Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  It’s so Carson. There’s no clutter, no nick-knacks. Everything has a purpose. Two leather couches and Blackard chairs grace the living room that opens into a dining area with a massive Blackard dining table and chair set. The dining room wall is one of those retractable windows like you see at a gas station. There are a few area rugs, some exceptional works of art on the walls and a wood-burning fireplace that comes down in the middle of the living room. It’s simple, tasteful and very masculine.

  “It looks very comfortable,” I agree. “So have you brought a lot of your dates here?”

  “Why do keep bringing up my dating life?” Carson looks flustered by where I’m going with this.

  “You implied that Imogene and Lauren were making up stories. They said you’ve never brought women here, meaning the women you were or are dating. Is it true?”

  Carson smiles. “You’re here.”

  “You’re not dating me. Then there are Lauren and Imogene, they’ve seen this house and you’re not dating them, either.”

  “I’ve never brought a date here,” he admits. “It’s true. You’re the first.” He’s smiling when he says this.

  “Mmm, I suppose this is a date,” I say as I walk around the fireplace to the dining area. I stop and pause, staring at one particular framed painting. It’s positioned on a narrow wall between two large windows, a special exhibition space, a place where guests have to pass by it on their way to the dining area so they will notice this piece.

  It’s my painting, one of the originals I gave to Tom’s gallery last year. It’s a dark image of a man in a grubby suit and hat grasping a bottle of whiskey, shuffling through Bryant Park with his head hung low, surrounded by neon explosions of splattered paint and dancing girls.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” Carson says from behind me.

  “Did you buy my painting at Tom’s gallery or did Ginnie buy it and give it to you?”

  “I bought it. I was visiting one of our stores and stopped in at the gallery.”

  I’m still staring at my painting. “This was one of the first pieces that sold. I remember Tom calling me.”

  “‘Searching for Hope’,” Carson says.

  It dawns on me that he’s telling me the title of my own painting.

  “That’s right. It’s ‘Searching for Hope’, but I thought it sold with two other pieces.”

  “It did. I purchased those, too.”

  I turn around and stare at him in disbelief. He’s full of surprises and I want to kiss him. Not a thank you kiss, but a full on, passionate I’m-crazy-about-you kiss.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asks. “Let’s finish the tour and you’ll see the other paintings.”

  “I believe you. I’m surprised, that’s all. Dylan thinks my paintings are strange.”

  “Consider the source.” Carson reaches out and brushes a lock of my long hair back, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder as though he’s contemplating what to do next. “I like strange. I like different. I like intelligent, beautiful, smart-alecky and funny. I like it all.”

  I presume he’s describing me, yet I’m so muddled with opposing thoughts that suddenly the autumn chill forces me to pull my baby-doll cardigan across my chest. The thin material does nothing to warm me or hide the fact that I am nervous, though.

  Carson doesn’t miss a beat on reading my anxiety. He moves his hand back to my shoulder blade and propels me through the kitchen, highlighting every component that is made of recycled or sustainable materials. Sleek, modern appliances, bare counters and more poured concrete flooring.

  “The house is so modern, but it’s rustic at the same time. It’s really you,” I say.

  “I hired a good design team. A friend of mine does this. He knows me well, so I didn’t have to tell him to avoid anything with flowers and patterns.”

  “The kitchen is immaculate. Do you even eat meals here?”

  Carson laughs. “I can’t cook like Dylan, but I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sloppy Joes. Mostly, though, I depend on my housekeeper to take care of everything.”

  “You have a housekeeper? I don’t know any guys your age who have a maid. Unless they’re rich, I suppose, like my boss, Nathan.” I chuckle at the image of a housekeeper bossing Carson around in his own home.

  “Is she a stout, little, old, gray-haired woman who makes her own bread and cleans everything with white vinegar?”

  “No, she’s fairly young and strong. She’s Polish and blond. Her name is Talia. She’s here three times a week, cleans, does the laundry and leaves me dinners in the fridge. She’s great. And, yes, I can afford her.”

  I hate her.

  “You should hire her.”

  First he’s telling me how awesome this young woman is and then he’s suggesting I hire her? “You think I’m a slob?”

  “No, not at all, but you inherited a very big house and you have to admit you have some dust going on there. Gin’s housecleaner moved away a few months ago and she was going to hire Talia, but things happened. Gin died and I got caught up in finishing the work around the house; I forgot to mention the housecleaner to you.”

  “I can’t afford her anyway.” I sound a little miffed, not about hiring a maid, but about this fabulous woman in Carson’s home.

  “Yes, you can. Gin included it in the house maintenance money going into the checking account every month. You haven’t really used that account have you?”

  “Archie has been going over the accounts with me.”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t used the checking account Gin provided.”

  “I’ve been using my own. I have enough money and I am using some of the money that came from the checks Archie gave me when some assets were liquidated. Besides, my paintings are selling, in case you didn’t hear.”

