Olivia knew his work when she saw it. She'd never really followed art, and still didn't. But seeing Aron’s paintings was like seeing a glimpse of his soul, and after five years of studiously blocking out the memories, everything resurfaced as though no time had passed at all. 

Five years. Five years was long enough to get a degree and graduate. Long enough to get married and have kids. Five years meant it shouldn’t affect her anymore but for some reason Olivia was sweating despite the Tate Modern’s precision air conditioning system.

She turned away from the painting trying to disregard it, only to see another colour-drenched canvas in Aron’s unmistakable style. She turned again but there was another. And another and another. It felt like a disorienting dream. Olivia forced herself to breathe. Looking more closely at the captions, she realised she’d come across an entire exhibition of his paintings. She looked down at the leaflets she’d picked up at the gallery’s entrance desk, and flicked through glossy pages until she found his name.  

ARON ANDERSON’s major solo show spans the MacArthur fellow’s career to date, from his prodigal teenage works to exclusive new creations. Through oils and acrylics, Anderson spirals eclectically through landscapes and experimental portraits, bringing us in on what are the first phases of an exceptional journey through life. With works blurring the what-ifs and dreams layered within lived experience, Anderson has cemented his status as a premier artist of this generation.

Olivia’s smile was bittersweet. He’d made it. He’d actually made it. 

She'd left without telling him and the memory of her own reckless audacity never failed to shock her. She'd never let herself think about it, at least not in any depth. Five years of distractions, of keeping life busy enough to always be ahead of the inevitable regret. Reading and photography and socialising and working and drinking and running and running and running until it finally, inevitably, caught up to her.

A Friday evening in the middle of July. She'd never planned to visit the Tate; hadn’t been to the gallery in years. But London was in the depths of a stifling heatwave and attempting to take the Tube home in rush-hour filled her with dread. The Tate had seemed like it'd be a welcome oasis away from heaving double-decker buses and overcrowded pubs. 

And it had been, until it transported her back five years to that fateful evening.

***

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

It was raining all the way to Aron’s apartment and they didn’t talk much in the car. She sat in the passenger seat with her legs crossed, listening to the rain as it slanted down against the dark windows. When he pulled up outside his building and they got out of the car, she wasn’t really in any hurry. Half of her wanted to stand outside until she was soaked through. But he took her hand and pulled her closer so she started up the stairs. Inside his apartment, it was cold so he turned up the thermostat and switched on the coffee maker. She hung up her damp jacket. Music from a neighbouring apartment throbbed through the walls. 

Olivia had never known anyone like him and doubted she ever would. There was something devastatingly different. Some perfect blend of lust and love that made her feel perpetually content and yet thrillingly on edge. Nobody had ever understood her like he did. Her eyes flicked around the apartment. It was almost exactly the same as the first day he’d brought her home. The same unfinished canvases leaning against every spare surface. The same stained palette. The same half-empty paint tubes, just older and drier. She knew nothing about art but enough to know whatever inspired him had disappeared around the same time she’d arrived in his life.

She’d heard it enough times in the calls from his agent, in the way everyone he knew was somehow happy for him and yet profoundly disappointed. He didn’t create anymore and it had become glaringly obvious that she’d eradicated whatever had motivated him. He dismissed the idea every time she broached it, insisting that he was more inspired than ever and yet his words translated into  nothing. No paintings, not even a simple sketch.

Olivia walked through into the small bathroom, undressing methodically. He didn’t come after her. She switched on the shower and stepped under the steaming water, careful not to get her hair wet as she washed methodically. She hoped he’d join her while knowing he wouldn’t but there was still the idea of it; of his stepping in behind her, his hands on her shoulders and then moving around to grope her breasts. She looked down at her own insubstantial hands and sighed. She switched off the shower and stood there a minute until she shivered and stepped out.

He was waiting when she re-entered the living room. His eyes dropped to her bare legs and dragged slowly upwards to the hem of the t-shirt she’d taken from his drawer. He frowned, maybe trying to figure out whether or not she was wearing underwear. She'd untied her hair and it hung loose over one shoulder.

They watched each other silently. Alive. She could hear the beat of her heart, the way it thudded for him. The fine hairs on her arms were standing up. He was looking at her so completely that it made her clench, her nipples tightening into hard points. She felt like he could see through her, knew what she was planning. 

The coffee machine beeped and he walked through into the cramped kitchen. She heard him clattering cups, then the steady sound of pouring. The refrigerator opened, milk splashed once and then the fridge thudded shut again. She sat on the edge of the windowsill, listening to it rain. He came back with two cups, walked over and handed one to her. 

