We were in the Musée d’Orsay! I’d read all about this museum in my tourist guide, had seen pictures. It was a renovated train station housing galleries of famous French impressionists and other artists of the period.
Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhone, my favorite of them all, was . . . here. It blew my mind that I’d soon be viewing it in person.
I glanced around, saw not another soul. The lights were dimmed.
This was just for us? My irritation from before dissipated to a whisper, and I felt guilty for my impulse to snap his fingers.
In a dry tone, Sevastyan asked, “Is this the tits?”
A laugh burst from me. “It is! You’re redeeming yourself, Siberian. How did you get us in after hours?”
“Called in a favor. This museum’s smaller and more personal than the Louvre, better suited for one night’s exploring. Come.”
One of the first sculptures was of lovely Sappho with her lyre, her expression contemplative. “She composed her poems to be accompanied by the lyre,” I said. “You could say she’s the first lady of lyrics.”
The autodidact looked impressed. “You know ancient Greek poetry?”
“You don’t study the history of sexuality without getting to know Sappho.” Natalie Porter, history student. Did that designation even fit any longer?
Maybe I should take Paxán’s advice and travel the world, living out my dreams. With the man beside me . . . ?
As Sevastyan and I strolled on, passing one wondrous statue after another, I sneaked glances up at him. Though he’d pulled off this museum coup, he seemed a little less confident than his usual proud self.
I recalled his attentive expression when he’d washed my hair, how badly he’d wanted to get it right. He looked the same tonight, as if it was critical to impress me.
In fact, he was gauging my reactions more than he was admiring the exhibits. Just as he’d watched my face—instead of an orgy.
“You’re not interested in art?” I asked.
“I’m more fascinated by how you respond to it.”
Irresistible Siberian. When he made comments like this, how could I stay mad at him?
One of the last exhibits on the ground floor was Woman Bitten by a Snake, a life-size sculpture of a female writhing na**d across a bed of flowers. Her body was voluptuous, her curves on display for eternity.
Even in the midst of such a sensual sight, I could feel Sevastyan’s burning gaze on me. When I peered up at him, his eyes darkened, letting me know whose curves he wanted to see for eternity.
I’d gotten accustomed to that sensual look of his—in bed, in the shower, in a sex club. But in a museum, I grew kind of flustered. Like I’d been when I’d first tried to pick him up.
I girlishly tucked my hair behind my ear—uh, can I buy you a drink?—and moved on. We climbed the stairs in silence, each lost in thought.
But on the second floor, I hastened past other masterpieces without due reverence to get to Starry Night. And then . . .
There it was. Right in front of me. “I can’t believe I’m looking at it.”
He remained silent by my side, allowing me take it in.
The copies I’d seen had never conveyed the elaborate texture of the piece, the exaggerated brush strokes. Those gaslight reflections over the water were bold daubs. Each star was a cluster of deftly layered paint, creating height from the canvas.
I blinked up at him, having no idea how much time had passed. With a blush, I explained, “It’s my favorite of the era.”
“Why this one?”
“The boats, the lights over water . . . this scene is a world away from the fields of home, from all I’d ever known. I’d never seen these kinds of blues in the Corn Belt. For a girl like me, the colors were exotic, calling to me.” Not to mention that I’d secretly sighed over the two lovers in the foreground, sharing such a night.
Sevastyan eased even closer to me. “When you get excited, your cheeks flush pink, and your eyes become even brighter against that flame-red hair.” He reached forward to twine a lock around his finger. “Your colors call to me.”
A breath escaped me. Seeing him like this, I told myself that life-altering sex, admiring looks, and earnest compliments could tide me over.