s not upset.”
Ian glanced up at Davie’s words.
“She’s furious. And hurt. I’ve never seen her so hurt.”
He paused, waiting for the sting that resulted from Davie’s honesty to fade. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
“I treated her in a manner I shouldn’t have,” Ian admitted finally.
“Then you should be ashamed,” Davie said, anger ringing in his quiet voice. Ian recalled that he’d said something similar to Davie and Francesca’s other two roommates at the tattoo parlor.
“I am,” Ian said, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly in regret at what he heard. He thought of Francesca’s freshness the other night, her sweetness. The memory of her pussy had been somehow lodged in his brain like a tenacious virus, only growing more vivid as he tried to rid himself of it: the silky, rose-gold hair between lithesome white thighs; creamy, plump labia; the slickest, tightest little slit he’d ever touched. He recalled spanking her and how he’d loved it . . . how
she
had. “Unfortunately,” he continued, addressing Davie, “my shame wasn’t sufficient to keep me away. I’m beginning to think no amount of it would.”
Davie looked startled. He cleared his throat and stood.
“Maybe I’ll just go and see how Francesca is coming along on that . . . project she’s working on.”
“Don’t bother. She’s not here anymore,” Ian murmured.
Davie did a double take and paused next to his chair. “What do you mean?”
“She snuck out the back door about twenty seconds ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, idly flipping the pages of the catalog. He took advantage of Davie’s apparent shock to hold it up.
“Yours?” Ian asked.
Davie nodded.
“I see what you must have been looking at. When did Francesca paint it?”
Davie blinked and seemed to come to himself. “About two years ago. I sold it at Feinstein last year. I was glad to see it come back on the market at this estate sale auction. I’d like to get it back, sell it for a price that’s worthy of the piece, and give the extra profit back to Francesca.” He frowned. “She’s had to sell a lot of her paintings over the years for practically nothing. I hate to think of what she must have let a couple of them go for before I met her. Francesca was living hand to mouth for years before we became friends. I may not have been able to sell her work for the price I think it’s worth, seeing as she’s still a relative unknown, but at least I gave her more than the price of a bag of groceries.” He nodded at the catalog. “If I can get ahold of this particular piece, I’m convinced I can sell it for an excellent price. Francesca is starting to make a name for herself in art circles. I’m sure the award she won from you, and the subsequent recognition, has helped.”
Ian stood and buttoned his jacket. “I’m certain your support of her work has as well. You’ve been a good friend to her. Would you give me your card? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about, but I’m running late for a meeting.”
Davie looked distinctively undecided, then reached into his pocket with the air of a man who would have to confess something major to a
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