Painting Class (Chiaroscuro Book 1) Read online

  Ainsley came out of her thoughts and realized Noma was peeking up at her, and she smiled. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “How exhausted I am,” Noma said. “But how it’s super rude if I don’t, you know. Don’t…”

  “Get me off?”

  “Yeah.” Noma’s cheeks took on a little more flush. She was still so young.

  Ainsley cupped her face. “Later. We’ve got time.”

  Noma’s face spread into a sleepy smile. “Yeah? We do?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She laughed. “You think I was going to kick you out?”

  “I…I dunno.”

  “Nah, you’re welcome here whenever you want.”

  Noma grinned up at her, and she buried her face again in Ainsley’s thigh. “Fuck you; now I’m shy.”

  “No, now you’re cute.” She coaxed Noma up just enough to meet her lips in a lingering kiss, and Noma smiled even wider against her mouth. When she leaned back, Ainsley kissed her cheek, and then her nose, and then her forehead, until Noma slid away to hide in her pillow. “You can nap, but you’re sleeping on your stomach.”

  “What?” Noma asked, glancing over and wrinkling her brow.

  “Well, I mean, you’re not smearing that work of art before it dries.”

  “Fuck you,” Noma said again with a laugh, poking Ainsley with her foot. “I hate you.”

  “Yeah,” Ainsley teased. “I can tell.”

  “You mean it, though?” Noma asked. She blinked a few times, batting those long eyelashes of hers, and almost took Ainsley’s breath away. “That I’m welcome here?”

  It was a tricky proposition, and Ainsley heard the million unspoken questions in Noma’s voice. It wasn’t something Ainsley would be comfortable answering all in one go. She’d have taken an entire day, if she could, answering question after question so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, making sure they parted on good terms when Noma left to go and pursue her bright future. Just like Ainsley always knew she would. But they didn’t have that time. And she was young; she was so fucking young, staring up at her with enough innocence to break Ainsley’s heart. It’d be easier to keep her close by so she’d never have to watch Noma break under the pressures and imperfections of the world, never have to see Noma take on the burdens of her gender, her race, her sexuality.

  But if she did that, Noma would never grow. She’d never change the world by inspiring it to be something different. And as lovely a fantasy as it was, keeping Noma here where Ainsley could fill entire sketchbooks with her form, where Ainsley could keep her safe, Ainsley was enough of a realist to know better.

  “What are you really asking me, Noma?” Ainsley asked softly, reaching down to brush her thumb across her cheek.

  Noma’s eyes fell shut as she nuzzled into Ainsley’s palm. “I just wanna catch up with you,” Noma murmured. “I wanna get to know Ainsley, not Miss Edwards. I wanna know the woman behind the easel. I wanna spend time just sketching together and talking about life and paint and loss and whatever else comes up. And I wanna know if I’ve got permission to do that.”

  Noma made it sound so easy. She made it sound like there wasn’t anything that could go wrong there, that Noma wouldn’t risk patterning herself on Ainsley instead of becoming her own woman, that Ainsley wouldn’t risk treating Noma like the child she was when they’d first met. But Ainsley had already made the first move here, bringing Noma into her bed, running her hands all over her naked body, tasting her arousal without any second thoughts whatsoever. And maybe the best thing she could do was treat Noma like an adult who could make her own decisions, instead of worrying about holding her hand and guiding her through life.

  “Tell you what,” Ainsley said quietly. “You lie here and get a good, long nap. And when you wake up, you can take a shower and wash all this paint off. And then I’ll make us a snack and some coffee, and we can talk all we like.”

  Noma snorted, though the color on her cheeks was high. “Ainsley, it’s the middle of the night. You gotta sleep sometime.”

  “It’s summer,” Ainsley said. “I don’t have a schedule to keep.” She paused. “And I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Bad things?” Noma asked.

  Ainsley considered. “No… No, I don’t think they’re bad at all.”

  Noma smiled again, closing her eyes.

  Ainsley pressed a kiss to Noma’s forehead and coaxed her to rest her head on the pillow. “Get some sleep, sweet Noma,” she whispered. She stood for a moment, watching how Noma nuzzled into her pillow, and it was only when she saw the goose bumps on her legs that Ainsley reached for the blanket and draped it up to the bottom of her thighs.

  It was a process—cleaning her brush and palette and hands—and Ainsley worked through it methodically. She was happiest alone. She wouldn’t deny that. Though she might’ve been a little freer and wilder back in her days as a student, she’d grown out of that pattern years ago. She kept to herself during the summer months and kept to the students during the school year, and thus far, it suited her quite well. But maybe that was not how it had to be. Maybe she was tired of playing the hermit. Maybe a little softness and experimentation and curiosity would suit her better. Maybe a lifetime of guarantees had lost its novelty.

  Ainsley paused at the bedroom door, watching Noma’s back lift and fall with her easy breaths. She couldn’t help but smile.

  About the Author

  Suzanne is an asexual woman with a great love for writing erotica and enjoys spending her time confusing people with that fact. She believes there is a need for heightened diversity in erotic fiction and strives to write enough stories so that everyone can see themselves mirrored in a protagonist. She lives with her husband and cat, and, when not writing, Suzanne enjoys reading, playing video games poorly, and refusing to interact outdoors with other human beings.

