Joy Ride: A Virgin Romance (Let it Ride Book 3)

by Cynthia Rayne

  And what if they hated it? Told me I had no talent, like Dad? Then I’d lose all hope. At least this way, I could still fantasize about being an author.

  Or what if, by some miracle, an agent loved it and wanted to publish my book? It’d be an unpredictable way to earn a living, subject to the whims of the marketplace.

  Not to mention I’d have to sit down with my father and have a painful discussion. He’d be less than gracious about my news. Talin Zed probably thought I’d taint his “literary legacy” or something.

  But for a moment, I pictured writing for a living. I could spend my days spinning tales, creating my own worlds. What’s the old saying? If you chose a job you love, you'd never work a day in your life.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  Ian had inspired me. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have options, and a trust-fund-shaped safety cushion underneath me. If I never pursued my writing, I’d wonder if I’d chosen the wrong career.

  Taking a risk scared me, but would I let fear determine my future? If I gave writing my all and went down in flames, at least I tried, right? It’d be thrilling, if terrifying.

  No one accomplished anything worthwhile while playing it safe. Maybe it’s time to get out of my comfort zone.

  As Kate would say, have some fun.

  “Remember, you’re just starting out in life, so all options are open to you. As long as you’re open to the possibility.”

  “I know.”

  “Good, but I’ve got other plans for this evening…” He leered.

  One look at him and my blood began to boil.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You keep saying you aren’t the sexy type, but I know you are. Tonight, I’d like to show you.”

  “I’m really not.” I gestured to my jeans and t-shirt. And I wore a hoodie, for pity’s sake—nothing even slightly erotic about one of those.

  “Don’t pretend with me, pet. I’ve read your book—it was steamy.”

  I blushed. “It’s fiction.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Let me show you.”

  Ian took me by the hand and led me down the hall. We were surrounded by his art—beautiful women sprawled on varying surfaces. All of them confident in their sensual allure. It was hard not to feel unattractive in comparison.

  Ian picked up a palette and began loading it with paint.

  “Are you going to paint me?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Meaning?”

  Did I want to be just another woman on his wall? I didn’t know. But the opportunity to watch him paint held an undeniable appeal. And it’s only fair since he’d seen my work.

  “You’ll see.” He grinned. “Trust me?”

  No, not all the way, but I nodded. He was definitely up to something.

  “Good.” Ian handed me a length of ribbon. “Pull your hair up for me.”

  I created a messy bun. “This is your thing, huh?” I frowned at a nearby portrait of a woman in a bathtub. “Seducing girls with your art?”

  “Depends. Is it working?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Maybe.”

  “That’s a yes.” After Ian had finished filling his palette, he tossed a tarp on the floor. “Stand there, please.”

  “Why?” Last time I checked, the paint went on a canvas. Shouldn’t it be situated on top of a sheet, instead of me?

  “Because I’m going to paint your body.” Ian lifted a brush. “Since you don’t own any lingerie, I’m going to make you a custom set. What do you say?”

  So, I wouldn’t be like the rest of those women on his walls. He’d be making me into art instead.

  I’d never done anything so bold—it’s something Kate would do, not me. But if my relationship with Ian had taught me anything, being reckless had its rewards.

  “Okay.”

  “Excellent. Then get starkers, pet, and we’ll begin.”

  As I stripped, Ian watched. He’d seen me naked dozens of times, from so many angles, so it wasn’t uncomfortable, but the sense of anticipation built.

  Ian propped a mirror against the far wall. I stood in the corner, craning my neck to watch as he used my body as a canvas. Ian knelt behind me, with black paint, a jar of water, and a host of other tools—thin brushes, sponges, a rag.

  I watched Ian’s face as he worked. He wore a charming grin, and I’d never seen him so content. While his future might be uncertain, he was looking forward to it. Teaching must’ve been a chore for him.

  It made me wonder about my own path.

  But soon, I was distracted again. Ian’s movements were fast and efficient, brushing strokes along the backs of my thighs, down my buttocks. First, he sketched out a pair of tiny panties, then filled the open spaces on my legs with a sponge, using feathery brush strokes to create lace stockings. When I glanced down at my thighs, the stockings looked real. For a second, I had the urge to touch them but resisted.

  Next, he drew garter belt straps, connecting to the seams of a corset on my lower back. Then he turned me around and filled in the rest of the corset, so we faced one another.

  He delicately brushed my breasts, and then my nipples, which stood at attention. Strange—they were covered by paint, but obviously bare. The soft brush strokes were maddening, more torment than pleasure. When I glanced up, I found him watching my face, not his work.

  Being his canvas was inherently sensual, like he’d marked me in some way. There was something a bit Pygmalion about it.

  “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “If it helps, I’m torturing myself, too. I can’t lay a hand on you until we seal the paint, or the work will be ruined.” He twirled the brush over my left nipple.

  “Then you’d better hurry.”

  “You can’t rush art.”

