If my dad hadn’t royally screwed up by embezzling money from his company, I’d have gone to college, gotten an art degree, and would be painting full time. Maybe even own my own gallery where I could display my art and that of others trying to live their dream through art. Unfortunately for me, my beloved dad was put behind bars when I was only fifteen.
Mom and I had tried to make it work, and Dad didn’t fight the divorce when my mother had requested one after he’d been put away. We’d been doing well until one day she came home and introduced me to the new love of her life, Steve. I didn’t find anything wrong with Steve other than the fact that he had two daughters he time-shared with his ex-wife. And he lived in New Jersey, which was three thousand miles away from California and my dad, who I visited regularly. I couldn’t leave him. I was all he had left. I was the only person who didn’t hate him.
Mom didn’t understand. She wanted me to move to New Jersey, get to know Steve’s daughters, and be part of their big happy family.
“Leave this disaster, that man, and what he did to us behind! Start over. A fresh go at a happy life,” she’d said. Right then and there I lost her. Knew right down to my core that my mother had changed. What Dad did broke her in a way she’d never recover from. She wanted nothing to do with anything he’d touched. In the end, that included me, too.
So at seventeen, I filed for emancipation. Sure, it broke my mother’s heart and put a knife so deep into our relationship I still didn’t know how to fix it even nine years later. Our relationship now was one of obligation. She made the perfunctory calls on my birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I returned the effort by calling her on Mother’s Day and her birthday. We weren’t close. I hadn’t spent a holiday with my mother since she left the land of fruit and nuts behind, and I doubted I ever would again. Sometimes I wondered what she’d think if I told her I was getting married or having a baby. She’d probably congratulate me and tell me all about how perfect her stepdaughters’ lives were. Nothing I could ever say would matter. She’d had nine years to craft a new life with Steve. I was the one thing unsettled, but at least I lived a world away. She didn’t have to think about me, worry, or even care how I was doing. Even though I thought about her all the time. Daily. When I saw Monet with her daughter, Lily, I thought back to when I had that with my mother. At three, my mother hung the moon, too. At twenty-six, I could barely remember what she looked like.
The doorbell dinged. I froze in place as icy chills ran up and down my back. Atlas was here. A slow grin slipped across my lips. I could not wait to use his words against him. When he told me to take my clothes off yesterday, I almost died of shock. Then I noticed all the other patrons disrobing and the realization hadn’t quite hit me. It wasn’t until he’d said the words “naked yoga” that all the pieces fell into place.
I did what any hot-blooded female with a fiery temper would do. I removed my clothes and took the class, pretending I wasn’t at all affected, even though I was. Seeing his naked body made me feel perpetually wet. I wanted so badly to knock him down, hop on his cock, and ride him to the heavens. I even thought about picking up a man last night to relieve the ache, but I just couldn’t. Something stopped me. If it wasn’t Atlas, I didn’t want sex.
This was a new thought process for me, because I always wanted sex. I just didn’t always have the time to go out on the prowl. Plus, I’d convinced myself it was perfectly healthy to have a sum total of four to six sexual partners per year as a single twenty-six-year-old. I didn’t know what the average number was for a woman, but I figured if I only had one guy every two or three months, then I wasn’t technically a whore or even a slut.
The logic was made up to benefit me but hey, it worked when the guilt would seep in as I climbed out of a stranger’s bed, put on my clothes, and silently scampered back to my home to crawl into my own bed. I didn’t want any of my one-nighters to have my number or my name for that matter. To those men, I was simply Chelsi.
The bell rang again, breaking me out of my stupor. I looked at myself in the mirror hung over my bed. I wore a simple slip dress. Nothing impressive. It was what I painted in. Black, spaghetti straps, jersey cotton material with slits at both hips. That way I could straddle my stool and paint comfortably. I’d pulled my hair up into a messy bun. One stubborn curl kept falling out, so I pushed it behind my ear. I wore very little makeup usually since I taught sweaty yoga classes, and it would all melt off, but tonight, I’d put a bit more effort in. I’d lined my goldish-brown eyes with a soft plum, and I’d coated my lashes in midnight black, making them look a mile long. The room was warm, and my temperature was already high in anticipation of him arriving. I’d added a peach lip gloss that actually tasted like peaches, and I smacked my lips together. It would have to do.
