That only feeds his ego. His blue eyes darken, and I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “I need to finish this so I can send it with my Arthaus application.”
“When is it due?”
“This week, and it’s very important.”
Then he grins. “So I’m distracting?”
I don’t answer, moving to his stomach. Eventually, I’m going to get down to his pelvis and then all bets are off.
Drawing him is like touching him, but slower. It’s examining every line, memorizing every square inch of skin, every shade and nuance. It’s the most intimate thing we’ve ever done.
“Tell me about your mom.” He takes a drink of the water bottle I put out for him along with some snacks. “You said she made you want to be an artist? I know she was a Buddhist. How did that happen?”
Pausing a moment, I take a breath. It’s a good distraction, and it’s something we haven’t talked about very much.
“She went to art school in California. It’s where she learned different philosophies.” Looking up at the mountains rising along the skyline, I try to remember her. “She never told me why she turned to that belief system over our family’s tradition. I was raised strict Catholic, but she resisted.”
“Do you think that’s strange?” Blinking back to him, I see he’s watching me with that familiar intensity. So interested in everything I say.
“I didn’t then.” Lifting my pencil, I return to work on his perfect abs. He is such a Michelangelo. “Maybe I don’t now… I mean, knowing what I know. Once or twice she mentioned the life she left behind. She would talk about hearts consumed with revenge and hate and how it was cancer in your soul.”
“She left her husband and her son.” His voice is gentle, not accusatory. “Didn’t she feel bad about that?”
My brow clenches, and I slide my pinkie finger over his abs on the page. “I was so little. I never thought about that. I never asked, and she never said.”
Deacon shrugs. “It would explain why he’s so angry. My mother died when I was young. It hurt to have her gone, but at least I knew she loved me.”
“Mamá loved her family…” My voice is sharper than I intend, and Deacon’s eyes blink to mine.
“Hey, I’m sorry—”
“No, I’m sorry.” Shaking my head. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s a fair question. I don’t know the answer.” I look down at the paper. “Maybe she wanted them to come to her?”
“I would come to you.”
I smile and make two strong lines for the outside of his thighs. His powerful legs are lined with muscle all the way to his calves. I’m inching my way higher when his voice breaks the silence.
“Tell me about her art. What made you want to be an artist like her?”
Sitting straighter, I think about this. “She said you become a part of life through art. She said she found her voice in her art. She loved Georgia O’Keefe. Her boldness and wildness… She had this quote by her that said, ‘I could say things with color and shapes I couldn’t say any other way.’”
I think about the quote now and how true it is.
“She seems like a really interesting lady. Problematic… but hey, aren’t we all?”
Our eyes meet again, and I laugh. “Apparently so, even when we try not to be.” Pushing off the couch, I carry the sketchpad to where my naked love reclines. “Take a look and see what you think.”
He catches me by the waist and pulls me down on the cushion between his legs. Taking the drawing, he holds it up as I lean my head back against his shoulder.
“This is amazing.” He kisses my temple. “One thing bothers me. Right around here.”
He moves his hand around his eyes and brow, and I frown. “What’s wrong with it?”
“He doesn’t look as happy as he ought to be.”
Tilting my head, I feel a grin pulling my cheeks. “How can we fix it?”
The sketchpad is forgotten as he turns me in his arms. “I have an idea.”
Heat is in his eyes, and I climb onto my knees as our mouths collide, ripping that small towel away and straddling his lap. He cups my breasts through the top of my thin dress, and I shrug out of the sleeves, allowing it to fall around my waist.
I love when he devours me, and I rise higher on my knees, lifting them closer to his mouth. Only this time when he kisses the soft peaks, making his way to my straining nipples, I jump when he pulls one with his teeth.
“Oh…” It’s not a cry of pleasure, and he frowns.
“Too rough?”
I kiss his forehead, working my way down to his cheeks as I slide lower. “Must be tender from last night… or after dinner… or skinny dipping…” I punctuate each time with a kiss.
He grins, moving his hands under my skirt and grazing his fingers along my slippery core. “We’ve done it a lot. Do you need a break?”
“No, thank you.” I smile, covering his mouth with mine again, pushing his lips apart and sucking his tongue.
He kisses me back with equal desire, and I slide my fist up and down his thickening member. He groans, and I feel it in my core.
“I want you inside me.” I whisper hotly.
Gripping my waist, he turns me on his lap, and with one deep thrust, I arch, pressing my back against his chest and rotating my hips as I ride him in reverse. His hand slides to the front of my lap, fingers circling my clit, and I rock faster, sending him deeper, feeling him hit the spot that makes my eyes roll.
“Oh, God,” I gasp, squeezing him inside me.
“Fuck, yeah,” he groans.
I love it when he groans. I love it when I can hear the struggle in his voice.
Reaching over my shoulder, I hold his face and drag my tongue along his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, the scuff of his beard.
His fingers move faster, and heat rises in my legs. We’re frantic with desire, desperate for more of each other, for everything. We chase each other’s mouths and skin. He cups my breasts, teasing my hardened nipples as we move.
Desire prickles beneath my skin, tingling every nerve ending. Orgasm races through my blood. His thrusts grow sharper, plunging deep as I break into shudders on his lap. His arm is a band of iron holding me tight, pressing me against him as he comes, as I ride with him higher, lost in a swirl of heat and lust and union.
Deacon’s arm is over my waist, and his breathing is low and rhythmic. I’m lying on my back, gazing at his beautiful face as the wind moves his thick brown hair across his brow.
A smile curls my lips, and I trace my finger lightly along the sweep of a wave, just above his skin, not touching. I don’t want to wake him. My heart beats for him with so much love.
Crawling carefully to the side, I lift the sketchpad and start a new drawing, losing myself in the lines of his forehead, the cut of his cheekbone, the square jaw covered in scruff. My stomach tingles. He’s a god in repose, something you would see in a Greek temple or a Roman coliseum.
He’s mine.
My eyes heat, and I’m so emotional lately. My love for him has always been strong, but I’ve never been such a cry baby.
A strange scent floats by on the breeze, an animal, and my throat closes. I’m shocked by my body’s sudden revulsion, and jumping to my feet, I barely make it to the half bathroom just inside the patio door before I throw up my small breakfast of toast and coffee.