Rain pattered against the window, the wind sporadically strengthening it. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t think she could. Talking only brought the inevitable forward, ruining the precious time they had left. Tomorrow would come and she’d leave and that’d be it. She’d go home and block his number and free him from the safe contentment she’d filled his life with. And then maybe he would finally create again. Maybe the world would finally get back the creative masterpiece she’d stolen. 

“There’s really nothing to talk about,” she said and she moved away from the window to drop down onto the sofa. She sipped the coffee he’d made for her, sprawled on his sofa in his apartment, wearing his t-shirt and wondered how he’d feel if he knew what she was planning. That was the section of the plan she hadn’t really dared to explore. She didn’t want to think about being back home alone and thinking helplessly, endlessly about him and what he was doing and all the people lucky enough to get a part of him.

He was frowning, confused by her statement. 

“Do you want to do anything nice tomorrow?” he asked.

Her smile was bittersweet.

“Everything we do is nice.” 

She didn’t look at him but she felt him smile.

“You’re nice,” he offered and it was the kind of thing she ordinarily said which only made it warm her even more. She set down her empty cup. He was looking at her. The t-shirt had lifted when she’d sat down, revealing her snug underwear. His eyes were on it. She sighed.

She wondered who wanted it more. Maybe it was mutual. It usually was. It excited her. That peak plateau of lust where every niceness evaporated and all the names came out. My dirty girl. My filthy angel. There was something so painfully, sordidly sweet about the things he called her. She craved his lust more than anything; loved when he couldn't control himself. She wanted to be those things to him. To be everything. Everything he could ever want. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” he said. “You make me crazy.”

It was just them. Only the two of them. How it was meant to be. Life seemed to have fit into place, slotting like the final piece of a jigsaw. They were together and alone and warm and safe in his apartment and being alive couldn’t get any better. There was a level of comfort about it. Everything else became immaterial, everybody else bored her. 

“Take them off,” he said.

She didn’t even bother to protest. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and lifted her butt off the sofa, drawing her legs up and dragging the underwear off. She wondered why she’d even bothered putting them on at all. Her legs were still closed and he was looking at them like it’d make them open. She considered crossing them.

“Just fucking show me,” he said, before she could move. “I just – touch it for me.”

She assessed him from over her knees. Part of her was relieved. The way he’d been looking at her all night had her aching to touch herself and yet doing it in front of him made her painfully apprehensive. She wanted to please him and yet she wanted to hide. She parted her legs, not looking at him. The air was cool against her flushed pussy and her eyes closed momentarily. Her hand slipped down and touched. She felt wet, open, ready for him already.

“You’re – fucking – perfect,” he said. His hand was at the front of his pants.

She sighed, opening her legs wider and he stood up, standing directly opposite her.

“God, you’re so fucking hot. And all fucking mine.”

Her fingers were moving, slicking back and forth. She sank further back into the sofa, displaying herself obscenely for him. But it didn’t feel obscene. It felt beautiful. They were overwhelmingly connected. He liked her like this. Loved her like this. It was enough to make her want to give him her whole life.

“Wider,” he said, “I want you as wide as possible.”

She bit her lip, easing her legs further apart. Her most private part was entirely on show, exposed completely. He groaned approvingly.

“It's yours,” she said, like he didn't already know. “All yours “

Her legs hurt a little but she didn't move them. She rolled her fingertips over her clit, toying with the swollen nub until she had to stop. She paused a second, fingers resting against her thigh as she massaged one of her breasts with the other hand, fingers digging in hard.

“My dirty girl,” he said. It was still raining outside, harder now and the sound made the room feel more enclosed. “My dirty little angel.”

She almost whimpered. Her pussy clenched.

“Nobody else gets this,” he murmured. “Nobody knows you like this.”

“Nobody ever has. Or will.”

“Stroke it. Gently.”

She did as he asked. Did exactly what he wanted. When he told her to put her finger inside, she did that too, fucking herself with it until she shook. She wondered if he'd let her cum like this. Maybe. He liked watching her. She tried not to get her hopes up but as she resumed rubbing her clit, she figured he probably would. She'd followed his instructions after all.

His hand was inside his pants and she could see it moving, see him stroking himself. He was hard for her. All for her. Her fingers moved faster, grinding hard against her aching clit until her hips lifted off the sofa.

“Stop.”

She didn’t want to but forced her hand away, breathing hard.