I closed my eyes, took a breath, and opened the door. I was unprepared for the drop-dead sexiness that was Atlas Powers. He stood in my doorway, a bottle of red wine dangling from one hand, his keys in the other. He had on dark-wash jeans with a hole in the knee. A well-worn, apparently well-loved, Radiohead T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, the graphic on the front speckled from too many washings. Plus, the album it was from was older. Great band. At least we had that in common. Little else I assumed. Aside from the desire to bicker and bite one another.
“Hey, hotness.” He looked me over from head to toe. His head leaned to the side, and he brushed the bottom of his lip with his thumb, a move I was starting to connect to him and him alone. Sexy and so hot, the simple hand gesture proved he was not unaffected by me, and I was licking my lips and yoga breathing to prevent myself from jumping him. Regardless of what he thought, sex was not why I’d invited him over here. Though I wondered how he’d react when he found out the real reason.
I didn’t say anything, just watched him watch me.
“Can I come in?” He smiled, looking devastatingly handsome in his leather coat.
“If you must,” I retorted snottily, keeping up with our standard banter.
He chuckled and walked in. The room became infinitely smaller with him in it. The hints of leather, earth, and wind coalesced in the air around him as he passed by. I sucked in a full deep breath of his essence and closed the door, leaning against the wooden surface mostly to hold myself up while the raw masculinity that he exuded dissipated and evened out. He stood with his legs in a wide A-shape as he casually took in my place. It didn’t take long.
“You paint?” he said, turning in a circle around the room. There wasn’t much to it. One three-sixty spin, and he’d be able to catalog it and commit it to memory.
I pushed off the door and went to my small kitchenette. “Yes. Would you like me to open that wine?” I held out my hand.
His gaze was stuck on the corner where my easel sat. “My dad was an artist.” The words came out breathy and uncertain, almost as if he didn’t mean to share that personal nugget about himself.
I decided to give him that and change the subject. “Cool. The wine?”
He shook his head and handed it to me. I opened it, poured a glass for us both, and then handed him one.
“Thank you for coming. You’re really helping me out.”
His eyebrows furrowed, and he sipped on the wine before a shadow zipped past his eyes briefly, and he gave me a dazzling smile. “Oh, it will be my pleasure,” he said while glancing at my dress again.
I giggled, mostly because he had no idea what he’d inadvertently agreed to through text, and I had proof in the event he planned on bailing. Still, I wanted to enjoy the little verbal play on words a little longer.
“I take it you like my dress.” I quirked an eyebrow up and took a sip of the wine. It was a lovely red blend with plum and cherry notes and the subtlest hints of currant. He’d done well.
He grinned, leering. “I’d like it better off you.”
I hummed. “Would you?”
“Definitely.”
This was going to be so much fun. I could hardly contain my laughter. It bubbled inside of m
e, dying to get out, but I had to hold off just a little longer. “You first.”
He pouted and set his glass down on my wooden workspace. Then he removed the leather jacket and set it over my work stool. I’d have to move it when I sat down, but I wasn’t about to miss this show.
“Keep going.” I smiled and sipped my wine casually.
Atlas grinned, undid his belt buckle, the button on his jeans, and pulled his zipper down. Then he hooked his fingers around the hem of his kick-ass T-shirt and yanked it over his head.
My breath caught as his golden, muscled chest came into view. His body was ab-so-fucking-lutely perfect. Even that mop of crazy loose curls that reached the scruffy hair on his chin was beautiful. No. Adorable. He smiled, and I grabbed the desk to hold myself up. Those pearly whites, that honeyed chest with the rock-hard abs, the sexy V that dipped low where his pants were undone, all put together were going to be my undoing.
