Oh my. I couldn’t see any of that, so where was my mental image coming from? Why did I have a sudden desire to rip off the man’s clothing in order to confirm my predictions?
Perhaps I was simply recalling the images of the statue that Cara had painted endless editions of. That must be what it was.
Timothy had stopped moving forward. His eyes stared down at me. The smile he cast was knowing, as if he were cognizant of my thoughts. That wasn’t possible. I wasn’t indicating in any way that I was thinking of a certain nude statue.
“Yes,” he said. “I modeled for Michaelangelo, you know. That is exactly what I look like beneath this shirt and pants. Would you like a peek?”
Oh, my. I wanted to break my handhold and fan my face. Heat was burning me up. I’d turned into a dragon, full of flame. Embarrassment kicked me in the stomach. I should tear my hand from his, dash away, curl up and hide. Yet, I did none of those. I just stared at him, speechless.
It was crazy the things he’d said. Modeling for Michaelangelo? He was pulling my leg while searing me with the heat of desire at revealing what I yearned to see. Because despite his brag, I knew, as sure as coffee was the right drink to start off each morning, that underneath his clothes, Timothy did look like the statue of David.
“You blush like a virgin. I find that enchanting, my dear. Do not fear my words. I will woo you slowly. Flowers and chocolates. Many nights out on the town. We will dance and see movies. We will dine in the finest restaurants. I will take my time with you, my love, but know this: from this moment, you are mine.”
Timothy walked a zombie to the table where we found Judy and Ed sipping brandies. They didn’t look angry or even impatient at the lateness of the hour.
“Are you alright, Penelope?” Judy asked.
What could I say? I was overwhelmed, happy, confused, frightened, and ecstatic. Which should I say? I glanced at Timothy and said nothing. I’m not sure I could have spoken anyway, not with his hand holding mine and our recent conversation about the statue of David in my mind. Plus there was that other thing he’d said — the possessive nature of it, the way my body reacted to his words, and the fact that I hadn’t argued with his statement, nor wanted to.