Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (23 page)

“Do you want to see?”

Again she nodded, sitting up in bed, the sheet pooling in
her lap. He’d seen her nude for a month, all day, every day, and still, the
sight of her left him breathless and aching for her.

When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, he
grabbed her wrist, shaking his head. “Wait.” Puzzled, she stopped, cocking her
head at him. He swallowed, glancing through the sheer gauze of her bed curtains
at the canvas on the other side of the room. “I’m afraid.”

He didn’t have to hear the question. It was in her eyes.
Afraid?
Of what?

“I’m afraid…” It wasn’t a fear of her liking or not liking
it. He could care less if his art was reviewed favorably, especially by the
subject. In that way, his subjects were always objects, always distant from his
purpose. He slid his hand down into hers, squeezing. “I’m afraid I’m never
going to see you again.”

He bowed his head at the truth, his heart hammering in his
chest, a weight there like anvil. It was finished, and he was leaving, and
there would be no more lunches; no more furious scribbling at him and the feel
of her poking his arm with her finger, look, look what I have to say; no more
feeling her gaze following him everywhere, everywhere he went.

When she slid behind him, wrapping her arms around his
chest, pressing her cheek to his back, he gave a shuddering sigh at the heat,
the weight of her. She kissed his shoulder blades through his shirt, her hands
moving over his chest, his belly, her breath hot as she moved her mouth to the
back of his neck, feathering kisses there, too. Soon the back of his shirt was
wet with her tears, but she didn’t stop raining kisses over his shoulders,
through his hair, pressing herself against him from behind.

“Lydia, please.” He shook his head, turning to look at her,
to tell her how crazy this was, how crazy his life had become in the last month
and that she was the center of his insanity, and the moment he did, her mouth
found his, drowning them both with her passion. He tasted the salt of her tears
as she cupped his face in her hands, and he tried to resist the soft press of
her tongue, the swell of her breasts against the side of his arm. It was only
when she moved into his lap, straddling him as they kissed, that he knew he was
really lost.

Every moment of resistance, every ounce of energy he’d
spent holding his breath this past month, keeping himself in check, erupted in
that moment. He grabbed her with both hands, fingers digging into the soft
flesh of her hips, tongue snaking deep into her mouth. She didn’t recoil for a
moment—in fact, she pressed further, grinding her hips in his hands, her
crotch moving against his.

He moved to undo his pants, needing to feel her bare skin
against his, but her insistent hands stopped him, pressing him back onto the
bed as she straddled him. He saw the delight in her eyes as she unbuttoned his
shirt, lightly raking her fingernails through the hair on his chest, tweaking
his nipples hard enough to make him jump. She spread his shirt open, leaning in
to kiss him again, her breasts pressing against his chest like soft, ripe
melons. Then she was working on his belt, his zipper, reaching in as if looking
for a prize and her eyes lit up when she found just what she wanted.

His cock wept from wanting her, had been aching for weeks
for some sort of soft, feminine relief, and here she was, her small, delicate
hand wrapped around the shaft, her tongue reaching to taste him. He lost his
hand in her hair, guiding her mouth, that sweet red rosebud of a mouth he’d
spent hours trying to capture, down around the length of his cock.

The sensation was total and he closed his eyes with a
groan, her tongue moving in delicate circles around the tip as she came up, and
sliding along the shaft as she went down again, burying him into her throat so
far he felt her breath against his pubic hair. He let her go on far too long,
bringing him much closer to orgasm than he wanted to be already, but her mouth,
god her mouth…

“Lydia,” he whispered, gently pulling her up toward him.
She came easily, wrapping her long limbs around his and kissing him, hungry,
her hand reaching again for his cock, as if she couldn’t get enough. She worked
him with her fingers, her palm, stroking him toward some delicious madness and
he groaned, wondering how much longer he could hold out, or if he might simply
shoot into her pumping hand like some overexcited teenager before he ever even
got a chance to be inside of her.

But she seemed to know, and she rolled beneath him, her
hand guiding, aiming his cock between her legs as she clasped him to her. Ian
moved his hips forward, following her lead, and gasped as her flesh parted,
slowly engulfing the length of him in an impossibly wet heat. When he looked
down, he saw her eyes half-closed, her lips parted as her hips began to press
up toward his, and he knew he’d never see anything as beautiful as this again
in his life.

He gave in when she pulled him even closer, her breath hot
and fast in his ear as they rocked together. He whispered her name over and
over as he thrust deep into her willing flesh, “Oh god, Lydia, oh god…” and she
clung harder to him, her nails digging into his back, her teeth sinking into
his shoulder as he felt her shudder beneath him.

The pleasure of her orgasm, the soft, fast pulse of her
pussy around his shaft, was too much for him to bear, and he shoved himself
hard into her moist heat in one last attempt to give her everything those
strange, beautiful eyes had ever begged him for. He poured it all into her,
every moment, every longing, every gift, and when he could finally draw a
quivering breath, he whispered, “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” into her
hair as he collapsed in her arms.

She kissed the top of his head over and over, holding him
close when he tried to move away, to ease the weight of him on her. Instead,
she wanted more, pulling the sheet up over their sweat-slick bodies and
snuggling in tighter. He rested his head against her chest, listening to the
soft, steady beat of her heart, and it was that delicious sound that finally
lulled him into an exhausted sleep.

* * * *

She was spooned against his chest when he awoke, and he
knew it was late—too late. There was a soft early light coming into the
high windows. Morning. They’d slept all night. There was a moment of fear, the
thought of being caught by Kauffman, or even old Mrs. Bauer, but when he looked
down at Lydia’s sleeping form, listened to the soft sound of her breath, he
knew it didn’t matter.

