by Lauren Wood
Whatever restlessness was plaguing me, Dawson Hayes only seemed to be making it worse. I felt determined to get to the bottom of my weird fascination with him.
11
Dawson
I squeezed out an array of cool blues and warm yellows on my palette and stared at them for a long time before picking up a brush. That’s it, Dawson. Nice, calming colors. Sunny and cheerful. It’s a beautiful afternoon. The windows are open. The birds are chirping. What reason do you have for being bitter or angry?
My hand lurched for a tube of red paint instead and squeezed it out across the middle of the palette, covering everything else. My brother and Izzy. That’s what I have to be bitter and angry about.
I couldn’t stop seeing the reel play in my mind over and over again—them leaving together and her glancing back over her shoulder at me as his hand smoothed along the small of her back. Just the thought of it made my skin crawl. Was she taunting me with that last little look? Rubbing my face in it? Torturing me?
Richard was used to getting his way, so surely he didn’t think much of snagging a date with the current most coveted bachelorette of the city. And why, oh why, did the woman who caught my attention just have to be that same woman?
I didn’t care anything about Heartstring or how much money Isabella had or that there were hoards of other men lined up, fighting for her affections. She was just a beautiful, intriguing woman I met in the park. I had no idea who she was. The universe was toying with me. I was certain of it.
Just as I angrily splattered red across the canvas, reflecting my frustrations, a knock came to the door. I froze and tried to be as quiet as possible, intending to ignore it so I could continue working without interruption.
“Hello!? Dawson!?” A woman’s familiar voice called out from behind the door.
No. It couldn’t be. I put down my brush and sneaked over to the door, peeking out through the hole to confirm that it was indeed Isabella pacing outside. She looked frazzled, upset, restless. When I extended the offer for her to visit my studio, there was a big part of me that never actually expected her to come. Especially after I saw her leave the gallery on my brother’s arm.
I unlatched the line of locks and swung open the door. I didn’t have time to offer a single word before she pushed right past me, forcing her way into my studio like she owned the place.
She immediately started pacing the room, taking everything around her in with wide eyes. “I guess I interrupted you. Shoot.”
“That’s alright,” I shrugged. “I was feeling a little distracted anyway. What…What are you doing here?”
“You did say I could come by,” she barked, sounding irritated.
“I did,” I nodded. “It’s no problem. I just didn’t expect you to pop up like this.”
“Should I go?” she challenged, pointing towards the door.
“No,” I smirked. “But, am I right in saying that you seem a little… miffed?”
“I guess miffed is one word for it,” she huffed, plopping down in the nearest chair. She winced the moment she did and quickly jumped up again. “Dammit!”
She started swiping at the back of her tight skirt that hugged the perfect roundness of her ass, only to freak out all over again at the sight of her hand. She had unknowingly plopped down on an open tube of red paint, which covered the pristine white fabric and now her hand as well.
“Of course this would happen,” she fumed, furiously wiping and smearing—making the whole thing worse.
“Yikes,” I bared my teeth, hissing. “I hate to tell you...That’s not going to come out completely. Probably ever. Is it expensive?”
“Just vintage Chanel,” she seethed sarcastically. “No big deal.”
“Here, stand still,” I told her, rushing over to grab a rag. I reached around her and tried to get the bulk of it off. “It will stain. Nothing I can do about that. Red oil paint on white fabric is a recipe for disaster. But, now you can at least sit down without leaving a trail that looks like a murder scene.”
We both froze for a moment, locking eyes. She swallowed hard as we both realized our bodies were pressed together, my hand and the rag repeatedly grazing her perfect, plump backside. I tried not to get too much pleasure from it, but that was proving to be difficult. Especially with the way she was looking at me.
I cleared my throat and tossed the rag to the side, grabbing another clean towel to put over the chair after I had shoved the tube of paint away. “Try again,” I told her, pointing to the dry, covered seat.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“I think you could use a drink.”
“Or five, please.” She slumped over, pressing one hand to the side of her head.
“Say no more.” I dashed into the kitchen, just a few feet away, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. I fixed her up a cocktail with soda and delivered it promptly after throwing back a shot for myself.
“Care to tell me what’s troubling you?” I asked as she started chugging the mixture.
Her eyes met mine again, and she had a look to her I had never seen before. Something scared and vulnerable, and a little sheepish.
“Come on, just pretend I’m a bartender,” I suggested. Her face twisted in confusion. “People usually unload their troubles on a bartender over drinks after a long, hard day,” I clarified.
“Oh, sure,” she mumbled. “Well, it’s hard to explain. It’s this whole stupid Heartstring campaign. And my brother’s insistence on turning his determination to marry me off into a marketing ploy for the company. I don’t know which is worse. His decision that I have to find a husband now, just because he’s ready for me to. Or that he’s shamelessly using the whole ordeal to profit his work while he’s at it.”
