by Ani Keating
“That’s it. I’m calling a break,” Javier says with finality, shaking his head. Good thing, too, because Mrs. Davis comes in, bringing snacks and drinks. I attack the ice with the desperation of an Eskimo in the Sahara Desert. After bread, salami and cheese, Javier puts me back to work.
I take my seat again, my eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. Instantly, every ounce of desire that was ravaging my body minutes ago vanishes. Thirty days. It’s excruciating enough to split them between Reagan, Javier and the Solises. How can I give even a single day to Aiden? And what happens if I do? Already, he feels fundamental somehow. If I let him in, will I be able to let him go?
“Okay, that’s it for today,” Javier announces, breaking my thoughts. I stumble up and stretch my legs, clutching my sheet to my chest as Javier stows his brushes away.
“Are you going to leave everything here?”
“Yeah. I have a few more sessions left before I go back to Feign. But I’ll sketch you first so you don’t waste your time with this.”
When he is finished organizing his supplies, Benson offers to take Javier home.
“Isa?” Javier looks at me. “Are you coming?”
I guess I knew he would ask. “I think I’m hanging out with Aiden tonight.”
A shadow of worry blurs Javier’s eyes.
“But I will see you tomorrow. And plenty after that, too, until—” I can’t finish my sentence because my throat constricts. And also because Benson is here.
Javier watches me for a long moment—searching my face like a map. I don’t know what he sees there, but his lips press slightly, his chin puckering.
“We need you too, sweetheart,” he says, and with a last nod, he darts out of the room, Benson behind him.
A choking gasp bursts from my mouth, but I gnash my teeth together. I run down the hall straight to Aiden’s bedroom, fighting the fire in my throat. My clothes are at the foot of the bed where I left them. I barge into the restroom, lock the door and put them on. On a whim I decide to keep my new knickers. Who knows what will happen tonight? Truthfully, I may be assuming things because Aiden has not asked me to stay. Either way, I’ll have a souvenir.
The idea of a night here unfolds before me like the American flag at the immigration office. I sit on the edge of the marble bathtub that looks like it could hold six people. The image makes me nauseous. How many women have been in this tub, sitting here as I am, perhaps feeling the same despair over Aiden Hale as I do? Can I be another number? Can I be something more? Even when the clock is ticking?
Instinctively, I grasp my dad’s watch and in that grip, two answers emerge from the chaos:
One, Aiden Hale is dark, maybe even dangerous. His warnings—the flickering lights, the thousand-yard stare, the physical distance, the anger, the violence that radiates from him at certain moments—are living proof of that hypothesis. The right thing to do is to leave him and spend every minute I have with Javier and Reagan.
Two, I can’t do that.
Chapter Eighteen
Timeless
I march out of Aiden’s bedroom, down to the living room. I have my eyes on my red flats, planning my next words, when I almost collide with him in the kitchen. He looks warm, giddy even. The anger seems to have vanished. This is the look that confuses me above all others. The sheer joy amid bleakness and isolation. Arrested as I am by him, I can’t help the grin that splits my face in two.
“You weren’t trying to sneak out, were you?”
“No, I was coming to find you actually. Probably a good thing I didn’t get far. Chances are I would get lost.”
He laughs. “Then I think it’s time for a tour. I didn’t have a chance to show you around earlier.”
“Maybe we can fit in a lesson on art interpretation too. You know, things like ambiguous pointing toes?”
He laughs again. “I may have to examine those pointing toes.”
The toes in question curl at the prospect. For a moment, I wonder whether I should press the art lecture but my eyes fly to the clock on the wall. Sixteen hours and fifteen minutes of embargo left.
His index finger comes under my chin. “No clocks today,” he whispers and wraps his hands around my waist, bending his seraphic face to mine.
The kiss is gentle and slow. His tongue traces my lips, once, twice, three times, four. He does not rush. My mouth parts in response and only then, his tongue comes in. His hands clutch my waist tightly. Suddenly the slow pace is not enough for me. I take his lower lip between my teeth and bite it like I have wanted to do since the flood in the painting room. He moans and fists his hand in my hair, arching my head all the way back.
He lowers his lips to the base of my throat. “This is the first part of you I saw in your painting,” he whispers. “I wanted nothing else but to kiss it.”
His lips flutter over my skin. I’m on fire. That warm pulse between my legs throbs until the rest of me is vibrating, inside out.
He pulls back and takes my hand. “Let’s finish that tour.”
He strides to the clock on the wall and flips off the switch. Then, he unplugs the microwave, the stove, the sound system. All the clocks. We stroll through the rooms, and wherever he sees a clock, he turns it off and kisses me. Hard kiss, soft kiss, long, short, bites, nibbles, blows, until the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the hardwood floor is his primal hold around my waist.
In the end, we enter his library. It rivals Reed’s Rare Books Collection. Mahogany floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, holding hundreds, perhaps thousands, of books. A hand-carved chessboard is set out in the corner. If I were not burning and the clock were not ticking, I’d sit here all night. He smiles at the awe that must show on my face.
“What are men to books and libraries,” he chuckles, modifying Elizabeth Bennett’s quote from Pride and Prejudice. So bloody clever!
