Submersed

by Rachelle Vaughn

  I tried to think of something to say. There was no way I could endure this in silence.

  “How was…” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat and started again. “How was your workout?”

  “It was great,” he answered over the din of the water. He squirted shampoo on his palm and worked it into his hair.

  “That’s good,” I replied, lamely.

  “You should join me sometime.”

  I sputtered a laugh. “The gym’s not really my thing.”

  He didn’t say anything else, but swiveled around, allowing the water to wash away every last bubble on his body.

  I imagined the shampoo suds running down his muscular back. Bubbles chasing each other down his stomach and thighs…

  I clenched my own thighs together and ground my pussy into the hard tile of the tub. I could feel my wet folds rubbing against my panties and jeans. The friction became too much and I stood up.

  When Dillon turned the water off, I went to the sink and made busy work of washing my hands. That way I wouldn’t have to face his wet, naked body. Jeez, whose idea was this anyway?

  As I avoided looking into the mirror, I heard Dillon climb out of the shower and hopefully reach for a towel.

  “Maybe next time you’ll wash my back for me.”

  I could hear his voice getting closer as he came up from behind me. He slid his arms around my waist and nuzzled my neck. I focused on steadying my breathing and dried my hands on a towel. He brushed my hair to the side, revealing my bare neck. Then he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin there, sending shivers down my spine where they met with the tingling between my legs. I sucked in a breath as he continued to press open-mouthed kisses along the column of my neck. I could feel his erection through the towel draped around his waist. Its length pressed hard into my bottom. His hands drifted up and just brushed the sides of my breasts.

  There was a knock on the front door and I exhaled.

  “Breakfast is here,” I announced with a shaky breath. I turned, shoved the hand towel to his chest and went to answer the door.

  After I arranged breakfast on the table and poured coffee, Dillon walked out of the bathroom barefoot, dressed in jeans and a black tee shirt. It amazed me how he could look sexy no matter what he was wearing. A tuxedo, jeans, a towel… No, I couldn’t think about his naked body. Now wasn’t the time. I had to focus on chewing and swallowing my toast without choking.

  After a quick breakfast, and a few minutes to cool down my libido, it was time to get to work.

  It was time to show Dillon my studio.

  When I opened the door to the studio, my precious comfort zone, I took hold of Dillon’s hand and took comfort in the reassuring squeeze that came right away. He smiled at me and I smiled back at him, desperately hoping everything would be okay.

  We walked in together, side by side. It seemed fitting to hold his hand as he saw my sanctuary for the first time. To me, it looked like home, like emotion and breath and life. And heartache. It looked like visions and ideas and desires. Possibilities and hope.

  This was the place I could escape to from disorder and paint myself into a different time and place full of beautiful and bold colors. It was also where I could immerse myself into the pain and grief with bleak colors of gray and black.

  I drew in a breath and relished the smell of the room. It smelled of turpentine and oils and dust. Next to the smell of Tahitian gardenias, it was my favorite smell in the world.

  It was a large studio, roughly the same size as the other rooms in the suite combined. Although it was crowded with art supplies and furniture, there was still adequate room to move around.

  Deliberately, I looked around the room, trying to imagine how it looked through Dillon’s eyes.

  A sturdy butcher-block table splattered with dried-on paint took up most of the room. In the middle of the table sat a jumble of pots and colorful tubes of paint.

  Beside the table to the left was a counter lined with jars filled with brushes of all types and sizes, pens and charcoal and colored pencils. The counter was also cluttered full of cans of turpentine and solvent, linseed oil, which I used as an oil medium, wooden and glass palettes, palette knives and discarded rags. Next to it, an oversized stainless steel industrial sink was nestled in the corner by the windows.

  Leaning against the wall of windows were a variety of different sized blank canvases already stretched and primed. On the far wall across from us was a large mahogany bookcase stuffed with art, photography and nature books. I knew the matching armoire next to it was filled with miscellaneous sized sketchbooks and textured paper. Next to that was an oversized slouchy sofa covered with a worn navy blue slipcover.