  “Ian…”

  With a wicked grin, Ian knelt at my feet. He still hadn’t filled in the area between my thighs. So he took his time, lazily stroking me with the brush, running it across my inner thigh, then lightly over the lips of my sex.

  I hissed.

  “Something wrong, pet?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Another lingering brush stroke. “I need to get this just right—it could take ages.”

  “I hate you.” I gritted my teeth.

  “No, you don’t.”

  He kept right on teasing me—first with the brush, then the sponge. God, I needed him inside me so bad, I couldn’t stand it. My legs were quivering by the time he finally completed the look. At least there was plenty of pain to go around—Ian’s cock stood so stiff, I could see the bulge through his trousers.

  Ian stood and admired his handiwork. “You look positively peng.” The tender way he watched me made me feel beautiful.

  “Let’s make sure it stays, though.” Ian sprayed sealant on my skin, and voila—I had original lingerie. “See for yourself.”

  Turning around and around so I could see his creation from every angle, I marveled at the image in the mirror. She was gorgeous, and somehow, she was me. I hardly recognized myself but adored the image. All I needed was a pair of high heels and some dramatic makeup, and I’d be in business.

  “At the risk of being arrogant, I look hot.”

  “Yes, you do.” He placed a hand on either shoulder, meeting my eyes in our reflection. “Anyone who’d let me turn her into living, breathing art is brave and adventurous. She certainly has what it takes to fight for her dream, no matter what other people think.”

  “Always the teacher. You certainly illustrated your point.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Maybe.” But I wasn’t in the mood for a conversation. “Since I’m all sealed and everything, is it safe to touch?”

  “Let’s find out.” His fingers landed on my waist, slowly sliding up my side. Then he showed me his clean fingertips. “See?”

  “Good, I can’t wait.” I leaped into his arms, locking my ankles around his hips.

  Ian unzipped and then he was inside me. I
rocked my hips, arching into him. With an arm braced against the wall, he thrust into me harder and harder, until we both came.

  ***

  Afterward, we snuggled in his bed. Ian ran drowsy hands over me, cupping my breasts, my ass.

  I felt downright peaceful. Sex has a way of brushing your cares aside, making you feel complete. Or perhaps it’s just making love with Ian—I hadn’t tried it with anyone else.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?” I rolled over, cuddling against his side.

  “You and me.”

  “Oh?”

  “When we first started, you asked me if this would go anywhere. And I think we are.”

  “I agree.” Lately, I had trouble imagining my life without him.

  “Since I’m no longer your professor, there’s one significant barrier down between us.”

  “Is there another one?” I thought it’d been our biggest issue.

  “Yes.” He sat up in bed. “Before we take this any further, you need to know everything about me. And I’ll understand if you want nothing more to do with me once you know the truth.”

  Uh, oh. So much for my sense of calm.

  “This sounds serious.”

  “It is.”

  “Okay, talk to me.” I leaned back against the headboard, bracing for impact.

  “I told you I have bipolar disorder.” I nodded. “But there’s a bit more to the story. While in the grips of a deep depression, I tried to drive my car off the bridge one night.”

  “Oh no.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. He said he’d been depressed, but I didn’t know he was suicidal.

  “It gets worse. At the time, I was so out of my head, I didn’t pay attention, and I clipped the front of another car, on my way off the bridge.” He ran a hand down his face.

  “What happened?”

  His shoulders drooped. “Instead of killing myself, I killed someone else—Daniel Sheffield. He was an accountant, with a wife and two children.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I remembered the painting I’d seen the first time I came over to his place—a figure on the side of the road, with an ominous plume of smoke billowing in the air. Now it all made sense. I bet Ian must’ve gotten the scar on his chest from the accident, too.

  “Me too, not that it matters. Daniel never got to see his wife and kids again, while I’m still alive.”

  “Were you…?” I wasn’t sure how to ask this. “Did you go to jail?”

  “Yes, for vehicular manslaughter, but my parents are wealthy, and they threw a lot of money at the case. They hired a top-notch barrister, got me into therapy, and they put me on meds. Plus, I was young, in college, and I hadn’t been intoxicated. After everything was said and done, I only did six months jail time, not even prison, and then two years’ probation.”

  “You weren’t trying to kill him.”

  “Yes, but he’s still dead. Daniel’s children grew up without a father. I apologized to the family, but nothing I can say or do will bring him back. So there you have it—I’m a murderer.” He turned to me. “I understand if you no longer want to see me.”

  I hugged him. “You aren’t a murderer. We need to look for answers where there aren’t any—assign blame, make sense of it somehow. The truth is, awful things happen.”

  “I made this one happen.”

  “You didn't intend to hurt anyone but yourself.”

  “Why aren’t you judging me?”

  As secrets went, it was a big one, but he’d been honest.

  “I can’t blame you for something out of your control.” I had a milder illness, but it shaped my behavior, too. I was in no position to pass judgment. “Like I said, you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. And I’ve been judged my whole life. I’m making an effort to be less critical and more open.”

  Maybe I’d outgrown my obsession with being perfect. I was beginning to suspect there’s no such thing.

