by MK Schiller
She turned toward me, with a sweet smile. “He told me. He thought it was cute you were so jealous of him. He actually told me I could tell you if I wanted to.”
The conversation on the bench made so much more sense now. I’d always thought Matt had a special bond with the girl I loved. In the beginning, it had made me jealous, but in the end, I’d actually felt a kinship with him because of it. Like she tied us together. He saw her so clearly, like I did.
“Are you okay, Tex?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to brush her fingers through my hair.
“Why would he agree to that? Prairie Marsh isn’t exactly the most open community. It’s better now, but back then…” I shook my head, imagining how the boys in my class would have made his life miserable if they’d known.
“He said you wouldn’t tell. You were so different from the other boys, Cal. An old soul, like I said. Undeniably devoted and generous, like Mr Darcy.”
I quirked my eyebrow. “Mr Darcy?”
She fiddled with my tie. “Yes, you know, from—”
“Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.”
“You’ve read it?” she asked in surprise.
“Did you forget what I do for a living?”
She laughed, leading me by my tie to a vacant wall. “I guess I did.”
“If you’re going to compare me to a character in a book, I’d prefer someone a little more badass.”
“Like who?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know… Jack Reacher or Jack Ryan maybe. Any Jack.”
“Maybe you’re a bit of both. A roguish gentleman who as it turns out cannot appreciate fine art.”
I bowed slightly, taking her hand and kissing it. “‘So this is your opinion of me. Thank you for explaining so fully. Perhaps these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honesty.’”
She cupped her hand over her mouth. “Did you just quote Mr Darcy?”
“I did. You see I can appreciate art, but I prefer the written word to the visual experience. So please allow me to paint a picture for you.” I cleared my throat. “‘I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.'” I finished the Darcy monologue with another bow.
“Holy hell, that was hot.”
I stood, grinning at her, backing her farther against the wall, a hand on either side of her head, in our own little world. “That turned you on, my love? Let me assure you, it’s just the tip of my knowledge base. Would you prefer poetry? Maybe Keats, Wordsworth or Blake? How about the female perspective? Emily Dickinson, perhaps? I know them all. I can sonnet you all night. And yes, I use the term as a verb because the way I do it is an action.”
She waved her hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “All night?” she asked, arching her brow, a sexy smile curling her lips.
“I have plenty of material. I hold a Master’s in literature, and words are my medium of choice.”
“I think you may have just mastered me, sir.”
I jerked my head toward the exit. “Shall we take our leave?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
We walked toward the exit. I took one more look around at all the various forms of femininity around me. “Tell me, have you posed for any other paintings here?”
“No, this was my first and last foray as a model.”
“Good.”
“Relax, it could have been so much worse.”
“Worse than having a guy staring at your goddess-like body for six hours?”
She looked away shyly, a rose blush creeping up her cheek. “I’ll show you.” She took my hand and led me to the far side of the room where we hadn’t been before.
A voluptuous blonde woman stood there next to what looked like a dressmaker’s frame, but more detailed. It had a myriad of gold and silver wires forming the female upper body. “Caleb Tanner, meet Jenna Stewart, the model for this sculpture.”
I shook her hand.
“This is Devon Bradley, the sculptor.”
He was a short man who walked with a cane and sunglasses. It took me a second to realize he was blind.
“Nice to meet you both.” I stared at the woven wire form, wondering how he was able to create all the bends and curves from such an unyielding medium.
“I have to feel the model and then I mold the wire to her shape,” Devon explained. I was glad I hadn’t had to ask since I had no idea how to appropriately phrase the question. And I sure as shit was relieved as hell that Sylvie didn’t pose for this one. I couldn’t deal with another guy looking at her naked, let alone needing to touch her.
“Would you like to feel me up?” Jenna asked.
I almost choked on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“It’s an interactive display. You can touch it. If you close your eyes, and see it with your hands, you’ll understand what a remarkable artist Devon really is.”
I stood dumbfounded, turning back to Sylvie. She smiled reassuringly. “Go ahead, Tex. This is the only time I’ll give you permission to put your hands on another woman.”
“Yes, please. I’d love to get your take on it, Cal,” Devon said, hitting the pedestal with his cane.
I moved hesitantly, following Jenna’s directions. I closed my eyes and let my hands roam over the structure. I had no idea how this man did it, but he made a hard substance like wire feel smooth and pliable. I roamed up the torso and paused knowing what was next.
“The breasts are the best part,” Jenna interjected.
“I may be a layman, but this appears to be a very dangerous form of art. What do you call this, Devon? The ex-boyfriend maker?” I asked, trying not to grin. They all laughed. “Are you trying to test me, baby?”
“Nope, I just wanted you to gain an appreciation for this kind of art since it seemed to confuse you before.”
I moved my hands up, lingering over the hefty hills that were there. Although I didn’t see them clearly with all the wire, I definitely felt the nipples protrude. Shit. Devon Bradley was a damn fine artist.
I opened my eyes and dropped my hands. “Very impressive,” I conceded.