“In vain they struggle. It will not do.” I spoil Mr. Darcy’s words.
He laughs and pulls me tightly to him. “In vain, indeed,” he says, kissing me in front of Austen and all.
On our way out of the library, I notice a calligraphy quill with a long, black-and-white feather on a shelf. A beautiful Amherst.
He notices my gaze. “A gift from my mother. She seems to think this is a manly pen. She bought one for me and one for my father when they were in Europe.” He rolls his eyes, but there is a tender ache there when he talks about his mother.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, thinking of my mum’s quill on my dresser. Like a last warning to step away from more loss. I push the thought aside and pick up the quill. It quivers like me. I caress his cheek with it, pausing at his scar. He takes it from me and runs it over my lips, my jawline, my neck and my collarbones. My breathing becomes shallow.
Feather in hand, he leads me out of the library and down the hall, finally to his bedroom. He unplugs his alarm and takes off his Audemars, pulls out the crown and shoves it in his dresser. His eyes are liquid fire. He saunters toward me with single-minded focus.
Every muscle in my body is coiled and tensed. The bottom of my belly is clenching with a dark, addictive ache. I am ready. I want this. He caresses my face, looking at me questioningly for permission. I can only nod and reach for my dad’s watch. I have not taken it off in four years but tonight is past-free. My hand shakes as I undo the clasp. Aiden wraps his hand around mine. I thought it would feel like my skin was being flayed but with Aiden’s touch, my wrist feels lighter.
When the watch comes off, we don’t stop it. He sets it gently in the dresser next to his Audemars. Then, he looks at me with a pure smile.
“Let the time stand still, Elisa.”
Chapter Nineteen
Masterpiece
The light of his bedroom is muted. No sound but the night and my loud breathing. He is close, very close. I smell sandalwood. Cinnamon. Aiden. I see nothing but him. And he h
as turned part beast, part man. The molten blue of his eyes stirs, melts, whirlpools, freezes and revives all over again, in some inner battle.
He caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers, along my jawline, until he reaches my lips. He traces my lower lip with his thumb and the edge of his nail scrapes my skin lightly, back and forth, back and forth. My eyes close, my head lolls to the side.
Then, both his hands frame my face.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers. I do, but my eyelids are heavy.
“Elisa, have you done this before?” His voice is low, almost part of the night. I can only shake my head.
“La virgen,” he mouths. “Are you sure you want this?”
This, yes. What’s coming later, no. I nod. Apparently the powers of speech have deserted me. His lips hover over mine. I feel his hot breath on my mouth.
“I should stop you, but I won’t. Because every day, every hour—awake or asleep —since I saw your first painting, you have haunted me.” His voice is on a tight leash, and the fire in his eyes rages brighter. One of his hands leaves my face and splays at the small of my back. He presses me against his body. Hardened, coiled. For me. He brings his mouth to my ear.
“I think it’s time I haunt you back.”
You already do, I want to say but I cannot find my voice.
His lips brush against my earlobe, feather-light like the quill that he has set on the bed next to us. He takes my earlobe in his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. My spine goes rigid and quivers like a strained bow. The knickers he gave me feel wet and cool. It helps my overheated skin.
He kisses underneath my ear, my jawline, my neck. His other hand fists in my hair and bends my head back so he can kiss my throat from the base to my chin and finally, finally, my mouth. I have missed him. His tongue is alive. It moves with mine, flesh on flesh. I reach slowly to wrap my arms around his neck and knot my fingers in his hair. It’s the familiar in the new.
He starts to kiss my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. I panic.
“Please, don’t kiss my forehead,” I whisper. I keep my eyes closed, afraid to see who knows what in his face. I know I sound mental but this would be the worst moment in the world to have a breakdown. His lips stop.
“Look at me, Elisa.”
I open my eyes, terrified that he will decide I am too messed up, too much work.
“Why do you ask me that?”
I swallow hard and manage a whisper. “My dad used to kiss me there. I can’t bear it. You can kiss me anywhere else you want. Whatever else you want. But not there.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, and his eyes turn unbearably soft. The sound marks a transformation. With a groan, he parts my lips with his tongue, and we are off. I realize abruptly that until now he was hesitant. But my words resolved whatever conflict he had, and now he moves with abandon.
He caresses my spine and cups my behind. At first gently, then hard. He pins me against his hips, and there it is, that part of him that wreaked havoc in my head all day today. He grinds against me, breathing harder. He tugs my lower lip with his teeth. It’s not gentle. It hurts, but it starts a frenzy inside me. I pull his hair and, without thinking, bite him back. My muscles tense under his hands as I turn liquid.
He grasps the hem of my dress and lifts it slowly. When it finally comes off, he throws it behind him so forcefully that it hits the back wall. I stand before him in my cream lace bra that does not match the knickers he bought me. It does not seem to bother him. He takes a step back with a look of triumph in his eyes.
“You’re magnificent,” he whispers. “Even better than I imagined. And that’s saying something.”
Shyness should not be here but it is. I force myself to look at him, instead of down. He is wearing too many clothes. I’ve never seen a man naked before but Aiden Hale does not seem to belong in the same species as other men.