  Email: [email protected]

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/suzanneclaywriting/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/suzanneclay_

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  Coming soon from Suzanne Clay

  Figure Study

  Chiaroscuro, Book 2

  Excerpt

  The last time Ainsley made breakfast for someone, she was procrastinating for her senior show. There had been paintings to finish, an artist statement to make foolproof, and a final defense to prepare, and ultimately it had been too much for her. A warm body and a kind smile had helped for the night, but the morning after had been too soon for Ainsley to jump back into the fray. On that day fifteen years ago, her delaying tactic had been blueberry muffins. This morning, it was blueberry pancakes.

  The fruits felt cool and firm in Ainsley’s hand as she poured them into the pale batter. She lingered for a moment, considering their fullness and the way they floated on the surface. There was a striking color contrast emphasized by the sunrise cutting through her kitchen’s picture window. It felt shameful to ruin it. But ruin she did. With one stir of her wooden spoon, she watched the berries disappear under the surface, leaving behind divots that rapidly filled with the batter again.

  Moments like this struck her on a daily basis, and not for the first time, Ainsley wondered why. Was it from her artistic sensibilities, appreciating the difference of colors and the play of textures and the shifting of shapes? Or was it from yet another night of insomnia? Did her exhausted mind make everything feel a little more visceral, look a little more striking? She wasn’t sure. And while she found appreciation from these little things regardless, she also felt uncomfortable that maybe, just maybe, it was something she shouldn’t be pleased by.

  She was making these pancakes to delay waking the sleeping girl in her room. She was making coffee to avoid sleeping so she wouldn’t risk sensual, aching dreams about the woman she still wasn’t sure she regretted touching.

  Ainsley paused by the pantry, hands hovering, with the syrup bottle loose in her grip. She sat at the breakfast table cradling the bottle safely in her hands.
/>   Fifteen years ago she made blueberry muffins to avoid her final university projects. And Noma, the girl sleeping so peacefully in her bed, had left kindergarten only a short time later. God, that puts things in perspective.

  Ainsley sacrificed a pancake’s perfect golden-brown color to pour some coffee and drink it—too hot, too bitter, and too strong. The taste was enough to drown out the burgeoning worries in her head, and the burned edges of the pancake were enough of a penance to set Ainsley’s heart at ease again. Ainsley would eat it. She never much minded eating things everyone else wanted to throw away.

  By the time Ainsley brought the tray full of pancakes and coffee and syrup into the bedroom, her mind was clear again. Noma looked like she hadn’t moved an inch in her sleep. She lay on her stomach, hands fisted by her face, and the pinks and purples that Ainsley had painted on her back were perfectly intact. She hadn’t stirred from the sounds of Ainsley moving pots around or the grinding of the coffee beans. She slept perfectly. Peacefully.

  Ainsley envied that to the very depths of her soul.

  Ainsley set the tray on the end of the bed. She sat next to Noma and gently ran her hand over Noma’s arm. The play of the color contrast between their skin—Ainsley’s blue-white paleness against Noma’s umber brown—stirred her imagination toward painting, but her thoughts silenced as Noma moved under her touch and made a low sound. Ainsley gently squeezed her arm and smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Mmnh…” Noma squinted up at Ainsley, came up on her elbows, and then went to rub her eyes. “Morning.” She froze, hand still in a fist, and grunted. “God, I’ve still got my makeup on. Did I really just pass out last night?”

  “You did,” Ainsley said with a chuckle. “You must’ve been out of it.”

  “Yeah, well…” Noma’s cheeks flushed a dark rose as she collapsed flat again. “I mean, y’know, I had a pretty good night and all.”

  Ainsley tipped her head to the side. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” With her cheek resting on her bent forearms like a pillow, Noma peeked up at Ainsley, half her face still obscured. “You?”

  Ainsley had spent a long night sitting at her breakfast table staring into the darkness and remembering over and over again what she’d done: crossing paths with Noma at Ainsley’s gallery showing, getting Noma’s safeword, painting her skin, tasting her sweet arousal. Ainsley considered her response. “I think it went rather well,” she finally said as she pushed her hair over her shoulder.

  Noma stared at her intently, her hazel gaze sweeping over Ainsley’s face. “You think so, huh?” Noma asked.

  There was something Noma wasn’t saying—something Ainsley couldn’t pick up on as much as she wanted to. It was like Noma was hedging her bets until she knew exactly what Ainsley wasn’t saying. Ainsley narrowed her eyes, weighing her thoughts, and then shook her head. “Didn’t I used to be able to read your face a lot better?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Noma said, smiling. “I’m not quite the girl I used to be.”

  “No, you’re not,” Ainsley murmured. “No, you’re a woman now.” She flicked her eyes down Noma’s body and took in the swell of her rear end, the stretch marks over her hips, and the smoothness of her skin. “Do you want to know a secret?”

  Noma sat up on her elbows. “Yes ma’am.”

  “That’s part of why I didn’t sleep last night,” Ainsley said. “Just from trying to reconcile the idea of you as a woman instead of a student.”

  The smile Noma gave was more tentative than anything, no doubt still trying to figure out her place in Ainsley’s bed. “Makes sense. Guess I gotta do that too. I keep seeing you as Miss Edwards.”

  Ainsley smiled back. “Is that why you called me ‘ma’am’ just a second ago?”

  Noma stammered wordlessly and then shook her head, her cheeks flushing even more. “No, that’s, uh…no, I think that’s from last night.”

  Also Available from NineStar Press

  www.ninestarpress.com