  “Don’t do that. Save your money and use the money Gin left you. You’re making it harder on yourself.”

  “How do you know so much about Ginnie’s accounts?”

  “She trusted me. She had me sit in on the meetings with her and Archie when she was deciding how to set everything up for you. Let me talk to Talia about coming to your house at least once a week. Cleaning only. You can trust her and you can concentrate on your job and your painting. That’s why I’m suggesting her. You can focus on work instead of managing that big house. I need her to do so much here because I work long hours at the shop and, honestly, I hate doing laundry and house cleaning.”

  “Well, Carson, who doesn’t?” I lean against the cool concrete counter and admire the spectacular view of fall foliage behind him.

  “The view is something, isn’t it?” He grins. “You have to see the rest.”

  He nudges me and I follow him back to the hallway where we head up a suspension staircase with wires and clear glass panels so no views are obstructed. The second floor is really an extension of the first level with an open hallway that overlooks the living room, four bedrooms and a sun filled room that Carson calls the office, although it’s practically bare.

  I walk right up to my painting, “Laundry”, a scene of neighborhood residents at the local Laundromat and all the activities that go on while they wait for their clothes to wash and tumble dry. The clothes are emblazoned in more neon splatters, including some underwear with a super hero logo. All the people in the painting are drawn in black ink down to the tiniest detail. I smile nervously revisiting that one.

  “You don’t really work here.” I look at the Blackard desk and chair set with a lamp made out of some vintage mechanical equipment. Except for a few papers on the desk and a stack of books, the room is bare. One wall is another retractable window that opens the whole wall onto a large terrace. The terrace has bamboo flooring and glass panels as well as a set of chairs outside. The scenic view of the valley with its palette of red, orange and yellow colors is lovely and uplifting. “If I lived here I would drink my coffee out here every morning and my easel and paints would be all over this room,” I ramble it off so quickly before I realize
that I have embarrassed myself.

  Carson’s smile is kind. He regards me with a thoughtful expression and my instincts tell me that he’d like to say something, but for now he’ll keep it to himself.

  “Yeah. I should use this room more often.”

  I shrug and walk past him to look at the bedrooms. There are no feminine touches anywhere. It’s minimalism to the extreme; however, the rustic wood tones of the Blackard furniture and a few area rugs make the rooms warm and inviting. Carson also has some very fine paintings and sculptures displayed so they stand out. He walks quietly behind me, listening to my compliments. I start to wonder if everyone says the same things when they tour his house and if he is bored with the same reactions.

  I’m not paying attention when I walk into the last room and take notice that it’s Carson’s personal space, the master bedroom. The first thing I notice, other than one of his T-shirts tossed on the rumpled bed—Talia must not have cleaned today—is my other painting, my self-portrait titled, “Girl”. I painted it when I turned nineteen.

  The girl’s hair is a fire engine-red, the eyes, a little sad, are an unnatural brown with gold bolts, like lightening. The mouth is questionable; it’s hard to tell if the girl is about to smile or closer to crying. It was one of those pieces I almost didn’t let Tom have, but he insisted. And now it’s in Carson’s possession. In his bedroom, three feet from his bed.

  “In case you weren’t aware, that’s supposed to be me,” I say.

  “I figured. That’s why I bought it.” He shoves his hands in his back pockets and looks perfectly at ease.

  “You don’t think it’s kind of strange that I was seeing your brother and during that whole time you had this painting of me in your bedroom?”

  Carson shakes his head slowly. “Nope.”

  “Well, I feel weird. Actually, I don’t know how I feel. This situation is strange.”

  “I like strange, remember?” he says, smiling.

  “Okay, now I don’t know what you’re talking about, I—”

  “Relax. Jesus. I didn’t put this up when you were dating Dylan. I bought this painting long before you moved here. Besides, I’m the one who tried to stop you from going out with Dylan, remember that part? I knew that would be a disaster.”

  “Dylan and I would be a disaster, or you trying to stop me, would be a disaster?”

  “Both. Shit.” He laughs. “You’re so fucking analytical. I really do love that about you.”

  Goosebumps pop up across my lower arms, sending shivers through my whole body. I desperately want to whisper a very large number, but Carson is observing me, thoroughly.

  “I guess we’re done with the tour. I should go and get back to work.” I’m not very convincing since my feet haven’t moved an inch. I suck at first dates.

  “Don’t go. Not yet.” He steps forward, closing the small space between us so our bodies are touching. His arms circle around my back and, although Carson looks nothing like Dylan, the familiarity of the move and what follows, send a surge of remorse through me.

  “Carson, I only stopped seeing your brother a couple of months ago. This seems like a bad déjà vu.”

  “I’m. Not. Dylan.” It’s the uncompromising Carson again, the one that is intimidating and sexy at the same time. It’s the one I’ve had a crush on since my first day in Hera when I decided to settle for a more eager and attainable Dylan.

  “Why did you want me to see your house?”