Agony. It was beautiful, intense, addictive agony. She wanted to come but then she didn’t want to either. She wanted to please him even as her body ached for release, hips lifting, searching for some friction against her pussy. Her breasts were pushed out as she gasped and sweated, so on edge she was terrified she’d accidentally spill over into an ocean of bliss. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She clenched hard, holding everything inside and he stood there and watched her, his eyes dark with want. 

She didn’t think it was possible to love him more but every day she craved him, and it must have been more because if it was the same, surely it’d get old and lose the thrill. She felt like she fell in love with him again every day whilst already being in love with him and it didn’t make any sense but it was true, it just needed new words, new languages to speak it. Every time she tried, she’d confuse herself and yet it felt furiously important to tell him. But then, he knew. He felt it too. And that was the best thing. The knowledge that he didn’t want anyone else. He loved her, only her, everything she was. 

“I could look at you for days,” he said.

He’d pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. He was stroking it slowly, hand fisted around the hard pole, his eyes riveted on her pussy.

“Slap it,” he said. She didn’t want to. Winced even as she prepared herself. The sound of her fingers slapping against her wet pussy was obscenely loud. The sting wasn’t especially painful but it made her moan and press her legs together hard.

“Again,” 

She heard herself whimper as her legs parted reluctantly. His eyes were all over her. She was wetter than ever. It didn’t make any sense. She let her fingers slap down again, sensation coursing through her entire being and he told her to do it again and again and again. Her entire hand was getting wet now, her breath coming out unevenly. 

His hand was working his cock relentlessly and she could hear the catch of his breath as he held off. He came closer. Her fingers were laying against the throbbing heat of her pussy, not moving but just splayed across it. She wondered if he’d make her slap it again. Wondered if she could. Now that she’d stopped, it felt all the more sensitive.

“Take your shirt off.”

The t-shirt was damp with sweat. She sat up a little dazed and grasped the hem to tug it off. She pushed her hair back and looked up at him. His cock looked perfect. Smooth and hard. She wanted to lick it. Wanted to make him groan and feel him fist his hands in her hair. She swallowed hard. She wet her lips. He caught the motion of her tongue and groaned.

“You want it? You wanna suck it, baby?”

“Please.”

He moved back, dropping into the armchair opposite.

“Come here.”

She slid off the sofa and crawled naked towards him. He let go of his cock and she reached out to touch it, feeling him hot and hard under her fingers. He exhaled. She looked up at him and his eyes caught hers, full of silent reverence. His hand came out to stroke the side of her face. 

“God, I love you so much,” he said. “I don’t want to be without you ever.”

She didn’t say anything.  What could she say when she was planning to leave him that very night? She tried not to think about it, afraid she’d convince herself to stay. She moved closer to him, her mouth centimetres from his cock. She extended her tongue and licked him, her tongue sweeping from the base to the tip, her eyes on his the whole time. He let out half a groan and she did it again, her hand moving down to caress his smooth balls. She’d never thought of a cock as being something beautiful before his but there was no other word that did it justice. She closed her lips around the head and swirled her tongue against the underside. Her hand wrapped around the base as she took in more, her hair falling over her face. She felt him push it back, holding it into a loose ponytail so he could watch her. She was on her knees in front of him and she shifted her legs apart, fingers slipping and stroking over her wet pussy. 

“Do it hard,” he murmured. “I want you close.”

She pulled back from his wet cock, breathless. Her fingers slicked more urgently against her clit. She pumped his cock with her free hand, leaning in to lick his smooth, heavy balls. He groaned loudly, his fingers tightening in her hair. She licked again, kissed them wetly, feeling the heat beneath her lips before she resumed licking. She didn’t want to stop. Ever. Wanted to hear him groaning and gasping her name for eternity. 

His hand was almost painfully tight in her hair as she retreated to suck his cock again, his wet shank slipping in and out of her mouth. Her hand was still stroking her pussy and she moaned around his cock, forcing herself to stop in case she tipped over the edge. She looked up at him. His eyes were dark. 

“You’re – fucking – perfect,” he growled and he gripped her hair hard and began fucking her mouth with short, hard strokes. Each time he went a little further until all she knew was the constant wet thrusting. She could taste him, hear him, feel every part of his need. He went harder, further than she thought she could take but she took it, eyes watering until he got too close and pulled suddenly out.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck.”

He was still holding her hair as he pulled her up to kiss her hard on the mouth. His hands went over her body, groping and kneading, his tongue searching her mouth until she was breathless. She pulled back and they gazed at each other a second.

“You should stay,” he said. “Forever.”

She blinked. “I want to.” It was the truth.