No. Mila. Get your shit together. You have work to do.
Yeah, like push him onto my bed and fuck his brains out. No, no. I shook my head, and he laughed.
“Talking to yourself, wildcat?”
“Um, no. Don’t mind me. Continue.”
He lifted his arms the same way he’d done in class, threading his fingers and clasping them behind his head. His biceps and forearms bulged with the effort. The musky hints of his cologne mixed with the leather and earth that must have made up his natural scent permeated the air like a trail of smoke from his body to mine. My mouth watered as his earthy male scent hit my nose and weakened my knees.
Get it together, Mila. Work. Think about how perfect he’s going to be to work on.
“I’m thinking you have an unfair advantage. I’m half-undressed and you’re still fully clothed.”
“Ah, there’s the rub. I never promised to get naked. You promised you would. Are you a man of your word?”
On that taunt, he curled his fingers into the tops of his jeans, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his pants and boxers to the floor. His cock stood at attention as if it, too, were greeting me. I licked my lips, and I swear to God, it bobbed right in front of my eyes.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Atlas growled, “Your turn.” His voice was sand and rocks rubbing together when he spoke. That sound grated against the arousal coating my thighs.
I waved a finger in front of him. “Nuh-uh. Go over there and sit on that stool.”
He clenched his teeth, and in doing so his jaw squared, giving me exactly the delectable effect I wanted to capture on canvas. He was the perfect temptation, the ideal visual I hoped to recreate through my art. I watched him. He flared his nostrils and inhaled loudly. One of his eyes was white-hot blue and the other a deep melted chocolate brown. I could feel the intensity pumping off him in waves of energy as he moved to the chair. Like his eyes, Atlas was such a unique man.
He sat, bare ass on the stool, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and hooked one foot on the bottom rung. Dead sexy. His cock protruded from between his legs in a graphic display of his virility. “All right, wildcat. You’ve got me naked and sitting for you. What are you going to do with me?”
I grinned huge, picked up my paintbrush, my colors already laid out, and adjusted the canvas so I had the perfect view of his body. I moved his jacket to the loveseat and sat on my own stool, allowing the slits in each side of my dress to ride all the way up to my hips, exposing premium amount of leg. I gave myself a few moments to just look at him. God, he was beautiful.
“I’m going to paint you.”
ATLAS
“Say what?”
She grinned one of those cat-that-ate-the-canary smiles and dipped her brush into a color, touched it to another, and swirled them together. “Are you deaf?”
“My hearing is just fine.”
Mila hummed and put the brush to the canvas. I could see her arm working in fluid strokes the full length of the canvas. Her gaze focused on mine, but I could tell from the glassiness of her gaze that she wasn’t seeing me. My guess, she was seeing nothing but angles.
“You initiated the conversation by asking me to come over and get naked.”
Her nose crinkled as she concentrated on the canvas and then on a spot below my waist. Her body was situated at an angle so that I could see all of her but very little of what she painted.
“I did.”
“And you knew I thought you wanted to fuck.”
That got me a chuckle and a smirk. “Yes.”
“And yet all you wanted to do was paint me?”
Her eyebrow rose, and finally, her eyes met mine. “That’s not all I want to do.”
I went to stand up, and her head jerked. “Sit down. Exactly as you were. I have to get the outline and as much as I can. My memory is good but not that good.”
Her panicked reply was enough to get me to sit back down. I shifted to make room for my dick. My slowly softening dick.
“Can’t you stroke it or something? Having you hard in this one would be perfect.”
“You want me hard?” I quipped so fast she gasped and looked down at my cock. Having her eyes there alone helped stir the beast to attention.
She nodded.
“Take your dress off. It’s only fair that we’re both naked. Otherwise, I’m going to get up and walk out.”
She stood and put one hand to her hip. “But you promised!”
