Free Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage by Tanya Altbridge Page A

shirt. I start removing my shorts, but Paul interrupts me. Quickly, impatiently, he strips them off of me himself, along with my underwear, and pushes me toward the bed. I’m lying on my back, but Paul turns me over onto my stomach.
    “Get up on your knees, okay?” He’s not whispering anymore. His voice is stronger now, and in the silence it sounds startlingly loud and authoritative. I obediently do what he says. I am so impatient it hurts. He is behind me. He puts his hands on my breasts, and he kisses my neck, then lightly bites it. Suddenly all my sensitivity is concentrated in my nipples. Paul rubs them with his fingertips, and the feeling of arousal overwhelms me. Paul moves his hands to my stomach, and he strokes, kneads, rubs it, still kissing my neck. I start to moan and rub my ass against his chest. Finally his hand moves lower, to where I need him most. He strokes me there with one hand, while his other hand is back on my breast. I’m already so close to my peak.
    “Oh, Emmy. What are you doing to me?” Paul breathes out.
    He leaves me on the bed, alone. I feel abandoned, wretched. The sound of rustling clothing tells me he is undressing. Then he returns to me, and his hand again comes between my legs. What he’s doing with his other hand I can only guess, because when I try to turn to look at him, he turns my head back to where it was. He doesn’t want me to see him, and he’s not letting me look. This is all very strange, and not like him at all. We’ve never had sex this way, my back to him, not looking. I can’t see him, only feel him. Paul slowly enters me from behind. The sensations I experience surprise me. I remember John, and the expression on his face when he was making love to me on the couch, and immediately, I come. Paul climaxes at almost the same time as I do. I hear him groan out loud.
    I collapse onto the bed, on my back now. My ears are ringing, and I have a hard time catching my breath. Paul is breathing hard, too. He lies next to me and again turns me over so my back is to him. He holds me tight and kisses me behind the ear. Neither of us speaks. After a little time, our breathing evens out, and I feel Paul moving his finger across my back, as if he’s drawing something.
    I can’t help asking. “What are you drawing?”
    “I’m not drawing, I’m writing.”
    “What are you writing?”
    “My name. I want to imprint you with my name. So you’ll be all mine and everyone will know it.” He says the words slowly, pensively.
    Inside me, again, everything clenches tight. I’m already not all his. I have been with John, and I liked it. It’s wrong, but I can’t change it now.
    That evening, Paul leaves. I can’t sleep. All night I toss and turn and think about Paul and John. Paul was so unlike himself. What had he wanted to talk to me about? Why had everything changed so much between us? Because I had let John fuck me, and I had offered not the slightest resistance. How am I going to get along with John now? What about Rachel? She had been so nice to me, and she found me a buyer, and planned to use my paintings in her exhibition, and even this house in the mountains had been her idea. And what had I done to repay her?
    I’m so worked up I am shaking all over. Yes, my grandmother was right. This is what my good luck has brought me.
     
Chapter 14. A Creative Approach
    Bright and early I am already at work, and I paint all day, almost forgetting to stop to eat. Usually I work slowly. I think things through carefully, erase a lot, and paint them over again. Now it’s as if a dam has burst inside me. I know what I want. I need to correct almost nothing. I’m incredibly happy that I can create right now, and forget, for a while, about everything that has happened. The joy I get from working, from the process itself, is the best medicine for the feeling of guilt that is gnawing away at me.
    When dusk falls and I can no longer work, I head out for a walk to the lake. Like an ancient