  In the far corner, dozens of finished canvases were turned, facing the wall, covered dejectedly with a sheet. They wouldn’t be seeing the light of day anytime soon.

  We stood next to the table in the middle of the room and I could hear Dillon’s steady breathing and feel his warmth encompassing my hand.

  I put my free hand on the butcher block and ran an affectionate hand over the warn wood. Dillon reached out and brought that hand to his lips, kissing softly between my knuckles.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I didn’t have to tell him how monumental this moment was. He was well aware of how private I was about my work. “I’ve never brought anyone in here before.”

  “Thank you for sharing it with me, Livi.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t prowl around the room and paw at my things, but turned me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. Dillon’s kisses were always thrilling, but the fact that we were in my studio made it even more electrifying. It was a special kiss meant to show appreciation and contentment with a little encouragement mixed in.

  It worked like a charm and I was ready to start painting.

  I had Dillon stand by the windows, where his form was brought out clearly by the light. It was a little strange seeing him standing there, in the place where I’d gazed forlornly down at the city countless times before. Since I’d moved in, no one but me had ever been inside this room, but Dillon didn’t seem out of place. He just sort of fit. Then again, he was a chameleon that way. He could fit in anywhere and blend seamlessly no matter the surroundings.

  He had worked the ballroom at a charity dinner with the finesse and looks of James Bond. He had rescued me from the masses like a white knight dressed in a Hugo Boss shirt and Michael Kors tie. He had wolfed down a turkey sandwich, and then danced a sexy tango in my living room wearing jeans and a tee shirt.

  Dillon could make himself at home anywhere and my studio was no different.

  I had already prepared a canvas, so all I had to do was adjust my easel and start sketching.

  When I looked up from the canvas, Dillon pulled his shirt off over his head. Taut muscles stretched across his broad shoulders. His nipples were brown and I wondered if they tasted anything like his lips. His chest was so perfectly sculpted I couldn’t have painted him better myself. But I was going to attempt to anyway.

  “You don’t have to take your shirt off,” I told him.

  He shrugged and tossed his shirt on the sofa. “Just in case you get carried away and decide to paint more.”

  I held my bottom lip between my teeth. Now how was I supposed to focus on his eyes when his bulging chest muscles were staring me in the face?

  I wanted to run my hands over his shoulders and down his smooth chest. I wanted to scrape my fingernail over those nipples and feel them harden. I wanted to skim over his six-pack with my lips and down to…

  Dillon looked at me with a sort of half frown half smirk. “What is that look?”

  “I…I was just thinking about something,” I stammered. Dammit, he was too perceptive for his own good.

  “You spend too much time in your head, Livi.”

  I sighed and pushed my hair over my shoulder. “Yeah, well there’s a lot going on in there.”

  “You can touch me if you want to.”

  Wh
at was he a mind reader now, too? “How…?” I held a hand up against my pounding heart. Gulping in air, I looked at the walls to make sure they weren’t closing in.

  “It’s written all over your face.”

  “Am I that transparent?” I asked with a twinge of panic in my voice. Great, now I was going to have to start wearing a ski mask around him.

  “No,” he reassured me. “I’m just learning to read you.”

  I set my pencil down. It was impossible to hold it steady now that he’d broken into my deepest thoughts. “And you think I’m thinking about touching you?” My voice cracked on the last two words and I cleared my throat.

  “I know you’re thinking about touching me.”

  Goose bumps prickled down my arms. I crossed them over my chest.

  Dillon reached a hand out. “Come here,” he urged softly.

  I was a frightened animal and he spoke gently so as not to risk scaring me away.

  “Come here,” he pleaded.

  Oh no. I wasn’t going anywhere. My feet were firmly planted…Wait. Why were my feet moving towards him? Damn it. How was I supposed to remain in control when my body constantly kept deceiving me?

