The Velvet Choker

She gave him a withering look, reaching behind the enormous mirrored dresser and pulling on something with both hands. He leaned over to see what she was struggling with and saw immediately that it was a painting. He gently nudged her aside, ignoring as best he could the soft press of her bare breast against his arm as he slowly pulled the dresser forward so he could slide the painting out from behind it.

"My god, is that you?" Ian asked, but knew the moment the words left his mouth that it wasn't. It was a different woman, certainly, her face rounder, her body a little more plump, but the resemblence was uncanny. The painting had been slashed several times with something sharp, and he had to hold pieces of the canvas up to see the whole thing. It was the exact portrait he had been commissioned to paint, the same room, same furniture, just a different woman on the settee.

"What's going on here?" Ian frowned, meeting her eyes. Lydia's eyes darted from him to the painting to the door, and just shrugged.

"Mrs. Bauer!"

The sound of Kauffman's voice got them both moving, putting the painting and dresser back quickly. They both heard his steps on the stairs, accompanied by the unmistakable thump of his cane. By the time Ian picked up his brush, Lydia was reclining once again on the settee, the only signs of her transgression the pink flush on her cheeks.

"Mrs. Bauer!" Kauffman poked his head in, although he must have know his housekeeper wouldn't be there.

"She brought us lunch." Ian nodded toward the tray. "Haven't seen her since."

The old man gave a nod, his eyes not on Ian, but the painting. "It's coming along. Another week."

"Yes," Ian agreed. Another week of eight hour sessions, spending time in the old house until the light faded while Lydia slept in the big bed across the room. He still went home and crashed at his place every night, although Kauffman had offered one of their many rooms for his use, but he didn't trust himself. Not at night, not after the light was gone, and Lydia was curled under the covers. Somehow, seeing her there like that, one thigh exposed, the soft curve of her arm, tempted him more than having her in front of him all day fully nude.

"Goot."

The both breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone, and Lydia carefully slid her pad and pen back under the settee. Ian had been there all day every day for three weeks, and there was so much he still didn't understand about this woman and her life, but he wanted to scoop her up and take her away from it, that much he knew. And that feeling was dangerous. He fought it every moment of the day.

He sighed, starting to paint, focusing on lines, textures, trying not to think about the flesh of the woman he was bringing to life on the canvas, trying not to wonder why she married such a cold, hard man, or to be curious about the other woman in the painting behind the dresser. One more week, and this job would be done, and his life could go on the way it was.

Except he knew—looking over and meeting her eyes, the way she softened when she looked at him like that—he knew somehow things were never going to be the same for him ever again.

* * * *

It's the last day.

"You don't have to tell me," Ian growled. He was never going to finish in time. The light was already fading, a rosy glow radiating through the room, turning everything a fiery orange. It was her eyes. He couldn't get her eyes right.

You can work through the night.

Ian shook his head, frowning, concentrating, barely looking at her words. He couldn't get it right, and he hated when the image eluded him, hiding somewhere in the canvas, lurking just beyond his reach.

It wasn't until Lydia was beside him, pressing against his side, resting her cheek on his arm, that he really paid attention.

He's gone.

Those were the words she was trying to show him.

"Who? Kauffman?" Ian shrugged, putting his brush down with a sigh. "So?"

For the night. He's gone out of town until tomorrow. Mrs. Bauer said it was a family emergency.

"He's still got family?"

Lydia shrugged, but her eyes were bright as she tugged on his sleeve, leading him. He understood immediately, but he froze in place, taking her hands in his, shaking his head.

"I can't." The disappointment in her eyes was a heartbreak. "You're married, and I'm..." He let his sentence trail off, the hurt in her eyes like a knife in his belly. He expected her to argue, to turn to her pad and scribble her pain. Instead, she dropped his hands, her face a sudden mask as she turned away and walked toward the window.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, swallowing hard as she hugged her arms, not looking at him as she made her way toward the big bed. It was early yet, but she slid between the covers anyway. He stood there for a long while, fighting with himself and trying not to imagine her silently wetting her pillow with tears.

"Just get it over with, Baker," he said to himself in the fading light. He meant the painting, of course.

Of course he did.

He picked up his brush and began to paint again.

* * * *

The moon was high when he finished.

He stood at the window and watched it riding black clouds for a long time, listening to her breathing behind him. It was her eyes, watching him, all the time, her gaze burning through every defense, every excuse, every rationalization. There was no arguing with her, no easy words to cover emotion. She was just raw feeling, trembling and naked and vulnerable before him in every moment.

That was what he had captured in her eyes. Finally. Finally.

"Lydia?" He whispered her name as he approached the bed, drawing aside the filmy curtain. She slept curled up like a child, one hand tucked beneath her chin, her mouth a rosy pout. The sheet covered the top of her breasts and he watched it rise and fall with her breath. The cameo in the choker she wore glinted in the low lamplight, the black velvet band her only adornment, and his eyes followed the curve of the sheet downward as it hugged her curves, tugged tight between her thighs. She was ripe, delectable, beyond words or form, and nothing could capture her. He had done his best, but it didn't come close to the experience of being next to the woman sleeping before him.

He startled when she touched his hand and he glanced up to see her eyes were open, watching him, questioning. He raised her palm and kissed it, admiring the long, delicate curve of her fingers.

"I finished it," he whispered, sitting beside her, brushing a soft blonde curl from her cheek. She nodded, smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes. Instead, there was sadness there. He wished she could speak, to reveal the mystery of herself to him. He longed to unravel her, unwrap her, find her true center.

"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 shoulderblades 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, lighting 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 and 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 he clenched his fists in defiance. "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."