Uncertain that I can move, I manage a small step toward him. I lift my hands tentatively to his belt. The moment I reach for him, he wraps his hands around mine and whispers, “Start a little higher. Or this will be over much sooner than either of us wants.”
I can’t help my proud grin. It makes him smirk, humor back in his eyes. I start unbuttoning his shirt but my fingers are shaking. After the first two buttons, he sighs, grips my hands and rips the shirt off. Buttons fly everywhere.
“That should do it,” he says as if this is a normal way to undress.
It makes me giggle and squirm at the same time. That was… I cannot think of a word. Brain-frying hot? That’s the best I’ve got.
He is wearing a tight T-shirt underneath. It strains against every muscle like wrapping tissue on a present. I slide my fingers under the hem and take it off, hypnotized by the body that materializes one inch at a time. First, the hard edges of the V that disappears into his low jeans. Then the short dark hair that trails toward his navel. And every peak and valley of his abs, perfectly symmetrical. I stop and stare. I don’t know for how long but eventually a throat clearing brings me to my senses.
“Elisa, when you’re quite finished ogling my body, would you be so kind as to remove my T-shirt all the way?”
I look up at once, noticing that, in my awe, I abandoned the T-shirt. It is now covering his face and hanging limply down his back.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, heat burning not just my face but the rest of my skin.
“Not at all. You can ignore my face for my body anytime you wish.”
I pull his T-shirt over his head and his glorious face is mine again. I rise up as high as I can on my toes and kiss him on the lips. “Impossible to ignore this face,” I murmur against him.
He lengthens the kiss. I can’t resist sucking on his lower lip and biting it gently. His gasp makes me braver. I place my hands on his shoulders. His muscles ripple underneath me. He is breathing hard, but this breathing I know. It’s like mine. Fast and shallow. I drop my hands to his chest and then slowly across his rib cage, his stomach, along the waistband of his jeans.
I snap his belt open and unbutton him. Then I stop moving and stare shamelessly. What exactly am I going to do with the bulge that is straining against his jeans?
Don’t be ridiculous, he’ll guide you, I scold myself. I suck in a breath and unzip him. I slide my hands under his jeans and start taking them off, praying with my one rational brain cell that he does not get caught on something. I hear a hum from his chest, but he does not rush me. Perhaps he is letting me enjoy my first unveiling. I drop to the floor along with the jeans and slide them off his feet with his shoes and socks. Even his feet are attractive. I lean back, feeling like I just unveiled a sculpture commissioned personally for me from Michelangelo himself.
His legs have a light dusting of dark hair. My eyes follow them up until my head bends all the way back. The hard muscles rise up to the heavens. Or rather to the one and only heaven that has now captivated my entire focus: the snug dark gray boxers he is wearing. I rise up slowly, checking to make sure my legs can support me, and reach for them, running my fingers along the band where it meets his skin. He tenses and twitches beneath my hands. I gather the last bit of courage from the gnawing need in my veins, and drop his boxers to the floor.
He springs up as if he broke through a leash, blind to everything but me. Oh my fuck! A naked man is a whole different plane of existence. Utilitarian and beautiful. Lewd and romantic. And the only axis holding the contradictions together is now before me. Hot. Heavy. Hard. Present. The cock.
At that first sight, awe and everything else leave me. I become ruled by instinct. Male and female.
He is watching me, amused and hungry.
“It’s not that scary, is it?” he teases. “Trust me, it works out.”
I nod. He would know better than I. He takes the small step between us blindingly fast. In the same move, I am in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, and my bra is off. Maybe he
is a magician. Or maybe my bra melted on its own. Whatever it is, I can’t be bothered with it, because he is kissing me with a desperation I’ve never felt before. I give him back everything I have. I must have gotten it right because my moan mingles with his. His abs ripple against the hot wet spot between my legs. My lower belly trembles. I flex my legs around him, half-afraid of the motion, half-mad with need for it.
He walks the two steps to the bed and lays me on it, my legs on each side of him. He looks at me so intensely that my hands fly up to cover my breasts, but he grips them and shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he says. “Let me look at you. Not your paintings tonight. You.”
I can’t hide. Under his eyes, I feel like a woman. Not because my breasts feel tighter, heavier, but because a man is looking at me this way. I arch my back instinctively for his touch. But he takes the feather quill to my skin. I feel like a blank page.
The feather moves over my cheeks, jaw, neck, collarbone, shoulder, breasts, ribs, waist, hipbone, knickers and thighs. The trail of the paintings. He brings it back up, drawing other lines, blazing new paths. With every whisper of the feather, I turn more incandescent.
“I knew it. Not a single mark anywhere else,” he says as the feather traces circles around the three freckles on my hip. He switches between the feather and the tip of the quill. Soft and hard, smooth and sharp. Drawing circles around my nipples, over my breasts. It feels like he is writing on me. I try to make out the letters, the words. I miss some. I get others. I. Mine. A.H. The trembles in my lower belly become tremors with a life of their own.
The feather trails up to my lips and flutters over them.