  My arms fell to my sides and I stepped around my easel and moved forward just close enough to take his hand.

  His eyes searched my face and he asked, “What do you want to touch?”

  Anything. Everything, my head screamed.

  “There.” I pointed to his abs, careful not to accidentally touch him with my finger. “I wonder how it feels where it’s all bumpy.”

  He smiled at my innocent description of the abs he’d worked hours defining in the gym. “Go ahead, Livi. Touch me.” He said the last two words on a breath, anticipating my slender fingers grazing his skin.

  After a deep breath, I reached out and traced his six-pack with my fingers. His muscles were firm underneath his soft skin. Warmth radiated from him and when I dropped my hand back to my side I felt cold again.

  “Anything else?” he asked when he could find his voice.

  I swallowed. “Here.” This time, I pointed to his cut line, the v-shaped area between his abs and thighs.

  His smile told me it was okay to proceed. A deep moan came from him as I slid my fingers over the sensitive area.

  When I pulled my hand away, I noticed the bulge in his jeans had grown. Sheepishly, I met his eyes, cheeks flushed.

  “See what you do to me?”

  “I did that?” My voice was hoarse.

  “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, Livi.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “You don’t have to. Just standing there looking me over is enough.”

  He looked down at my hand and my stomach hic-upped into my throat. Gently, he brought my hand to his groin. I cupped my fingers over him and could feel him straining hot against the zipper.

  I yanked my hand away and squeezed my eyes shut. “We can’t,” I told him. “I can’t.”

  “There are other things we can do besides that,” he said quietly.

  What other things was he talking about? Playing gin rummy, watching re-runs of M*A*S*H or, gulp, was he talking about other other things? Like…like I couldn’t even think about them without my cheeks turning flame red.

  He led me over to the couch and pulled me down next to him. We sat there holding hands and he looked over at me with darkening eyes. When he reached out to push a lock of my hair behind my ear, my tongue darted out to lick my lips. I had no idea what he had in mind. Kissing was about as much as I could handle up to this point. There were certain things I wouldn’t, no couldn’t do. I wouldn’t risk the humiliation whether I was paying for the experience or not.

  Dillon leaned over and kissed me ever so softly. His lips played with mine, teasing, tempting, before he urged my mouth open with his tongue. Gently, he caressed my tongue with his.

  I loved how Dillon kissed me like he had all day to do just that one thing. I needed to know that he wouldn’t push me or rush me into doing more than I could. It was important that he was content to just make-out like teenagers in the back seat of a car.

  For a while we sat there on the couch in my studio. Kissing, exploring each other’s mouths. I don’t know exactly how long because I lost track of time when Dillon’s hand began roving down my arm to my hip.

  He shifted on the couch until we were lying next to each other and I wrapped my arms around his neck. His breath was hot and moist in my ear as he planted kisses there and down my neck.

  As soon as he slid his hand under my shirt and up my back, I stiffened. Passion turned into fear. Fear turned into panic.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured in my ear, ignoring my reaction.

  I tried to relax, but now his other hand was sliding down my waist and over my hip and…

  “Dillon, please,” I warned.

  “Let me touch you.”

  My eyes pleaded with his. Don’t make me vulnerable.

  “Okay,” I said on a shaky breath. “But I’m not taking my clothes off.”

  “I can work around them,” he breathed.

  Underneath my shirt, his hand smoothed over my back, up to my shoulders and back down again. He slid up under the back of my bra and up to splay his fingers against my neck. Tenderly, he stroked my back, up and down.

  It was sort of like the massage he’d given me before, but this time there was nothing between our skin.

  Gradually, his hand moved around front and I sucked in my stomach. His thumb grazed over my belly button and up to the side of my breast. Instead of stopping, like I thought he would, knew he would, he continued up, his thumb slipping under my bra strap and over my shoulder.