He’d spent a month doing a painting he would never get paid
for. But he would take something away from this house more valuable than
anything in the world, more precious to him than he ever could have imagined.
They would walk away from here with nothing, and begin a new life together
outside of these strange walls.

Ian traced the sea shell curve of her ear with his gaze and
watched the way her pulse beat steadily at the side of her neck. He wanted to
take away all the pain and sadness he’d seen in her eyes whenever he mentioned
her husband, to let her leave the past completely behind her.

His fingers idly played over her shoulder, her neck,
interrupted by the feel of the velvet choker there. Kauffman made her wear it
like she was some dog wearing his collar, and the pain and indignity of it
heated his chest. He fingered the ties at the back of the choker, frowning. He
didn’t remember it fastening that way. In fact, he didn’t remember there being
any fastener at all. It seemed instead to be part of her, and while she had
explained that her husband was an extraordinary jewelry maker, it had always
seemed odd to him.

He made his decision quickly, pulling one end of the string
and untying the bow. It came undone easily, and he pulled gently at the
necklace, feeling it slip from around Lydia’s neck as she slept.

He held it up for a moment in disdain and then let it
flutter to the bed.

“Nooooooooo!” The sound of her voice—
she could
speak!
—was all he could fully comprehend as she sat and faced him,
her hands encircling her throat. He saw now a razor thin line of blood forming
where the choker had been, bleeding through her fingers. Her eyes were wide
with fear as she reached for him, her bloody hands grasping, and Ian held them,
aghast, and could do nothing but watch in horror as his lover’s head tipped
backward—
I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming
—leaving him
holding hands with a beheaded corpse.

Her body collapsed immediately, soaking the pillows in
blood, and her head rolled,
dear god, it rolled
, and hit the closet door
with a sickening thud before coming to a stop.

“
Save them.”
The whispered hiss seemed to come from
both places at once, from the throat of the body pooled in blood on the bed,
and the disembodied head resting against the wall, and he thought he would go
insane at that realization.

Save them.

This time the words didn’t come to him from Lydia—she
was gone, her beautiful eyes dull, lifeless, staring into nothing—but
from the painting behind him on the canvas.

He acted quickly, as if he knew just what to do, although
his hands trembled. He blinked back tears as he knelt beside her head and tried
to pick the lock on the closet door. She had bobby pins all over her dresser
she used to put her hair up, and he grabbed one, shoving it into the hole and
twisting, but it was no use.

With a strangled cry, he shoved his shoulder against the
door, feeling the frame shake. He did it again, again, again, until the wood
splintered and the door gave way, swinging inward and leaving him stumbling to
catch his footing.

He stood for a moment, transfixed, the dawning light
showing him more than he wanted to see, and then he gagged, covering his eyes
with his arm, turning away from the sight of them, lined up like science
experiments, heads preserved in glass jars, every single one of them staring
with eyes wide open in horror.

“Lydia,” he whispered, collapsing to the floor, cradling
her bloody head in his hands. “What have I done? What have I done?”

Lost in his grief, he didn’t hear the soft click of the chain
encircling his neck until it was too late. The world had already faded to a
blissful black.

* * * *

“Where am I?”

His voice wasn’t his own. Ian looked down at his hands,
duct taped to a chair, and they weren’t his either. Old, arthritic, they were
the hands of a very old man. His head swam, his stomach lurched.

“Not to worry.”

That’s me
, Ian
thought, feeling the world slipping sideways at the sound of his own voice
coming from behind him. He was in the boudoir, his painting gorgeous in the
early morning light, and the sight of Lydia’s gaze on him from the portrait
made him dizzy with anger.

“What have you done?” Ian croaked, his old man’s voice
thick with Kauffman’s accent.

“Well, you’ve gone and spoiled my treasure.” A hand rested
on Ian’s shoulder, and he heard his own heavy sigh just behind him, the sound
impossibly unmistakable. “But at least I have your painting to preserve my
memory. I do so like to keep things.”

“What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything, friend. You did.” The hand moved
from his shoulder and Ian struggled to see the man behind him. He didn’t have
to wait long. When the body attached to his own voice stepped out in front of
his chair, he felt the world go black for a moment, his whole body clenching in
a cold sweat.
That’s me! I’m him! Oh god, this can’t be happening…

“Let me go.” Ian’s voice was gruff with anger, but he still
didn’t recognize it as his own.

The young man laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re
Mr. Kauffman now—at least, until Mr. Kauffman the art patron dies
suddenly and leaves everything to his young artist friend.”

“I’m not!” Ian struggled weakly in his bonds.

“Well, you have his face, his voice, his undeniable
fingerprints. I just happen to be wearing the jewelry he never takes off.” The
young artist winked and showed the old man in the chair the thin gold chain
Lydia had informed Ian that Kauffman had always worn since she knew him.

Ian groaned, closing his eyes, hanging his head, but his
hands clenched into defiant fists. “What makes you think I’m going to do
anything you want me to do?”

“Because you’re going to be wearing another piece of
jewelry,” the younger man explained. “I’ve been working on this one for a
month.”

It was too late to stop him, and there was nothing he could
have done anyway. Pain followed the dull click like a razor, and he felt a warm
wetness pooling at the hollow of his throat as he gasped for air.

The younger man held up a hand mirror, grinning. “Like it?”

Gun metal gray, and thin as a wire, it encircled the old
man’s neck with no end.

“Unfortunately, this one’s ruined.” The young man sighed as
he held up the bloody velvet choker, the one Lydia had so recently worn.

Ian tried to speak, tried to cry out her name, but no sound
come out of his throat.

“I’m sure I’ll make another, once I find a new treasure.”
The younger man let go of the necklace, watching it flutter to the floor in
front of the portrait of the last woman who had worn it. “I do so like to keep
things.”