“Thank you,” both Devon and Jenna answered at once.
We bade our goodbyes quickly, stopping only to find Rome so Sylvie could say goodbye.
As we made our way out, I noticed several men feeling the statue of Jenna.
“You are so right, baby.”
“About what?”
“I would be starting some fights in this joint if I had to watch other men grope you.”
“Don’t worry, I only like you groping me.”
“Well, let’s get home so we can get on with that. I would like to paint you too, you know.”
“You want to paint?” she asked, in surprise.
“Yes, very much so, but you won’t be my model, you’ll be my canvas. And I’ll be using my tongue and hands in place of a brush.”
“I think that would be some art we can both appreciate.”
We ended up going back to my place. I let her walk in first. She took off my jacket and put down her purse. I locked the door, leaning against it, watching her. When she turned back toward me, I crooked my finger, beckoning her. I managed to take off my tie and start unbuttoning my shirt before she took over for me. I plied her face with hot kisses, letting my lips glide down her jaw line. My fingers searched her dress for a clasp, a zipper, a button, but came up empty.
“On the side,” she said with hitched breath.
“Damn, this dress is fucking torture.” I slid my hands down, but she moved them to the concealed zipper. Women’s clothing seemed unnecessarily complicated. I moved it down, the audible sound causing my cock to lengthen
further. Was there a better sound than a woman’s zipper coming undone? The dress fell in a swift motion, puddling on the floor, a pile of silk and lace, with a goddess standing in its wake. My eyes drank in the sight of her gorgeous body. Long legs draped in black stockings, garter belt around the slim waist, barely-there lace panties and a matching black bra containing her heaving breasts.
Fuck.
I shrugged my shirt off, prowling toward her with lust running through my veins. She was right there with me, moving back until her bottom hit the dining table. “Sit on it,” I told her. She sat on the edge. I pulled her legs apart and took up the space. She undid my belt while I worked to free her hair of every pin and clip that jailed it. I combed through the strands, shiny as spun gold and soft as silk. I unhooked her bra, liberating her breasts. I slowly manipulated them, feeling them change shape in my hands. “Lie back for me.” She complied, lying flat on the table while I stood before her, a hungry predator surveying its delicious prey.
I removed my pants and boxer briefs quickly and stared at her spread across the table like the most decadent dish I would ever consume. I slid my hands across her quivering body, flicking each nipple, and coming down her waist until I reached those panties. I meant to remove them gently, but my need was too great and I ripped them off her. She gasped in response. “I was thinking you weren’t wearing panties. I never thought of you as a thong girl.” I held them up, hoping she owned other pairs. If not, we’d have to go shopping…and really soon.
“I was trying to avoid a panty line,” she breathed, writhing beneath me.
I knelt down and began kissing the inside of her thighs. I wrapped my arms around her legs and pulled her toward my lips. I rubbed my nose in her wet pussy, sniffing her arousal, before thrusting my tongue inside her. She sat up on her elbows watching me. I watched her too. Her face did magnificent things when I was giving her pleasure. I flung her legs over my shoulders, bringing her closer to my greedy mouth. I sucked her clit, slowly savoring it, and released it, repeating the process, relishing the increasingly vocal moans she rewarded me with each time. She tugged on my hair, directing me with her hands. I moved faster, squeezing her hips. She screamed louder, calling out to me—and God—several times. My erection stiffened further with each syllable. Then I felt her contract and release. I relished the expression of blissful ecstasy in her face with a sense of pride. This was the girl I loved, and pleasuring her was my privilege.
I stood up, licking my lips, appreciating the sweet flavor of Sylvie. “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
I ran with record speed to the bedroom, grabbed a condom and placed it on me, wondering why the hell I didn’t keep them in every room. She lay on the table, legs dangling off the end, waiting for me. “What took you so long, Tex?”
I laughed. “Patience, Sylvie. Put your legs around my hips.” She complied, encircling me, as I entered her. I pushed into her excruciatingly slowly, wanting it to last as long as possible. I leaned forward on the table, clasping her hands in mine, trailing feverish kisses down her neck and breasts. I flicked each nipple, manipulating them against my lips. Finally, I had to taste her mouth, tangling my tongue with hers.
I felt her clamp around my dick. “Fuck, do that again,” I said.
She widened her eyes, and her tight walls closed in around me, slowing my thrusts. I stared down at her, thinking how surreal every moment was with her. Every time we made love, it was more intense because it was a gift bestowed on us, and we would never take it for granted. “You are mine.”
“Yes,” she panted.
“Say it to me.”
“I’m yours.” I moved her legs up to my shoulders to deepen my plunges. I kissed each ankle, making sure to hit her tattoo twice, as was my habit now. I continued moving slowly, knowing how much deeper this position was. “Who do you belong to, Sylvie?”
“You.”
“Yes, and who do I belong to?”
“Me,” she screamed, biting that luscious lower lip.
