Her legs were paralyzed. Through her thin shirt she felt her nipples come at attention pointing at want they wanted. Her breathing rose and fell in quick gasps.
“Are you goin’ to come in or you just goin’ to stand there in the hallway?” a deep voice sang.
Trish jerked back, swinging her head back and forth trying to find where the source of the voice came from. When she turned her attention back to the doorway, the beautiful chocolate sculpture stood in front of her. Suddenly her lungs decided to forget how to breathe.
“May I help you?”
Trish felt his body heat radiating off of his skin, wrapping itself around her like a blanket. His chocolate eyes undressed every emotion that she tried to hide.
“I uh, how did…”
“Saw you on camera,” he answered for her.
Trish bit her bottom lip. Her mission of getting out went out the door with everything else. His large artist hand slid into her and guided her further into the nearly empty room. All around were canvases of all sizes. Trish detached herself from him. Beautiful depictions of ethnic women of all shades were drawn on most of them but none of them were finished. The intensity in the women’s eyes was eerily real. A mixture of sadness, compassion, and many other emotions that women carry but never express outwardly were shown and felt. Their stories vibrated off the pages. She felt his eyes piercing into her back as she walked around. In the corner of her eyes she noticed how he leaned up against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest. She smiled to herself. That wife-beater did not do him justice. All of his muscles screamed out for her. She finally worked her way back over to him.
“You’re good. How come you haven’t finished any of them?”
At first he did not answer; he scrunched up his face as if contemplating the right answer. “I haven’t found what I wanted to draw.” His juicy lips looked like tootsie rolls. They parted exposing snow white teeth. Trish’s legs turned into boiled spaghetti.
“Can I watch you paint?”
The mysterious man did not answer. Instead he strolled over to the canvas that he was working on and continued painting. Trish sat down behind him on the floor among the paints to watch his body move. She watched the transformation of him becoming his art; no longer could she tell where the canvas filled with different browns and yellows began and his dark chocolate body ended. It was all too beautiful, breath-taking. He effortlessly flicked his wrist with each stroke. Each was met with passion. She felt instant moistness in between her legs dampening her black lace boy shorts. She craved for him to touch her body with the same precision.