The Tenant

Chapter Seven

With all the grace of elephants, we tumble through the front door of Chris's apartment building, our minds more than a little foggy from 3 shared bottles of wine. The taxi ride had been filled with fits of giggles and hushes from Chris, who had pressed his forefinger against my lips in an attempt to silence me nearly the entire ride home. It's my turn to try and stifle his raucous laughter now, his fingers slipping over his keys as he closes one eye to try to focus on the keyhole.

"You're being soooooo loud," I say, clamping my hand over his mouth. Tongue darting out of his mouth to probe me, he laughs heartily as I withdraw it. "Hurry up."

"If the keyhole would just stop moving..."

"Oh for f**k's sake, give me the keys."

Snatching them from his hand, I steady myself and plunge them into the lock with more luck than judgement. I fall into the apartment, followed in quick succession by Chris, who slams the door behind us and falls onto the sofa in fits of laughter.

Breath leaves our mouths in frozen clouds, but I feel completely unaffected by the temperature. The wine flows through me, coursing warmth through my veins. My arms didn't get the memo though, as they're covered in pin-prick goosepimples.

"Thanks for this evening, Ash," he says, eyes closed as he lays his forearm over his head. "I had more fun with you than I have in a while."

"For a pompous place, it wasn't a bad evening."

"All about the company, isn't it?" Chris asks rhetorically, gesturing clumsily to his body in what's meant to be a sexy, fluid motion. "You're into art, aren't you?"

"We spent the better part of dinner talking about my love of art; you know damn well I am."

Chris jumps up at my confirmation, stumbling to remove his shoes, swiftly followed by his blazer, shirt and trousers. He stands before me in all his glory, wearing only tight Calvin Klein's and socks. The cold has his n*****s standing to attention, sharp enough that they could easily poke an eye out.

"Ash, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls."

Whether caused by the wine or his hilarious choice of words, I double over, clutching my stomach in a vain attempt to control the laughter pouring from my lips. It's genuine and unfiltered – the sort of ugly laugh you only unveil in front of your closest friends, otherwise keeping it in your very recesses for emergency use only.

"What?"

"Quoting Titanic, Chris – really?"

"It's my favourite film," he says, his features ablaze with a smile that makes my legs shake beneath me. "I'm being serious though. I want you to draw me."

"I'm f*****g smashed. I don't think I could write my name right now, nevermind draw you."

"Try," Chris implores, resuming his place on the sofa.

"I never even drew Ben, why would I-"

"Who the f**k is Ben?" Christopher asks, his features hardening to a scowl.

"My ex."

"Well, I'm sure I'm more man than he'll ever be, so take advantage of basking in my presence and draw me."

Angled towards me with his head in one hand and the other draped off the side of the sofa, I don't have it in me to refuse him. I plunder the kitchen drawers, finding only a half empty biro and a piece of scrap paper, but it will do. It's hardly going to be a masterpiece under these circumstances anyway, but I'll humour him.

As I get to work on my rough sketch, Chris is a good subject. He stays utterly still, despite the excessive alcohol consumption, staring ahead with a serious expression. Such a bizarre situation that I fight the urge to laugh again, I dedicate my attention to drawing him instead, honouring every dip and contour of his body.

Even in my studio, with great lighting and a plethora of good quality art supplies and canvasses, I could never capture his beauty – I'm unsure anyone could. Nothing could ever do justice to the enigma that he is. It would be impossible to for it to convey everything that makes him him - The silky smooth tones of his voice and laughter; his dry and often inappropriate sense of humour; the feel of his flawless skin.

No, not even countless hours spent carefully crafting his image would ever truly encapsulate Christopher Prince.

Though I know this, I still find inspiration in the curves and edges of his body. Every inch that I explore lays the way to yet another treasure, yet another depth, to explore. Drawing him, even whilst intoxicated and with a f*****g biro, is impossibly easy.

"Done," I say, looking to the clock to see almost half an hour has passed. "How did you stay still that long?"

"I figured if I didn't, you'd either get pissed at me or stop drawing me. I didn't want you to do either so--" Christopher trails off as he takes the piece of paper from me, studying the rough sketch as though it were something far more valuable. "Holy s**t you're talented. How did you even-- I can't-- Wait a second, why did you make the outline of my d**k so small?"

"I—erm, you--" I try to speak, to override the urge to laugh as I bite down on my lower lip, as Chris looks at me dumbfounded. "It's okay Chris, it's cold in here."

"Draw me a bigger d**k," he demands, handing me the paper without an ounce of humour.

"I'm not drawing you a bigger one. You're only gonna end up chucking this anyway," I say, patting his head. "We both know it isn't small."

"Then why did you draw it like that?" He asks incredulously, eyes widened as he stares at the piece of paper like I've drawn someone kicking a puppy. "You could have just drawn my boxers and left out the finer details."

"Then you'd complain you have no d**k," I say exasperatedly. "I can't win."

"I feel like I have something to prove, now."

Grabbing hold of my hips, he spins me around 180 degrees, my back pressed against his abs and the growing bulge in his boxers. The alcohol in my stomach surges forwards with an audible slosh as I swallow, desperately trying to quell the sudden nausea.

"Oh s**t, don't throw up," he says, his arms stiffening around me as I cover my mouth. "I'm sorry."

"I need to go to sleep," I say, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the room from spinning. "And you need to get dressed before you get frostbite."

Instead of letting go of me, Chris picks me up carefully and slowly, carrying me bridal-style towards the guest room. He places the drawing carefully on the coffee table, bypassing the bin sat right next to it. I nuzzle into his chest, the smell of his scent mixed with his Boss cologne stamping down the threat of vomiting. His arms wrap tighter, pulling me a little higher to rest his head on top of mine.

"Thank you," I whisper into his chest, "you don't have to do this."

"You're right, I don't. But I want to."

As Chris gently places my feet on the floor, I daren't look up. Because if I look up, I'll find myself privy to those burning green eyes of his. Instead I focus on his lips, on the way they curl into a bemused smile, as if I could find an answer in them as to why I feel like this looking at him.

Alcohol makes me sappy; that can be the only explanation.

But as he gently undoes the zipper on my dress, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin on the small of my back, I wonder if there could be more to it. There's an undercurrent of something else, laying underneath my desire and lust for him, that draws me to his eyes and his smile as well as his muscles and his manhood.

I'm stripped completely bare, my clothes discarded on the nearby armchair as Chris scoops me up once more and places me on the bed. Despite my reluctance for eye contact, I see he never once glances at my body. He focuses instead on my face, on reading whatever emotion open-book-syndrome has currently plastered across it.

Feather light, he presses his lips against my forehead, tucking the duvet into me as I close my eyes and relish in the feeling.

"Goodnight, Ashleigh."

And when he leaves the room, instead of joining me in the bed, I feel my heart sink. A part of me, however much I want to deny it, wishes he would stay with me for the night; not to kiss or fumble or f**k, but just so we could hold each other as we fall asleep.

Tonight has started a fire within me that I want to stamp out; but hard as I try in the darkness and the silence of the guest room, I can't. There's much more to Christopher than I thought. And if I stay here, if we keep fooling around, it'll be irrevocable.

I need to get out whilst I still can.