hey there

He cleared his throat and approached the opposite end of the counter, wanting to close whatever gap was between them. She looked up at him, her face remaining impassive. Almost brooding. He thought she looked ethereal, even standing in the ordinary backdrop of his shop.

"How can I help you?" he asked, proud that his voice was even.

"I'm here for my portrait."

"Ah. And your name?" he asked just as he reached for his pad of paper and glanced down seriously, despite knowing that there was only one name that his assistant, Seth, had scribbled down for him today.

"Eira."

He smiled, before repeating her name back to her. "Eira. What a pretty name."

She narrowed her eyes slightly up at him, no doubt sussing or testing something out, but he only offered his best smile. She said nothing, and he expected nothing less.

"Right this way, Eira." He said her name again and liked how well it fit on his tongue.

-

She sat on the bench and took off her coat revealing beautiful, albeit revealing plum-hued dress with intricate lacing. It had a low neckline, which gave him a tasteful view of her chest, and a ribbon bow that cinched the laced waist. The slit of the skirt ran up the length of her thigh, and revealed long, pale legs.

He straightened himself and cleared his throat before searching for his paintbrushes.

She moved without his prompting, finding a pose that seemed to suit her. She eventually landed on crossing her legs at the knee, one hand resting on the bench, and her eyes practically piercing through her. When his gaze finally met hers, he found her smirking at him, a tug of a quirked brow. He cleared his throat again, snapping his jaw shut and focusing his attention at his blank canvas.

"Comfortable?" he asked, just as he wiped the last bits of water from his brush, his easel with the canvas just off to the side.

She nodded. Truly, a woman of few words. He couldn't help but shake his head, a small huff of amusement escaping him.

"Something the matter?"

"None at all," he began. "You ever pose before?"

She tilted her head, pouted her lips slightly, and he wondered briefly if it would be irresponsible of him to start painting those lips-if only to capture them how they are at this moment. "Yes."

The corner of his lips twitched, amused beyond words, despite wanting so much more of what she was unwilling to give.

"Alright, Eira. Let's get started."

-

The portraiture took a little over three hours (by far the fastest portraiture he'd ever done, a feverish desire to capture her overtaking him), and she sat on that bench with patience beyond measure. He offered her breaks at least every half hour, but she declined them all, save for one about halfway through where she stepped out for ten minutes. He resisted the urge to post himself by the window of his shop and watch where she went, but knew that was a step too far. So he stayed where he was and only offered her his best smile when the ring above his door rang and alerted him to her return.

When he finished the portrait, he took a deep breath. "Take a look."

She stood a respectable distance from him, but he could smell her perfume-something warm, cozy.

"What do you think?"

"Well done, Mr. Summer."

"Feel free to call me, Izzet. Mr. Summer is my father." He offered her a lopsided grin, and though she did not return the smile, her eyes warmed. He happily settled for that.

-

She did not stay very long after, shrugging her coat back and told him that she would come to collect the portrait in a few days.

Just as she reached the door, she turned her head slightly and looked over her shoulder. "Thank you for your work, Izzet."

He nodded at her, having lost his ability to speak, and helplessly stared all the while as she retreated to the door and walked out of his studio.

-

Much to his disappointment, she never returned. The portrait was paid for in full, and someone else seemed to have collected the portrait on the one afternoon he stepped out. He'd bothered Seth to confirm that the woman who picked up the painting was not, in fact, the woman he painted.

He spent the following days sullen which greatly annoyed his assistant, but he continued his work. Time passed and his memories and thoughts of her were pushed to the side. His business grew, and he was able to move to a larger studio. But every now and again, after long days of work, he'd tend to a spare canvas where he would paint her from memory until all he had of her was a poor man's copy of her beauty. Once he completed her portrait, he wasn't sure what to do with himself, having chipped away at it over time. Since he knew he was never going to see her again, he decided to hang it in his studio. Sometimes, a patron would appear and ask if it was for sale, but he always shook his head, told them that it was a personal piece.

-

He heard the bell ring above his studio door and bellowed out from the back closet, as he finalized the last count of his inventory. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"How much for the portrait on the far wall," she heard a woman ask. He shook his head, a small amused smile on his face. That was the third patron this month. He stepped out of the closet, eyes still cast down on his pad of inventory notes.

"Sorry. It's not for sa-" His voice died in his throat when his gaze fell on the woman--the woman of his memories, the woman he never thought he'd ever see again. "Eira."

He quickly wipes away the toothpaste suds dripping from his chin and rinses his mouth, barely wiping his wet hands on his sleep shorts. He beelines after her as she seems to make her way to the kitchen.

He finds her in front of the fridge, bent over so that the sheer fabric wraps around her toned ass. He stands right behind her, caging her as he places one hand on the nearby wall and the other on top of her hand as it lingers on the fridge door handle.

He nuzzles against her nape, smelling the crushed floral scent in her hair. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks, pressing against her body more fully. She only seems to respond by bending over further until her ass rubs against his crotch.

"Finding a snack, what else?"

"I can think of a snack I'd like to have." Then he nips at her ear lobe just as he shuts the fridge door closed.

"You're so lame."

"But you love me, don't you?"

"That remains to be seen."