“I see,” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Well, I can’t tame your brother’s ambitions any more than I can get that stain out of your skirt. But I can try to cheer you up.” I held out a hand to help her up. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
The tour was short as my place was small. The only area I didn’t take her into was the loft bedroom. For one, it’d be tricky for her to maneuver the ladder in her stiletto heels. And two, I finally had her here alone. I wasn’t about to risk scaring her off by giving her the wrong idea.
She took her time looking through the stacks of paintings, both finished and unfinished, in the main room where I worked. It really was a perfect day for her to come by. The balcony doors were open and the sun was streaming in. It was the perfect light for painting, but it was also the perfect light to admire her in.
“I have to say, I envy your passion,” she commented as she trailed a finger along the top of a large canvas. “I’ve never had any real hobbies. Nothing substantial or meaningful anyway. Or much of a purpose in life at all. I guess you could say I’ve always been a little…lost. Like a balloon just floating around in the sky until it eventually pops.”
“Pop as in a mid-life crisis?” I guessed.
“I am not middle aged,” she insisted sternly. “And no. I meant…until I died.”
“That’s no way to live,” I replied. “Just waiting to die.”
“Sorry for being so dark,” she groaned, seeming frustrated with herself.
“I don’t mind dark,” I argued. I stared around the room, racking my brain for a solution. “Hey, why don’t you try it? Painting, I mean. You never know what your talents are until you start trying different things.”
“Me? Paint?” she scoffed with a laugh. “No. Definitely not.” She continued looking around the room until her sights settled on the portrait of her I had done after we first met. “Is that…”
“It’s you. Go on. Take a look.”
She walked over, kneeled down in front of it, and squinted her eyes. “It doesn’t look anything like me.”
“Well, it must, because you recognized yourself in it.”
“No. No, this is no good.” She spun around on her heels, glaring at me. “You’ll have to do another one now that I’m actually
here. Besides, if there’s anything I’m positive I can excel at…It’s modeling.”
“Don’t be so certain. Modeling is harder than most people realize.”
“I know what it entails,” she huffed. “You’re speaking to one of the prime contract models for Seventeen magazine, when I was in my teens anyway. I even had a spread in Teen Vogue.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I teased. “I would have brought out a nicer bottle to serve such a prominent figure in the fashion and modeling world.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny. I’m serious. I want to pose for you.”
I considered it for a moment, taking a deep, slow breath. But there wasn’t much to think about. Izzy was right there—standing in front of me, asking to model for a painting. I couldn’t very well say no. It was all I had wanted from the moment I first laid eyes on her.
“Give me just a moment,” I said, setting myself to shuffling the room around.
I cleared out some open space by the window, positioning my easel and paints across from it. I pulled a velvet lounging chair over and draped a throw blanket over it.
“Have a seat,” I told her, once everything was ready.
She walked over and started to sit, but stopped suddenly. “Oh, my skirt. I don’t want to get paint all over your blanket and chair.”
“Look around,” I smirked. “There’s paint on everything I own.”
“Not huge red streaks like this would do, though. No, this won’t work.”
“What do you propose? I’m sorry to say I don’t think any of my pants would fit you.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, then walked over to her glass—tossing the rest of it back. “Can I have another?”
“Certainly.” I took the glass and returned to the kitchen, mixing her another whiskey and coke cocktail.
But I nearly dropped it to the ground when I turned around to see Isabella bending over, pulling the skirt from around her ankles. She stood again—skirtless, giving me a perfect view of her white lace panties.
I reluctantly looked away, trying to be chivalrous, and shielded my eyes. Even then I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting back every so often to steal small glances, no matter how hard I tried not to.
“You can…uh…cover your legs with the…the…the blanket, I—ahem—suppose,” I stammered.
But her face warmed with a coy smile as her fingers curled around the buttons of her matching white blouse. “What’s the matter, Dawson? Haven’t you ever painted a nude portrait before? Now give me my drink and let me finish undressing before I change my mind.”
12
Isabella
My heart pounded and my fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse. What the hell was I doing stripping down in front of him like this!? What was this—the freaking Titanic!? Jesus, his name was even Dawson. Didn’t Leo’s character in the Titanic have the last name Dawson or something!? I was half-way convinced this was all some sort of weird lingering school girl fantasy about the film, but resisted the urge to say Paint me like one of your French girls.
No, no, I assured myself. This was nothing like that, because it wasn’t sexual. Even though I had been soaking wet from the moment he grazed my ass to help me clean up the paint I sat in. That moment in itself was a shock to me.
I had never been shy. And no man had ever really made me nervous or thrown me off, especially someone like Dawson. Who, to my brother’s credit, was a certain type of guy. As in not the kind for me.
I started having flashbacks to my teenage antics when I’d flash lifeguards or take dares from my friends to skinny dip. All to have a little fun. I had always been restlessly chasing excitement in what could be a rather dull life at times. Exciting from the outside, maybe. But to someone living it—I was completely desensitized and underwhelmed by the extravagance.
So why was I a nervous, fumbling wreck? Even as I slid my panties down my legs and reached to unhook my bra, I stumbled a little by bumping into the edge of the lounge chair. I didn’t like Dawson’s presence having this suddenly disarming effect on me.
