“Hey, Hannah, sorry to bug you.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, as if speaking quietly will give me my focus back. “I’ve gotta run out for a while. Hit the bank, a few other errands.”
“’Kay.” I speak through clenched teeth.
I don’t turn around. Don’t put down my palette. I dab my brush in the deep green I’ve been working on, trying to get that pine-tree shade of green just right. I place the flat of the brush to the canvas and drag it down an inch, then smear little dabs to either side to create the pine-tree shade.
“I’ll—um, I’ll be back later.”
“Great.” I feel him still there behind me, and I know he’s working on what else to say. “See ya.”
“Love you, honey.”
“Mmm. You too.”
“Need anything while I’m out?”
“Hmm? Oh, no.” I’m faking preoccupation.
In reality, I’m utterly laser-focused on Charlie standing behind me. The feel of him there is like oil slicking the surface of my pristine lake. I need him to leave.
Instead, he shuffles closer, and I smell him, Old Spice deodorant and Polo cologne. Why cologne for errands? But I know the answer. I’ve known for some time, but I just refuse to face it. Easier and less painful to hole up in my studio and paint and pretend everything is hunky-fucking-dory. He’s clean-shaven, I feel the smooth scrape of his skin against my cheek as he leans close from behind, touches his mouth to the corner of my lips. His left hand touches my waist, exactly midway between ribcage and hipbones. I glance down and see his hand. The dusting of hair on his knuckles, slightly darker than the blond hair on his head, which will be carefully and precisely slicked back and to the left. The scar on his index finger from when he was cutting onions and sliced himself open. The bluish-purple veins on the back of his hand. His ring finger, bare. A strip of skin paler than the rest.
I air-kiss. “I’m covered in paint, Charlie. You’ll get it on you.”
He backs off then and leaves, and I finally breathe in relief when I hear the door click, and breathe even more deeply when I feel the slam of the front door and the smooth clatter of the engine of his sensible, economic four door sedan. I hear him back out, hear him pause at the end of the driveway as he looks one way and then the other, and then backs out into the street. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see him do it, that pause on the apron of the driveway, the tail of his little red Corolla just over the sidewalk. His head will swivel, and he’ll curve precisely out into the tree-lined avenue. The moment he shifts gears into Drive, his hand will lift, his cell phone will be tucked against his left ear, and he’ll call her to say he is on his way.
I wonder where they will meet? The Hilton on Third? The Olde Towne Inn on Main? That little bed and breakfast over on Mackie? The B&B, probably. That’s his style.
Quaint, a little old-fashioned, cutesy.
The perfect place to hide his betrayal.
I shake my head to push Charlie and everything else out of my mind. I resume my work and touch my brush to the canvas. I paint a few pine trees, since I’ve finally got the green mixed to the right shade. Soon enough, I’m back in the zone, everything tuned out except the canvas, the brush, the palette, and the visual memory of the lake scene I’m painting.
I’m so preoccupied with my work that I don’t hear the door open, don’t feel his approach.
I just feel hands on my waist.
I hiss. “Goddamn it, Charlie.”
“I sure as hell ain’t Charlie.” His voice, oh, it’s a sweet sensual rumble that makes my stomach flip. “Watched him leave about twenty minutes ago.”
I lean back, exhaling in relief and desire, eyes closing. “Conrad. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You get so focused when you’re painting.” I hear the tiny, amused smile in his voice. “You wouldn’t notice if a brass band went through here.”
I twist my head to look at him. He’s got a week or two of stubble on his jaw, not quite a beard. His black hair is messy, as always, strands dangling in front of his eyes, curling over the top of his ears, brushing at the base of his neck.
“What are you doing here, Conrad?” I hate myself for leaning so fully against him, for being unable to resist nuzzling his jawline. “We can’t do this here.”
“Yeah…we can.”
He takes my brush out of my hand and dunks it into the Arnes & Able Hardware mug. Then he takes my palette from me and sets it on the corner of the table. He spins me in place then touches my chin with the knuckle of his index finger, tipping my face up.
“Take it off, Hannah.” He speaks quietly, firmly.
My fingers tremble as I thumb open the top button of my painting shirt. The second, the third. All the way down until it hangs open, revealing a slice of my pale ivory skin, a hint of my core, the inner swell of my breasts.
His touch is rough and reverent as he pushes the shirt off my shoulders. It pools to the floor at my feet, and I’m naked in front of him. He’s dressed gorgeously and simply in a pair of faded, ripped blue jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt that’s molded to his perfect body. Scuffed Caterpillar boots, dried and caked with mud on the heel and toe. No cologne, no deodorant, just the smell of Conrad, clean and masculine and comforting.
He reaches out, touching a fingertip to the green on my palette then slowly drags it across my nipple, and then in a circle around it.
I shiver and clutch at his arms. He doesn’t seem to care that I smear paint on his shirtsleeves. He dabs a different finger in the blue I was using for the lake and traces patterns on my other breast.
That same hand, another finger, is in the brown paint now, smearing and stuttering down the valley between my breasts, down to my belly. His other hand isn’t idle, oh no. It finds me wet and ready, delves up into my core. He finger-fucks my cunt and finger-paints my body, but he doesn’t kiss me. He simply watches me come apart, a paint-smeared mess, whimpering through clenched teeth as he makes me come.
And then he yanks open his jeans and watches as I fist his beautiful erection and bring him to my opening and he fucks me against the wall in my art room, fucks me so hard the canvases stacked against the wall topple over. Fucks me until I’m screaming his name and panting against his neck and biting his shoulder to muffle the screams.
He holds me, pinning me against the wall, both of us gasping and sweaty. His lips touch my throat and my jaw, but not my lips.
He tugs his jeans up and fastens them.
He steps back, eyeing me—I’m covered in paint, which means a long hot shower spent scrubbing the paint off.
He leaves, then, with my fingerprints in paint on his shirtsleeves and on his skin. There are physical reminders of me on his cheek, in his stubble, on his cock, on his ass, his spine, and his shoulders.
He doesn’t have to wash away those reminders of my touch…of our coupling.
But I do.
And I hate it.
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Copyright © 2016 by Jasinda Wilder and Jade London. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
THE BLACK ROOM: DOOR 6
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The Black Room: Door Six Page 8