He smirks against the skin behind her ear and kisses tenderly there just as his hands settle on her arms to pull her closer to him. Then, his hands travel towards her front feeling the glide of the sheer fabric on his fingertips before his hands settle on the warmth of her bosom.

"You don't mean that, Lady Eira," he says, punctuating each syllable with a squeeze of her breasts, excited at the feel of her nipples beading under his touch.

She whimpers against his touch, pushing further into him as she rests her hands on the fridge. Her sounds spur him on as he gently sucks the exposed skin of her neck. His deft fingers move past the sheer fabric as he brushes it out of the way so that his skin makes contact with the heat of her breasts. He catches her left nipple between his index finger and thumb, rolling and pinching it just so. He's obsessed with how she sounds under his touch. "You look so good in this robe, baby."

"Less talking."

"As you wish," he husks out, his fingers continuing their ministrations just as his other hand squeezes her other breast until they spill past his fingers. He's making his way down her neck and shoulders until he decides that despite how sexy she looks in this robe, he wants it off. So he releases her pebbled nipple to deftly unbutton the top until it cascades down alabaster shoulders. It hangs around her arms like a shawl, revealing soft skin.

As ordered, he says nothing as he returns to his tasks. One hand resumes squeezing and massaging her breast while the other gently glides further down to the heat of her core, cupping her through the silk fabric of her panties, already damp. Her reluctant whine is addicting, doubling his efforts until she bucks against his hand. His strength allows him to pull her even closer to him as he continues to mark her white skin with his lips, tongue, teeth. Her head draws back and rests on his shoulder even as her body contorts to mold against his, under his.

"Mmmmpff," she swallows her moan just as he reaches down past her panties and into her wet center, delighted at just how much she's gotten slick in just mere moments. Still, he continues squeezing her breast before reaching across to fondle the other one. It's no mistake that his forearm grazes her nipple just so when his muscles tense as he massages her. He grinds against her, their hips undulating in tandem as his fingers reach deeper. Without warning, his finger slips knuckle deep and she thrusts against it, wanting more. So he gives her another, and she's keening in his arms. The sound of her, the feel of her, has him hard against her and he wants his own release, but not until she's satisfied.

It's a little depraved and not at all sexy to do this in front of the fridge in the middle of the kitchen, yet despite the way the fridge shakes from side to side as she pushes into it just as she juts her hips out toward him, he has no complaints.

She turns her head seeking him out so their lips connect, slotting in place as he works her up until she's tensing in his arms, one hand grabbing hold of the fridge while the other clasps on top of his as his hand practically molds around her tit.

She's breathtaking like this, unencumbered with responsibilities, and his for the taking.

He releases her when she taps him on the forearm. She turns around, legs a little unsteady, and fixes her robe. He only smirks when he brings his wet fingers into his mouth and tastes her, her face reddening beyond exertion.

"So I take it you like the robe?" she asks with a quirk of a sharp brow.

When Eira first saw him, she’d just finished shopping for her weekly supplies at the village square markets and was headed back home. She’d spotted him immediately; he was standing by the fountain in the village center, children surrounding his foreignness, his newness. 

His hair stood out like the waning sunset amidst the midnight hues of the villagers. Eira hadn’t stayed very long knowing that he was a spectacle to the village, and she’d always learned never to stare, but she hadn’t anticipated locking eyes with him from across the way. 

His smile was bright and earnest, like the open sky, and Eira thought that just as seasons come and go, so would he. 

As the days passed, her best attempts to keep to herself and mind her business were for naught, least of all when nosy neighbors spoke loudly about the newest village gossip. 

She discovered—rather unsurprisingly—that he was a traveler, only passing by. His stay in the village was temporary, like a summer breeze. And that told her enough to keep her head down, focus on planting the new crops for the upcoming fall, and mind her business.

It shocked her in her place when a week later, she opened her door to find the traveler standing a few feet away, shouldering his bag, and flashing that earnest smile on his face—a little crooked, a little beautiful.  

“Hello, miss. I’d heard from the folks at the markets that you were in need of some help.”  

She met his gaze, and raised a daring brow, but she made no move, said no words. He seemed to cotton on to what she’d been doing because he stood a bit taller, pulling at the leather strap of his bag, and kept his eyes on her.

Finally, “I’m not in *need* of a single thing.” 

He opened his mouth just slightly, enough for a fly to slip through. Then he scanned the land, looked past her house where she knew the barn stood. His smile returned—a little crooked, a lot beautiful. 

“Forgive me, miss. I didn’t mean to assume. But if you could use it, I’d like to offer my help in exchange for just one meal a day and a roof over my head.” 

She held them both in silence as a few tense moments passed. “I’m not much of a cook,” she said finally, not fully certain where her acquiescence came from. But she knew, logically, that any help tending to the acreage of crops would be of immense help.  

“I can’t imagine you being less than capable.” 

Eira let out a wry laugh as he let slip the sly talker in him, no doubt egged on by the women from the square. “You don’t know me.” 

“For now.” 

She pushed forward from her door and stood at the edge of her porch, forcing him to stare up at her, his eyes squinting and his hair practically glowing in the sunlight. “What’s your name?” 

He stepped forward, though he kept his eyes on her, staring up, as if in reverence. “Izzet. And yours?” 

“You can call me Eira.” 

He nodded, his smile never once faltering. Still crooked, still beautiful. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eira.”