  “Thank you, pet.” He kissed me. “So, you don’t want to leave?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Besides, you’ve been punishing yourself for years. Sidelining your art was penance, huh?”

  “Yes, and a means of keeping myself in check.”

  “Your art didn’t do this to you.” But I wondered if the two were linked in his head. He’d come into his own as an artist, just as the bipolar disorder had taken hold. “Are you worried about not having as much structure in your life now?”

  “Yes, but I’m going to take a chance. But if you see me headed off the rails, will you say something?” I nodded. “Commit my arse if you have to—I never want to hurt anyone again.”

  “You’re going to be fine.” He’d gone a long time without another incident.

  “I hope so.” He held out an arm, and I leaned against his side. “Since I’m all squared away, and we’ve determined there’s a future for us, what are we going to do about you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m on top of it.”

  “Good, then you can get on top of me first.” With a growl, he dragged me across his chest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darcy

  It took me three days to work up the nerve to break the news to my father.

  During that time, I’d made lots of lists, talked it over with both Ian and Iris, and done a lot of soul-searching.

  I’d always loved rules and boundaries, maybe because I’d grown up so sheltered. This would be a new way of living—I’d never had to worry about money or food, or a roof over my own head. And I’d rather not fall back on my trust fund if I could help it.

  So, after I finished class on Wednesday, I stopped by my parents’ place. I could wait for the next family get-together, but it’d be too much pressure. Besides, all we talked about these days were bestsellers and baby showers.

  Not surprisingly, I found Alan in his office, working on the next book in his Desert Mystic series. If I didn’t do this now, I’d lose my nerve.

  “Dad, we need to talk.”

  “What did you say?” He glanced up from his laptop. Like me, he could get lost in worlds of his own making.

  You can do this, Darcy. Just say it.

  “I need to discuss something with you.” I took a seat across from him and bit the inside of my cheek. My stomach was a twisted mess.

  “Did we have an appointment?” He glanced at the calendar.

  “Do I need one to talk to my own father?”

  “Why don’t we discuss it at the family dinner Sunday?”

  I grimaced. “Yeah, let’s chat about those, too.”

  “Okay.” He closed his computer. “You look solemn—this must be important.”

  “It is. And I know you’ve got a tight writing schedule, so I’ll make this brief.”

  “Go on.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

  “First off, I’m cutting back on the family dinners. Maybe every other month or something.” Just saying the words made me feel lighter, like a burden had been lifted.

  And I hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

  “Family time’s important, Darcy. Your sister will be disappointed.”

  Somehow, I thought Elinor will live, but I didn’t say so—best not to push it.

  “Elinor and I don’t have much of a relationship, Dad.”

  “You should work on it. After your mother and I are gone, she’ll be your only link to the past.”

  It was true, but why is it my responsibility? As the older sister, the burden should be on Elinor.

  “We just don’t get along. I know you like Elinor better, but she—”

  “I don’t.”

  I blinked. “Come again?”

  He frowned. “Darcy, we don’t get along as well as Elinor and I do, but it doesn’t mean I like her more. I love you both equally.”

  It was the standard parental answer in these situations—and total crap.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I mean it.
You and I are a lot alike, Darcy. We both love language, we’re high achieving, organized—a tad judgmental, too.”

  “So you see the similarities.”

  He winked. “Of course, I do. Don’t forget a bit of an ego, too. It’s no wonder you, and I don’t…well, don’t appreciate each other the way we should.”

  Because we had the same flaws. So I projected everything I didn’t like about myself onto my father. Poppy would have a freaking field day with this one.

  “Wow, I guess you’re right.”

  “Anything else on your mind?” he asked.

  “Yes. Sorry for the detour.” I sucked in a breath. “While I appreciate your input on my novel, I’m still going to submit it to an agent.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand. “Please let me finish. I know you didn’t enjoy For Love or Money, but you’re not exactly my target audience.”

  He scratched his chin. “True.”

  “But I believe in this book. No, I believe in me. You might not see it, but I have talent, and I’m going to pursue writing.” I lifted my chin, waiting for the onslaught.

  “I see. And what about graduate school?”

  I stiffened my spine. “I’m going to put it on hold for now. But I’m going to treat writing like a job, because it is. I’ll establish a schedule and stick to it, set a word count for the day, and a production schedule. Holding myself accountable is important.”

  “You’ve thought all this through.” Dad pushed his glasses up, his expression contemplative. “It isn’t a whim.”

  Was that why he’d been so harsh earlier? He assumed I’d been in the grips of a childish impulse? Like when I wanted to learn the clarinet in sixth grade and then quit six weeks later.

  “No, I’ve wanted to be an author for as long as I can remember.”

  “I never knew.”

  I lifted my chin. “You never asked.”

  He nodded. “This isn’t a stable or predictable life, Darcy. Your publisher might drop you. Readers might hate your book.”

  Alan was excessively calm, and it started to freak me out. I’d expected a huge scene, a showdown where I’d walk off with my head held high.