He stood up then and dragged off the rest of his clothes before pulling her through into the bedroom. Naked. Nothing but them. He flicked on the light and kissed her again, pulling her body into his. She could feel his hard cock trapped between them and it made her clench all over again. He reached down, bending slightly so he could fit it between her legs, covering it in her wetness. The feel of him there was almost enough to make her come. 

“You’re mine,” he said, like she needed reminding. “All mine.”

She was wondering if he was going to push up inside her right there against the wall. Her heart was pounding. Every time he touched her thrilled her. He made her feel more wanted than anything. More loved than anything.

His lips were brushing hers as he spoke. “I should just keep you here. Never let you leave.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she whispered into his mouth.

“You wouldn’t?” She felt him smile against her lips and when she looked up his eyes were on hers. “I’d make you fuck me all the time.” His cock pushed against her harder. “You’d be my permanent dirty girl.”

“God, Aron,” She almost moaned as his hand came up to grip one of her breasts, kneading it and tugging hard at the nipple. “I’m yours.”

“Fuck,” He kissed her, tugging her against him and then they were falling back onto the bed, him on top. He touched between her legs, his fingers deliberate and knowing. She’d been wound up all night and within seconds of him touching her she felt like she might expire. He didn’t let her though. He touched her just enough to make her ache, keeping his fingertips light enough to have her throbbing. 

“Please,” She gazed up at him. “God, don’t tease me.”

He moved back and she wanted to protest, wanted to ask him to just fuck her but then  his mouth was on her, hands digging hard into her thighs and holding them apart as his tongue swept over her exposed pussy. He was right there, seeing everything she was, his lips closing around her clit and his tongue flickering against it. She moaned. She shuddered as he took her to the edge. Every time she thought it’d be the one but then he’d stop, content himself with sliding a finger inside her and she’d lie there gasping and desperate. 

“All of this is mine,” he whispered. “Forever.”

He was driving her insane. She wanted to hate him. Her body felt like it was perpetually trembling. The worst part was not knowing when he’d relent. He always caught her off guard, unexpectedly giving her permission only to take it back if she wasn’t quick enough. She was sweating. His hands dug into her ass, holding her against his mouth. She felt obscenely wet. He didn’t give it to her. 

He moved back up, kissed her mouth again so she could taste her own honey, his hand gentle around her neck. She kissed him back hard and his hand traced down the damp contours of her body. Her legs were still open, and she lifted her hips up from the bed, desperate for his cock.

“You want it? You want this fucking cock?” He was looking at her face. “Tell me.”

“Oh god.” She looked away, searching for words. “I want you to push inside me.”

“With what?” He caught her chin and turned her face back to his. She looked at his mouth.

“With your cock. Please. I want you to fuck me with your cock.”

“Fuck you where, angel?”

She exhaled. He waited. 

“Just fuck me,” Her breath was uneven. “Just fucking fuck me, for fuck’s sake.”

“God, you’ve got a dirty mouth,” he groaned but he finally pressed the head of his cock against her, slowly easing inside. 

The first moment always gave her the faintest anxious rush, the knowledge that he was right there, his body was physically pushing into hers but then he was moving, and there was no time to think but just feel. He pushed inside her hard, grinding as deep as he could go. He was studying her face the entire time, watching the way he affected her. She could feel everything. She went to put her legs around him but he was pulling back already, almost all the way out before he gave it to her again. She moaned.

“Fuck, I love that sound,” he said and he started moving faster, making her moan even louder as he slicked tightly in and out of her. Everything, the entire night had been building up to this, to feeling each other. It was all she ever dreamed of. Their bodies shoving hard against each others, searching for more, for more contact, more sound, more pleasure. His hand was roaming her body, rough and possessive as it slid over her. She was his. Entirely his. Open for him. Her hips lifted, meeting his for every thrust. She wanted it as much as he did. Everything about them was so mutual and complete, it seemed unnatural for them ever to be apart.

No-one else came close for either of them and she knew it was reckless to associate her happiness so entirely with him but this was their moment and she didn’t care. She didn’t care. There was some invisible force that kept them helplessly hung up on one another. The end product of nights of dreaming, of endless aching and wanting. His cock driving into her like he was trying to get deep enough to mark her soul. Didn't he know he already had? 

“God,” His hand was on her breast, groping it hard. “All mine.”

His cock felt sublime. Each time he slammed deep inside her, she'd clench hard, a pleasurable ache rippling through her before the friction of him pulling out made her writhe. 

“Fuck me back,” he growled. “Come on. Show me.”

She did her best but every time she tried to raise herself to him, he'd shove her hard into the mattress. For a few moments he held himself there, grinding deeper, his balls pushing against her ass.