  My nipples tightened and my breasts ached. He was teasing me. He’d been just inches from my nipple, but he’d bypassed it and kept on moving up to my clavicle. All the while, Dillon’s lips moved over mine, parting my lips so that our tongues intertwined.

  It was torture. It was blissfully wonderful torture.

  Again, his hand moved down my back, around to my belly and back up. This time, he finally cupped my breasts over my bra and skimmed his thumb over my nipple.

  I gasped at his touch. My nipple strained against my bra and I moaned into his ear.

  He moved his thumb over the hard bud like a windshield wiper and I thought I might come right there in my pants. The way my body was reacting, I had a glimmer of hope that Dillon just might be what I needed to climax.

  His fingers moved over my breasts and then back down to my stomach. When he reached my waist, he nudged his fingers under the waistband of my pants.

  I froze.

  “Livi,” he whispered hot in my ear. “I want to make you feel good.”

  “But what if I can’t…I don’t…” God, I couldn’t do this.

  “It’s okay. Just relax. Listen to your breathing. Focus on how your body feels. Hear your own heartbeat. Don’t think, just feel.”

  My biggest fear was that he’d work so hard down there and I wouldn’t be able to make it happen fast enough. Maybe I could just fake it and be done with it. I cursed his abundance of experience because he’d definitely know if I was faking it. There was no way out of this. But wasn’t it what I’d wanted all this time?

  Sure, but what I wanted and what I was capable of were two totally different things.

  It was then that I was forced to recognize the fact that I worry about the most stupid things. They seem so important at the time, but I wished I knew better than to work myself up over things that didn’t matter. But, the trouble was, I didn’t know they were insignificant when I thought of them. It wasn’t until later I realized the absurdity.

  “Is it okay if I touch you?” he asked, his fingers waiting patiently.

  “Yes,” I breathed. Yes.

  Slowly, deliberately, Dillon slid his hand into my panties. With his free hand, he held tight against my back while his other hand reached down and petted my achy swollen flesh.

  I gasped a
t how soft and intimate his fingers were. I clung to his neck, clutching his silky hair in my fists.

  “Mmm, your panties are so wet,” he murmured.

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but his palm cupped my mound, stilling me.

  He made an exasperated sound. “That’s not a bad thing, Livi. It just means you’re aroused.”

  “Oh.”

  “Say it.”

  I couldn’t say something that sounded like it belonged in a romance novel.

  “Tell me,” he whispered in my ear. “Please.”

  “You…I…I’m turned on by you,” I managed to say.

  That seemed to satisfy him because his hand started moving over me again.

  He slid a finger into my moist heat and then two. Meanwhile, his thumb was doing amazing things to my clit. All the while, he murmured words of encouragement in my ear. He never stopped stroking my hair. Never stopped holding me tight.

  I felt the sudden urge to pee but I knew I didn’t need to. I clenched my thighs together, trapping his hand. Instead of pulling away like I thought I wanted him to, Dillon pushed his fingers deeper.

  “Just let it happen, Livi. Don’t hold back.”

  I sucked in a calming breath and relaxed my legs. His fingers found the spot again and I felt myself pushing. Pushing and squeezing and trembling all over. Everything tightened and the intensity had me gasping and moaning.

  Suddenly I felt heavy and feverish like I’d melt down into the sofa cushion. Oh, and then I had to grab hold of the slipcover for fear of levitating right up to the ceiling. I went higher, higher, and clenched tighter. Pleasure coiled up and exploded through my body, releasing me into bliss.

  I grasped tight around Dillon’s neck and shuddered when he made me come. My body rippled as the euphoria shot me to the moon and set me back down again light as a feather.

  Dillon kept his hand still for a minute and kissed my temple, cheek and lips. My arms were numb, so I just snuggled into him until I could function again.

  When he slid his fingers from me, I shuddered at the empty feeling left behind. I buried my face in his neck because it felt good and because I was too embarrassed to look him in the eye after what I’d done. Had I made too much noise? Not enough? Did I take too long?