After a few minutes, she slips off me and out of the pool, saying nothing as she kneels on a lounge chair. She crooks a finger at me. I’m out of the water and crossing her way in seconds, not knowing what she has in mind and not caring. All I care about is easing this ache inside of me.
She wraps one hand around the base of my cock and drops her head to take me in her mouth—every inch, without hesitation. I slip my hands into her hair, threading through the damp strands until I have it in a mass at the back of her neck so she can work my length in a steady rhythm, her hands stroking as her lips suckle and tease. It doesn’t take long to feel my balls draw up tight, my head spinning with every new pass she takes.
I let out an unsteady breath and let myself drown in what she’s giving me. The white-hot buzz of an orgasm starts to build, every raw, filthy, feral part of me soaking up the moment, wanting it so much I’m practically shaking.
But the rational, sane parts of me aren’t sure about what this means—for Anya, and for us—because it still doesn’t feel like we’re on the same page here. If tonight had gone the way I wanted it to, this would amount to the hottest night of my life. Instead, my thrusts start to falter and all the rhythm I started out with is gone, so I clench my jaw and close my eyes, trying to find my way back.
That’s when Anya gently slides her hands up my abs, teasing her nails into my skin, almost as if she’s wordlessly asking for my attention on her. I force my eyes open, even when I’m worried that what I’m going to see will wreck me in ways I’m not ready for.
And it does. Because when Anya meets my eyes, she tells me everything I need to know. In this moment, she trusts me, she wants me, and she’s here with me.
My fingers tug her hair even tighter, digging my fingers into her scalp and urging her head back until I can take in the sight completely. Her hazel eyes flashing, her lips stretched around me, and the droplets of water still glistening on her naked body.
All of that… mine. Mine for the taking, if I’ll let myself.
I start to drown again, letting her give me what I need until my entire body is strung tight in anticipation. When I finally let go, every drop that spills out leaves me shaking, so unsteady on my feet that I’m almost grateful when Anya takes my hand and leads us inside.
Later, when I finally have my equilibrium back, I wrap a towel around my waist to go outside and find my clothes. When I come back inside, Anya is snuggled down in bed with the comforter gathered into a big fluffy pile around her. Her damp hair is loose and wavy, and she’s wearing an oversized tank top that dips low enough to show off the tops of her breasts. I pull my pants on and then slip on my shirt, watching her expression change with every button I work closed.
“You okay?”
She nods, then starts fidgeting with the bed coverings self-consciously. I stop working on the buttons and let my hands drop to my sides. Her eyes flick up, and when she sees how I’m just standing here, waiting, she draws in a long breath.
“I’m sorry I made things weird tonight,” she says faintly. “Talking about my art is hard. I know it’s something I need to work on, I’m just not there yet.”
I nod, but don’t say anything because now she’s tugging up the comforter around her so it’s bundled up at her shoulders. The bed is like her cocoon right now, and no matter how much I want to push her to say more, I’m thinking that’s the last thing I should be doing right now.
We both stay silent for a few long, painful moments—me standing here like a statue and Anya burrowed in like a bear cub that’s not sure about coming out of the den. Finally, she lets out a little huff and closes her eyes.
“This artist-in-residence program I applied for?” She waits a beat, then her eyes flip open. She pins me with a look that’s half-panic and half-fearlessness. “I want it, JT. So much. I want them to pick me.” Her eyes start to water but she doesn’t look away. “I’ve never wanted anything in my career like I want this. Never.”
My chest starts to ache, my breaths shorten, and my head swims. All because of this huge thing it feels like Anya is handing me right now. Her trust.
She’s trusting me to treat her goals and aspirations with care, and to do the exact opposite of what her ex did to her. That means I’m going to have to hold on to her dreams in those moments when she thinks she can’t, and be able to hand them back to her whenever she is ready.
I crawl up on the bed, and sit down in front of her so I can cage her in with my legs. I take her face in my hands.
“Then I hope you get it.” She loses the battle with a few tears that are brimming in her eyes. I sweep a thumb across her cheek. “I hope they see how passionate you are, how no one deserves this more. If I could make it happen for you, I would. I’d do anything, even move a fucking mountain, if that’s what made you happy.”
A wobbly smile lights up her face, followed by her crawling out of her cocoon and into my lap. And when I wrap my arms around her, everything inside of me surrenders.
12
Anya
“The Eiffel Tower? Really?” Tara groans, curling her lip as she points at the easel. “I don’t want to paint the Eiffel Tower. At sunset. With a cutesy couple under a freaking umbrella. Ugh.”
I let out a snort, then skirt around Tara and Alec so I can finish setting up for this afternoon’s paint-and-sip class.
“Oh, come on,” I say playfully. “What’s wrong with the Eiffel Tower?”
“It’s just so predictable. So precious. And so completely bor-ing.” Tara scans the walls of Wine, Wonder & Whimsy and waves a hand toward the other side of the room. “Why can’t we paint that one with the sugar skull? Or the castle that looks all gothic and Dark Shadows-esque? Or the barn owl one? Even the freaking barn owl is more badass than this insipid Eiffel Tower.”
I flick her on the shoulder with a dry paintbrush. “Because the Eiffel Tower painting is what’s on the schedule. We can’t just change it for you two misanthropes.”
When Tara called yesterday afternoon, the first thing she did was shout that it had been a month since the three of us saw each other in person. I already knew this, but when Tara yells, it’s not something you can ignore. You get to fixing the problem, whatever it is, just to save your eardrums. But between my schedule and theirs, it would be another month before all three of us have a free day off at the same time. Then Alec—in his calm, pragmatic brilliance—suggested the obvious, which was that they could come to me since my classes during the week are typically small to begin with, and day classes are even smaller. If we’re lucky, this one might even wrap up early enough for us to squeeze in dinner somewhere before Tara and Alec have to head home to the babysitter.
“No one else is here,” Tara huffs. “These two misanthropes are your only students. We should be able to call an audible if we are the class. Right, Alec?”
Alec sets his beer down and shrugs his shoulders. He eyes the new lavender highlights in Tara’s hair with an appreciative grin. “Whatever you say, sugarplum,” he drawls.
“There. You see that? The only other person here agrees with me.” Tara blows him a kiss. “On everything.”