I rubbed at my chin. “No. I told you I’d sit naked for you. This is me, sitting naked. Now if you want to keep me here, you’re going to remove your dress so that I can look at you and imagine wrapping your legs around my waist and lifting you up and down my cock.”
“Jesus. Must you be so vulgar?”
“Look, wildcat, you got me into this. You want to keep me here, you need to give me incentive.”
“Fine!” she roared. Her jerky movements and flattened lips did nothing to detract from her beauty. An angry Mila was just as smokin’ hot as a calm one. Hell, maybe even more so as she dipped one shoulder, allowing the speck of a strap to fall off and then the other. In less than a second, she was bare before me. As in fully naked.
I grinned and licked my lips, wanting to lick her instead. “You seem to have a surprising lack of underwear.”
Her head jerked back. “Are you complaining about me being naked when you just asked me to get naked?”
She sat back down on her stool, dipped her brush in her paint, and continued painting.
“Merely making an observation.”
Without breaking stride, she painted and spoke, “If you must know, I hate underwear.”
I laughed and ruffled my hair. She glared. “Sorry. It’s just funny. What woman doesn’t like underwear?”
She tilted her head and narrowed her gaze directly on my chest. “This one. They’re uncomfortable. And they almost always show panty lines.”
“Not a thong.”
“A thong what?”
“A thong doesn’t show panty lines.”
“Thongs are uncomfortable. A strip of lace or cotton shoved up your ass crack?” She bit her lip and got really close to the canvas before eyeing me again. “No woman wants to wear thongs. She does it simply for a man or her girlfriends.”
I lifted my head back and laughed hard. “A woman does not wear a thong for her girlfriends.”
This time she turned to me, opening her legs wide as if she didn’t realize she was bare-ass naked, and I could see right through to the heart of her. My cock hardened further, painfully even, seeing the lips of her cunt so pink and pretty. Ready to be licked, sucked, fucked.
“You’re killing me.” I groaned and fisted my dick.
Her eyes widened, and she looked down. Then she slammed her legs shut. “Shit! I’m sorry. Uh, uh, what we talking about? Oh yes, thongs. Girlfriends. Men don’t realize how women actually dress for one another more so than for a man.”
I hefted the base of my dick and held it tight while breathing through my nose. “Explain.”
She continue
d to paint, arching her spine, that damn tendril of hair falling across her face. I wanted to wrap my finger around that curl, sniff it, and take in her essence.
“Well, women care more about what other women are wearing, how they look in it, even how they look naked. It’s human nature. It’s almost like we’re checking out our competition for the male population so that we are secure in our place in the lineup to find a mate.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Mila shrugged, and the gesture made her small tits bounce delectably.
“I want to taste your tits.”
When I said that, she turned her head and took a slow breath. Her pupils were dilated, and her chest heaved, making the very object of my extreme desire sway again. I groaned.
“Atlas.”
“Tit. Mouth. Mine. Now. Or I’m out,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
“We shouldn’t.”
“We are. Right now. Give me your tits. Just a taste and then you can go back and paint.” Fuck. I could already imagine what they would taste like. Warm with a hint of salt.
She swallowed and bit the end of her paintbrush. “You don’t know how bad I need to paint. My dream…”
“Tits. Mouth. Now. I won’t say it again. Then I’ll sit here all fucking night, but I need something sweet to get me through.”
Mila nodded and then lifted off her chair. Her fingers trembled as she put down her supplies. Those hips I’d been salivating over swayed as she walked over.
When she was two feet away, I leaned forward, tagged an arm around her waist and lifted her up. She yelped and wrapped her legs around my waist. My cock rested just under her heat. Then I latched onto one quarter-sized brown nipple and sucked. And sucked. My cheeks hollowed out with the effort. Her fingers threaded through my hair, and she arched, pushing more of her breast into my mouth.
She tasted of cinnamon and smelled like roses. Keeping one hand around her lower back, I lifted the other small breast and tongued the tip. “Taste so fucking good. Like cinnamon gum.”
Divine Desire: A Lotus House Novel: Book Three Page 5
