I frowned, ignoring the plaintive rumblings in my stomach, and heaved my satchel from one arm to the other.“Later, maybe. I have some work to do.”“Painting today?” He patted his palms on his apron, leaving a pair of floury handprints.“Just sketching, I think.”“A shame. The walls are naked since Marie made off with your oils,” he poured more wine into the pan and whirled around, whisking up a roux in a scorched copper pot just as it began to bubble, “But your exposition. It was a success, yes?”“Um, yeah,” I shrugged tensely, “Something like that.”He whisked faster, “Marie says you found yourself a Medici. He wants to buy your work.”I flushed. Good Lord. Her and her mouth.“Well, you know how she tends to exaggerate.”“Ma soeurette?” He flashed a grin, “Jamais!”I smirked as he raised a spoon, sniffed, scowled, and seasoned with a half-pinch of thyme. It really did smell incredible. Honestly, how he could stand to spend his time immersed in all these tantalizing aromas and not weigh a. The girl began to move. Slowly, at first, as if she were a tap opening, letting the movement out gradually, increasing the flow steadily. Her body was a precision instrument, interpreting the music, the rhythm and the emotion in the song. She let her eyes close, the pleasure of movement filling her completely. It was a sexual energy, but one which required no other partner than the music. The rhythm touched her more tenderly than a lover ever could. The beat, as it began to quicken, became more and more passionate, and she moved herself around the floor, the embrace of the song guiding her. The girl remembered her past lovers, the men who fumbled with her, treating her body like a machine- press the right button, get the right response. She felt sorry for them. They really had no idea. It was their loss. Those men never understood how a woman worked, what a woman needed. They did not know how best to touch and caress, or how to use words instead of hands. Most of all, they didn’t.
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