Then he pulled out completely and just ground against her, his cock wet and slippery against her pussy. He reached down and took a hold of it, slapping it against her. The feeling was indescribable. She squirmed beneath him and he did it again, wet and loud before grinding the head hard against her clit. 

“Oh god!”

“What? You're gonna cum?”

She opened her mouth but he was sliding inside her again, his thumb pressing hard against her clit as he did so.

“You want it? Ask me.”

She couldn't speak. Their eyes met and she gazed at him desperately as he took her to the edge again, holding her there with his cock buried deep inside her. 

“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he growled and then he gave it to her, fucking her hard as his thumb massaged her. His eyes were on hers as she moaned and gasped, twisting beneath him. 

“Show me,” he insisted. His eyes were all she could see. “Show me what I do to you.”

Her body was trembling as the orgasm finally coursed through her, the pleasure intense and endless. He didn't stop touching her, even as she writhed and clenched beneath him, the sensations dragged through her forcefully. She was sweating, moaning, wanting him to stop and yet wanting it to last forever. Her body felt weak and powerful all at once and as she clenched around his thrusting cock he came too, grunting and gasping, as he kissed her hard. Their bodies didn't stop moving for a while and afterwards they lay there, still aching against each other. 

“God,” he said.

He eased off her and they lay there looking at each other, the moment soft and alive.

“Go to sleep,” he said, finally.

But she didn’t. She waited until he fell asleep, until he was sated and unconscious and vulnerable, and then she got up from the bed, put on her clothes and left without saying goodbye.

***

“Are you coming to the talk?” 

The gallery assistant’s voice jolted Olivia back to the present. Back to the incredible art on the walls in front of her, back to the strangers milling about in the gallery. 

All of his unfinished paintings were finished now. They were framed and vibrant and thousands of people were looking at them every day. Didn’t that mean she’d done the right thing?

“Everything okay?”

She blinked. The girl in front of her was young and holding a clipboard.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said, “I was a million miles away.”

The girl smiled. “No worries, this place does that to a lot of people. I was just asking if you’re planning to attend the talk?”

“The talk?” Olivia asked, confused. “Sorry - I don’t really know what that is.”

“Oh! No problem at all!” the girl chirped, “I can explain.” She gestured at the exhibition. “We’ve had Aron Anderson here in person, every Friday this month for our Emerging Generation program. Today is his last talk.” She nodded towards the far end of the room where chairs had been neatly arranged in rows. “You seemed to like these pieces, so I thought I'd mention it.”

Olivia blinked, dumbfounded, the words taking far too long to make sense and register. She almost backed away, glancing around the room hurriedly as we wondered if he was already in the gallery,

“Oh,” she stalled, “Okay. Right. So this - uh - this artist - will be right here doing a talk?”

“Yes, it’s fantastic! And he’s really nice,” the girl said, smiling. “And he’s very good with the Q&A section so feel free to ask anything.” 

Olivia felt dizzy. She couldn’t see him. It wasn't an option. And yet, some ridiculous part of her wanted to. Wanted to know if he would care. If she ever crossed his mind. If he’d even recognise her, for a start.

“It’s completely free of charge,” the girl continued. “So - up to you. Either way, enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks - you too.” Olivia’s smile felt forced. She watched the gallery assistant walk away. People were gathering near the chairs, a few had already seated themselves. She wasn’t meant to be there. And yet for some reason, fate had brought her here, to this place, on this evening. It was more than a coincidence. She’d made every possible effort to eradicate anything that could ever reunite them and yet for some inexplicable reason she found herself walking towards the chairs and ducking into an inconspicuous seat on the end of a middle row. 

She pretended to study the leaflets and brochures she’d picked up at reception as more and more people joined the talk. At one point, more chairs were brought in, and as the start time drew near, the area was packed with art enthusiasts, excitedly discussing the exhibition and the artist. The curator who was apparently hosting the talk arrived on the small stage and then Aron arrived, greeted by an excited round of applause. 

Olivia didn’t - couldn't - applaud. He hadn't changed very much. He looked almost the same as every memory she’d buried. He was everything she’d ever wanted. He was looking out at the audience, scanning the rows of people and it was too late to stop it, too late to hide or run.

He saw her. She knew it from the way his posture shifted infinitesimally. It was actually happening. Their eyes met and she stared at him, helplessly frozen, not daring to move, not daring to even breathe. He looked at her for a long, disbelieving moment, and she could only imagine how much he might hate her.

But then he smiled, really smiled like he was actually happy to see her, and after five years of merely existing, Olivia’s world felt like it shuddered back into colourful, beautiful life.