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He's loved it since he first saw it. As he should, he's the one who commissioned it. Found the artist, paid the astronomical fee, even helped her choose the dress she was wearing. It would have been worth it even if it hadn't been this magnificent, to show anyone who crosses their threshold who they're dealing with. Bertha Russell, glorious Amazon, six feet in stature, a look in her eye that demands nothing less than worship and submission.
Even if in real life, she's short enough to comfortably tuck her head into his chest when they dance and the face she usually greets him with is a radiant smile. The essence of the painting is always somewhere underneath, which may be why he likes it so much. A reminder not to take any of her sweet moods for granted. She can reduce him to ashes with her sharp tongue, she's done it before, no matter that she only comes up to his chin without her hair piled high like some latter day rococo fashion plate. His wife doesn't need to be as tall as her oil paint twin to command a room, but the Bertha on the wall does do exactly that. George can't step into her parlour without it grabbing his attention; he can't imagine how arresting it must be for those guests who aren't used to it. Aren't used to her.
It's strange, in a way, that the two Berthas he loves the most are the one who's dripping in diamonds, commanding the attention of everyone in every room, imposing and commanding, and the one with her hair braided in her bedroom slippers, yawning as she curls into his side and blatantly tries to use him as a hot brick.
Or perhaps it's not so strange. They always do things by extremes, after all.
When they run away with themselves like this, it's usually in his library. His desk is big and solid, a perfect base for Bertha to perch on with her legs spread, and his sofa fits their bodies comfortably no matter the position. The furniture in her parlour is more delicate and decorative, less equipped to handle the debauched and rather vigorous things he intends to do on it.
The times they have done this here, he's been on top of her, pressing her into the chaise or on one memorable occasion the floor. But now, he's sitting in her favourite chair with one wife astride him and the wife of the wall staring imperiously into his eyes. The soft sighs of one wife, the steely gaze of the other… oh, they should have done this sooner.
It's not that it's better. She always, always feels so wonderful he doesn't know how he makes it through alive, and they both like this position. When she's on top, they tend to go slower, her movements smaller and more deliberate until they're not, until she works herself into a frenzy and goes faster and faster, going after what she wants like she always does. But they're still in the first stage now, and the slow drag of her hips is killing him and the icy eyes of the woman staring down at him are saying that this is exactly what he deserves, doesn't he know he needs to wait for his pleasure? It's hers that matters, it's always hers, he's here to serve her and he should count himself lucky that she doesn't just roll off and dismiss him when she's satisfied, leave him to fend for himself with an aching prick because his job is done and-
“George.” Bertha's voice is like velvet, soft and low, and it makes him jump- which, admittedly, has a not unpleasant effect on the movement of his hips. His wife has slowed hers to just the right side of still, only making tiny rocking motions back and forth that aren't going to get either of them to their peak but feel… God.
“Mm?” He manages, pulling his gaze down to her. Just her.
“Where have you gone?” She's smiling just a little and her soft hand goes to his cheek. She can tell, she can always tell, when his mind has changed track.
“Just here,” George rasps. “With you.”
Bertha's hand runs its usual path through his hair, nails raking over his scalp from the base of his neck, and he turns his head a little to kiss the inside of her wrist. Bite the inside of her wrist.
“I don't feel…” Jesus Christ. She squeezes around him and it's... “That I have your full attention.”
“Every moment, you have my full attention.”
It isn't untrue, not really, but she makes a little disbelieving sound and kisses him full on the mouth. His eyes closed, images of both wives, all his wives flash and float in front of him; Bertha radiant and impressive in the painting, Bertha pink-cheeked from her bath in an old dressing gown, Bertha teary-eyed and allowing him to comfort her over some now-forgotten slight, Bertha twirling in his arms in her first big city ballroom, Bertha hiding a smile as she pretends not to be amused by his off-colour joke, Bertha with her eyes heavy and her lips parted splayed out on the bed for him to devour. He's aware, on some level, that she isn't actually perfect. In fact, he could catalogue her flaws quite easily, it's just that he happens (for the most part) to love them. So many facets of his wife, so many different ways she looks at him. As long as it's him she's looking at, he thinks feverishly, as long as it's always him.
“Tell me what you're thinking about,” Bertha murmurs, looking down at him.
“You, my darling, I-”
“George.” Her voice is warning, a little dangerous, and that makes him… “If you tell me…” She puts her mouth to his ear, hot and sensuous. “I'll do it.”
Her teeth nip lightly at his earlobe and part of him immediately wants to dredge up some lurid fantasy, something he would never dare ask her to do but… is there anything? He's never been shy about asking her to explore, she's certainly never been shy about agreeing. Better to tell the truth, surely.
“It's not a what-” he begins and once again she interrupts.
“If it's a who, George Russell, I'll…
“Never,” he says passionately. “Never, in a thousand years. Just you, only ever you, sweetheart, but…”
When he tells her, for a moment he can't be sure if the hitch in her breath is fury or arousal. With his wife, there's not always a noticeable difference. But then her perfect mouth curls into a self-satisfied smile and his own breathing can ease.
“What a rival.” She's practically preening. “The only woman in New York I can't beat, George.”
“Are there any other women in New York? I hadn't noticed.” And he means it.
She kisses him again, leaning down to suck on his bottom lip in a manner he can only describe as lascivious, and he's buried so deeply inside her that it's a constant struggle to stop his brain shorting out.
“We should be in bed,” he groans. “I want to press you into the mattress and-”
“But if we were in bed, you couldn't admire your other lover so well.” Oh, Bertha is far too pleased with herself. And yet, she's never going to come close to how pleased he is with her. He'd get a portrait for every room of the house, his wife in a different dress, a different pose, something to entrance him wherever he was, every moment that he had to be without her.
“I could admire my lover perfectly well,” he insists, his hands tight on her hips. “My only lover.”
He'd tumbled a girl or two before he met Bertha, but those memories are practically nonexistent now and he'd certainly never loved them. She's it, she's everything. All he wants.
“And you can't here? You're getting distracted?” She squeezes around him again, drawing a noise from him that he'd never want anyone else to hear. That nobody else has earned the right to hear. “By her?”
“She… it's you, my darling, she's you, only you…”
He can say it a thousand times, it won't be enough. He needs to be sure she knows. Certainly, he loves the picture, as one facet of the real woman he adores more than anything. But nothing can ever make him feel the way that Bertha does. Magnificent as it is, paint and canvas could never capture the way she breathes when his tongue touches the skin just above her collarbone, the flutter of her eyelashes when he first buries himself inside her, even the pink flush of her chest as she gets closer and closer to her peak. Of course, if anyone saw her like that, even in order to paint it for him, he would have to have them killed. Painfully. Unlike the portrait, that vision of Bertha is just for him.