THE LAST TIME TITANIC EVER SAW DAYLIGHT
Chapter Five
Rose peeked around the door, to find Jack
sitting with an intense look of concentration on his handsome face, sharpening
his charcoal, with the artist's pad resting on his bent knees. As if by some
strange force, all the nerves in her calmed, as she realized she trusted Jack
Dawson completely. He was so different from any other man she had ever met. He
cared about her as a person, and valued her feelings almost seemingly above his
own. To him, she wasn't merely a pretty ornament, but a living and breathing
human being. For a moment, she leaned against the door frame, just to absorb
the true wonder of him.
The startling awareness of Jack's stunning
blue eyes on her brought Rose back to the moment. He stared at her, fighting
down the feelings of fright he felt inside. Jack wasn't scared to see her
naked. Well, not entirely. More than anything, he felt terrified that he might
not be able to control himself when she removed her final cloth barrier.
Her voluptuous form was covered by the
form-fitting robe, but Jack's eyes were still able to drink in every curve, and
he fought back the urge to continuously examine her, memorizing every inch. Keep
calm, he forced himself to remember, as Rose playfully spun the ties to her
robe, teasing him as she moved to him.
"The last thing I need is another
picture of me looking like a porcelain doll," she stated, as she elegantly
reached him. Jack's heart began to beat uncontrollably. Rose was so close, and
he could smell her perfume. His hormones urged him to pull the coverage from
her and gaze unhindered at her body, but the more controlled part of him kept
him back. She pulled out a dime, and tossed it to him. "As a paying
customer, I expect to get what I want."
Jack laughed silently as he caught the dime
in his fist, impressed at how she remembered the smallest detail he had told
her from their moments together. But now was the ultimate test of his endurance
and self-control. Rose stepped back slightly. He knew the next part.
His eyes were held firmly on her, and Rose's
butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. She had nothing to be ashamed of,
she kept telling herself. If Jack did feel the way about her that she did of
him, her appearance would not be a problem. With one quick sigh, she allowed
the robe to drop to the floor, exposing her flesh in its entirety to him.
Waiting, she became nervous once again, and had to fight the urge to move her
hands in front of her.
Suddenly, Jack's mouth dropped open in
astonishment. Rose was perfect to him. Unlike other women, such as Molly Brown,
her corset hid nothing from her figure. True, Rose carried slightly more muscle
on her frame, giving her a true woman's figure, than the French girl. As he had
sketched the woman in Paris, his eyes had never appreciated the image before
him nearly as much as they did as they devoured the delicious curves of Rose's
body. Her creamy, ivory skin appeared flawlessly smooth, and Jack's eyes
momentarily paused on her well-developed breasts. Sensing Rose's embarrassment,
he quickly looked away, and forced himself to avoid observing the area of hair
below her waist in order to meet her eyes. "Over on the bed...the couch,"
he corrected himself, completely flabbergasted at himself for letting the
thought be heard.
Realizing his error, Rose smiled, amused that
he was actually admiring her figure, and she also admired the boyish fidgeting
he was doing as she sat on the divan. "Come on. Lie down," his voice
instructed as he continued to stare at her. But for some reason, Rose wasn't as
nervous as she expected herself to be.
Her arm reached up over her head, and then
she quickly pulled it down, wanting to somewhat cover herself again. Still, she
wanted to place herself in a position that Jack would deem sexy. "Tell me
when it looks right to you."
Motioning, Jack replied, "Put your hand
back the way it was. Put the other hand right up by your face there." His
eyes still scanned her form, admiring every aspect, but he knew the perfect way
to also accentuate the entire image. "Head down, eyes on me. Keep them
focused on me," he added, realizing that her eyes were the truest part of
her, and if he had them to concentrate on, then he might be able to better
control himself. "Just relax, and try not to move." He drew in a deep
breath as he began to sketch.
The first lines followed the outline of her
body, creating the sense of her beautiful physique. He was amazed at how
effortlessly the strokes moved across the paper in front of him, seeming to
translate the image his eyes absorbed flawlessly. Feeling his resolve starting
to falter as his eyes reached her breasts again, Jack quickly gazed over the
top of his sketch pad again, into her eyes that were filled with awe, love,
respect, passion, and desire.