I just felt so suffocated by my brother’s expectations and the situation with Heartstring—it sent me straight into Dawson’s arms as a sort of rebellion. And I guess when that didn’t seem to be enough, I thought...What the hell? Why not take it one step further and let him paint me naked?
My back was turned to him by the time I finished stripping out of my clothes. Without facing him, I reached for my drink and tossed it back—trying to slow my heavy breathing and pounding heart. Finally, I sucked in one final breath and slowly turned around.
Dawson stood there with his mouth gaping and his eyes as wide as saucers. He gulped, then cleared his throat, obviously salivating over what he saw.
“Should I just…have a seat?” I asked, pointing to the chair.
“Yes. Yes, go ahead,” he stammered. “However you’re comfortable.”
I settled back into the chair and tried to remember nude paintings I had seen at the MOMA, Met, or the Louvre—posing based on whatever I could recall amidst my many other racing thoughts. I had no clue if the end result was sexy or not, but Dawson sure seemed to think it was. I laughed as he fumbled around his paints and easels, dropping things left and right.
After a while, I stopped thinking so much and relaxed into a zen sort of state. Dawson’s permission for me to continue sipping my drink while he worked certainly helped. I didn’t know how much time passed before he stood up again, but the sun was starting to set by the time he did.
“That should do for now,” he announced. “I can always work on it more from memory. Or we could have a second sitting session if you’d prefer.”
I stood up and walked over to the easel, gasping at the result. I didn’t look like Isabella Landson—uptight, high society heiress. No, this was a new side of me. One that was vivacious and alive.
Dawson lingered next to me as I took it in, until he realized how close he was standing while I was still stark naked.
“Oh, shit. God, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can go get you a robe. I’ll just have to grab it from upstairs. I’ll be right back.”
He started to take off for the ladder to his loft, but I reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, Dawson. Wait.”
He froze, not facing me at first. Slowly, he turned. Our eyes locked together. He swallowed hard again, his eyes drifting up and down my body as I pulled him in.
I wrapped my hands around his wrists and positioned him in front of me, inviting him in every silent way I could to explore my body.
“Izzy,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”
I knew exactly what he was asking. The heat of the sexual energy emanating between us was thick and suffocating. And I had a feeling in the right circumstances, it would have been just as strong even if I wasn’t completely nude.
“Are you sure?” I teased. “You don’t want me.”
His eyes darkened with a threat not to push him. He’d devour me if given the chance.
“You know I do,” he rasped. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you in the park, when you were pretending not to admire my painting.”
It was an odd thing to hear a guy pledge his commitment to such a strong desire for me. The problem with being a woman who was wanted by so many powerful men, was that the men I had encountered usually had their own pool of women fighting over them too. They wanted me until they had me—for a night after meeting in the club, or for a fleeting, spontaneous trip to the Bahamas. None of it ever lasted long. Their desire for me came and went, gone just as quick as it appeared.
But Dawson was different. I could see it in his eyes. What he saw in me, and wanted from me, was deeper. It was foreign to me, and it was almost terrifying.
I lifted his hands, using my grip to guide them just above the curves of my naked flesh. I traced all of the places he could touch—if he was daring enough to make the move. By the time I let go of his wrists, he took the bait. His big, r
ough hands grazed my soft skin, sending a tingling sensation shooting through my entire body.
Our lips finally crashed together, giving us much needed relief. Though we were nowhere near finished. It was only the beginning—our tongues trashing together, our mouths widening to deepen the kiss and drink in as much of each other as we possibly could. I barely noticed as he picked me up in his arms and we both went crashing back onto the chair where I had been posing.
He settled in between my legs with his hips, and I kind of loved the feeling of his clothed body grinding against my exposed skin and parts. But it did make me laugh a little.
“It’s not fair that you still have all of your clothes on,” I teased with a coy smile.
But Dawson was not laughing. Far from it. He looked like a beast eyeing his prey. He stood up and started stripping, maintaining a surprising amount of calm and steadiness. It wasn’t what I expected.
“I should warn you, Izzy. You may think I’m some kind of toy. But when it comes to the bedroom, I’m the one in control. I can be very…demanding.”
I wasn’t laughing anymore either. I had never seen this side to him before—so stern and manly and gruff. But I liked it. The pooling wetness between my legs was proof of that.
“Now, I want you to lay back,” he commanded, climbing on top of me once more—this time in all his naked glory. He grabbed my hands and guided them to the arms of the chair. “Grab on and don’t let go until I tell you.”
His tone was stern, and I didn’t dare to question him. I did as he said, but found it hard to obey as he started kissing down the length of my body. I started to squirm when he found his way to my breasts, flicking each of my hardened nipples with his tongue.
His strong hands moved back to my arms, pinning me down. “I told you. Don’t move.”
“Yes, sir,” I shot back, only half-joking. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to be clay in his hands—moving whatever way he wanted me to.