“That’s right, baby. We belong to each other, but…fuck.” I was having trouble forming the words. They were clear in my mind, but became monosyllabic garble as they exited my mouth. “You. Own. Me.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Do you seriously do this every Saturday?” she asked, struggling to maintain a clear voice.
“No, I do it every day, but I run an extra mile on Saturday. I’ve been skipping them, though, because a certain someone’s been preoccupying me.”
She had agreed to run with me, but I could see she wasn’t too keen after the first mile. I was doing my best to take it easy, but we ended up speed-walking more than running most of the way.
“Can we go home now?”
I laughed. “The WC is only another mile. If you can make it, I’ll buy you a coffee and we can hang out there for a while.” I handed her the bottle of water and she chugged it. I watched as a droplet fell from her lips, rolling down her sweat-soaked glistening skin, descending slowly right into the center of the V in her snug T-shirt. Damn…so hot.
“Can we at least walk?”
“Seriously? I told you we could walk a mile if we ran the next. This is our running mile so let’s make it count. I’ll race you.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, I’ll even give you a head start.” I smacked her on the ass, and stopped walking. “Go on.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Sorry, are you too delicate for this? Should we stop?” I knew that would get her going. She never could turn down a challenge.
“What? Hell, no. Get ready to eat my dust, Caleb Tanner.” She sped off.
I stared for a while, watching her graceful legs building momentum. I followed, but was careful not to pass her.
“Are you letting me win?” she asked, as we neared our destination.
“No, I’m just enjoying the view,” I replied, grinning.
She laughed, turning her head back to give me a smug look. “It doesn’t matter if you let me, I’m still taking the win, Tex.” That did it, I caught up real fast because the truth was, it wasn’t in my DNA to let anyone win, not even her.
We slowed once we reached the WC. We couldn’t really run in that crowded area. “I won,” I replied, taking the water bottle from her. I poured it over my head, knowing it would dry in about ten minutes in this sunny weather.
“I think it was a tie.”
I nodded, deciding to pick my battles. “Our usual table?” I said, gesturing to the overstuffed chairs we had sat in a few weeks before. We hadn’t been back here since that day.
“What a different conversation that was, Cal. It seems like forever ago.”
“It wasn’t so long ago. Go save our seats, I’ll get our drinks.” I got a few bottled waters along with the coffee so we wouldn’t get dehydrated.
“Did you add sugar?” she asked when I came to the table.
“Yep, I’m your Huckleberry.”
“Yeah, you sure are.” She sipped her coffee, staring at me. Actually, she was ogling my legs.
“Like what you see?” I leaned forward, dropping my voice. “Which one do you like the best? The right? The left?” I winked at her. “Or is it the middle?” She smiled at my joke, but it didn’t match the somber look in her eyes.
“May I see your leg, please?”
I thought it was an odd request, but I lifted my leg up. She shook her head. “The other one.”
My smile disappeared. I lifted the other leg with less ease. She took my foot and placed it in her lap, staring at the broken skin that had never healed.
“It’s really not that bad, baby. The fact I just ran six miles with you should convince you of that.”
She rubbed the area with her fingers.
“As good as that feels, I think you should probably stop groping me in public.”
“How often does it hurt you?”
“Like I said, not that often. Besides, it’s a pretty badass scar, i
sn’t it? It makes me look tough, and no one messes with me.” I removed my foot from her lap.
“Very funny, Tex.”
“How do you know so many people here?” I wanted to desperately change the subject. She was getting that sad faraway look in her eyes.
“I used to draw caricatures on the weekends for extra money until they got stricter on the street artists.”
“You seem very enterprising. How many jobs did you have?”
She laughed. “Actually, that money went to buy art supplies. My boss let me have the class for free, but he said I’d have to pay for the supplies.”
I grinned. “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”
She held up her coffee cup to me in a toast. “Right back at ya, Tex.”
* * * *
The sound of Mama Said Knock You Out interrupted my sleep. I glanced over to Sylvie who was shifting in my arms, her soft hair splayed across my chest. She blinked her eyes open, arching an eyebrow in amusement as I reached for my phone.
“Is that LL Cool J?” she asked, stretching.
“Yeah, Momma’s ringtone.” Momma still had a hard time grasping the two-hour time difference between us.
She giggled. “It’s appropriate.”
“Hi, Momma,” I greeted, holding my finger against my lips.
“Hello, son, I don’t have long to talk. I just wanted to see if you’d booked your flight yet for Thanksgiving.”
Shit.
“I don’t think I’m coming this year.” I winced as the seconds ticked by, her heavy silence on the other end. I imagined the tears she struggled to hold back, and I felt like a complete shithead.
“You come every year. Christmas and Thanksgiving are the only times we see you anymore.” Her voice boomed out and I knew Sylvie could hear both sides of the conversation.
“I know, but I’m really busy this year.”
“Is it a girl?” My momma could read me like a kindergarten primer.
“Maybe,” I relied, hoping she’d drop it.
“Bring her with you.”
Shit.
“I think it’s too soon. We just started dating.” It wasn’t a total lie.
“Tell me about her,” Momma asked.