Rose couldn't believe how his intensity
shifted from being awkward to being firmly concentrated on the task at hand, at
how the artist in him took over. She could feel her heart beating uncontrollably,
and she was sure Jack could see it. Jack had an amazing effect on her,
enlivening her senses and soothing her with his gorgeous eyes that were the
window to his heart and soul. As those eyes looked up into hers, she became
completely content, realizing for the first time how much at peace she was with
him. The memory of his awestruck expression filled her, and Rose laughed inside
at how nonchalant he had seemed about his other sketches.
Jack's pencil continued to flow freely. Soft,
flowing lines alluded to the luscious curls that cascaded down her back. The
beauty of them, their shine and color, were unable to be shown in the black
charcoal. He admired how much the color seemed to match her fiery spirit, and
he cherished his thought that she was probably named for the way it looked as a
baby. Her full, pouty lips reminded him of the passion of their kiss on the
bow, and he desired with every ounce to kiss them again. The shape of her soft
neck led his eyes downward still. Cal's expensive gift of the Heart of the
Ocean no longer impressed him, in comparison with the wonder of her bare body.
His eyes once again found her breasts, their milky white skin smooth as silk.
He knew there was no way the drawing would be able to accurately capture all of
her enchanting beauty, but his eyes would never forget it. Jack could gaze at
her not only all day, but forever.
As his fingers stroked the pencil lines of
her breasts, Jack felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears growing warmer and
warmer. He knew he was blushing as he imagined how soft the real texture might
feel, and as he thought of how much he wanted to really run his hands over
them. He heard Rose sigh. She always seemed to know exactly what he was
thinking. "I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big Artiste," Rose teased
him. There was no way for him to deny it as the warmth of the embarrassment
grew. So, he merely smiled, granting her the satisfaction of knowing she was
right. "I can't image Monsieur Monet blushing."
He laughed quietly at the recollection of
their discussion earlier on Monet's painting. This time, Jack was ready to
playfully tease with her, but it came out showing a twinge of the desire he was
feeling in its dry tone. "He does landscapes." She began to laugh,
and he feared the ruination of the perfect image he was creating. Since he did
love to see her smile, and he wanted her to always do so after seeing how
melancholy she appeared with Cal, it pained him to chastise her. "Now,
keep still. No smiling."
"Sorry," Rose apologized, as she
sighed heavily. The contentment of simply being with Jack caused a new
sensation to emerge through her being as his eyes continued to gaze up over the
pad every few seconds, the same intense gaze she witnessed the first time they
saw each other radiating back at her. It was a feeling she had never before
experienced, and she knew then that she did indeed love Jack. His words from
the previous day filled her head. "I see you."
Fighting the desire to surrender to his
passion and bound over to cover her with kisses, Jack urged himself to continue
the final parts of the sketch. The final portion was her hands, which he wanted
to capture perfectly as well. They were fine, soft, beautiful hands that were
untouched in comparison to his cracked, cut, and bruised hands.
Rose watched at the same moment as his hands
neared the top of the pad, entering her vision. At that moment, she desired to
feel Jack's hands on her as they had been while they danced in steerage, while
he touched her cheek in the gym, as they supported and guided her on the bow,
and as they unlaced the constricting corset from her much as he had released
her from the confining life she lived. All her life, the men in her world each
seemed to have the same hands: pale, smooth like a baby's, and perfect. Jack's
were so different, and so gentle. Despite having worked his entire life, he had
such fine hands that were truly artist’s hands. But they were strong, too, as
she relished the memory of their touch on her.
Suddenly, they disappeared from her view, and
Jack pulled the sketch pad closer to himself. The intensity of his
concentration seemed to falter. Becoming aware of how much he was about to lose
himself to lust, his eyes sought hers with fury. They locked together, and he
smiled. "Rose, would you like to see it?" he asked, hoping to God she
would like the portrayal of the feisty, independent, stubborn, passionate, and
beautiful woman he created from what he saw when he looked at her. Jack hadn't
changed a thing. The drawing was an exact replica of how she looked on the
divan, but would Rose appreciate what he saw?