  “Because Imogene and Lauren were telling you the truth. I’ve never brought any women here that I dated. The only women who have been here are my housekeeper and friends.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me that we’re friends?” Please don’t say yes. Tell me this is really a first date.

  “Ha! No. Obviously, I’m not good at this. I’m trying to tell you that I couldn’t bear it if you moved back to the city. Because… I’m in love with you.”

  I stare at his mouth, hanging on those words. “Uh-huh,” I mumble.

  “That’s why I tried to talk you out of going out with Dylan and why I had it out with you a few times at your house. Those weren’t my best moments. Not well-played in the least.”

  The heat from his body and the firm grip of his hands on my lower back makes me want to melt into his arms, to have the kiss I have imagined over and over, but it’s all a little too good to be true.

  “You didn’t try to stop me from dating Dylan because you were in love with me. You’d only known me for like a day or two. I thought you tried to stop me and Dylan because he was in a very precarious emotional state and you knew I could be the tipping point that threw him off edge again.” I pull my hands off his warm, hard chest and try to push back, but Carson doesn’t loosen his grip.

  “Jess, I was already in love with you then. When Gin talked about you, when I bought your paintings, I knew I was concocting a plan to be with you. That’s why I didn’t want my brother going out with you. Yes, he’s a fuck up when it comes to relationships and I didn’t want him doing that to you or himself, but I really wanted you for myself.”

  “That’s a very good answer.” My heart is racing as I relax my palms on his chest again, letting Carson come in for a crushing kiss. He pulls me in fiercely with his powerful hands and his mouth devours mine. His lips are everything I’ve imagined; soft and relentless. His tongue caresses my lips and sweeps around my mouth before plunging, dueling with me. My heart is beating so fast that I fear it must be audible to Carson.

  “I have wanted to kiss you for three hundred and sixty days,” he says between kisses. “How’s that number for you?”

  “I’m not sure it’s accurate,” I say through breathless pants.

  “It’s probably closer to three hundred and ninety-two days, which is when I bought your paintings.”

  He kisses me between my neck and collarbone. I let out a sharp breath from the electrifying sensation taking over my body.

  “Stay with me. Here,” Carson says, coming up for breath. “In my bed. Now.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble, being reduced to the same cave man dialect as him.

  Carson slips off my cardigan, then I fumble with removing my tank top and jeans as quickly as possible. He removes his shirt and I can’t take my eyes away from his spectacularly muscular arms and chest. I study his scars up close, which only add to his sexiness. His legs are not sinewy like a runner's; they are thicker, more powerful, like someone who does a lot of bench squats or tosses tree trunks for fun.

  I scramble backwards onto the bed with my panties and lace bra still on. Carson climbs over me, corralling me onto the middle of the bed. He is naked except for his briefs, which are bulging against me.

  “Let me be perfectly clear here,” he says with bated breath.

  My hands are all over his body, feeling his hard muscles as I listen to him.

  “We will not mention his name in this room again,” he demands. “This room is about you and me. Understood?”

  I nod eagerly and then a look of alarm must have passed over my face as he reaches into his nightstand and removes an entire box of condoms.

  “You must be very good at this if you think we need a whole box of condoms.”

  Carson laughs. “It’s never been opened. I hope they’re not expired.”

  I laugh as he struggles to be suave while he tries to open the condom with one hand and then his teeth since he’s still perched over me on his other hand. I grab the condom from him and open it. “Let me.”

  Carson’s expression darkens. Without taking his eyes off me, he pulls his underwear off. I look down and, once again, my inexperience shows. I blanch at the size of his erection, but not wanting to ruin the moment, I reach for him and begin to slide the condom on. He moans as I slide my hands down between his legs and stroke him then trail my fingers slowly up his sides and back down around his firm ass. He’s looking at me with unabashed lust.

  He follows my hands as I slide my panties off and wriggle out of them. Then his eyes move s
lowly up my body as my fingers unfasten the front clasp of my bra. My breasts are already perky, waiting for him. Carson takes in one ragged breath before running his tongue across my nipples.

  I open my legs and hold his cock, rubbing it against me, getting more wet with each stroke. Carson moans, yet doesn’t rush me. As he sucks on my breasts and circles my nipples with his tongue, I move his hardness in small circles against me, prodding a little inside and then pulling him back. We’re both losing control.

  He’s on my mouth again, kissing, using his other hand to pinch my hard nipples, which are straining along with my lower body that is dripping and trembling. I pull my legs up and wrap them around Carson’s waist to urge him into me.

  “Wait,” he says, gently pushing my hand away from the appendage I’m desperate to have inside of me. “I want you to be ready for me.”

  “Carson, I can’t get any more ready,” I moan.

  He begins rubbing my clit with the pad of his thumb and my eyes roll back into my head. It feels too good with him touching me. His tongue is sweeping through my mouth again and I feel his fingers go inside of me, swirling gently and then rubbing my clit over and over. I reach underneath him and stroke the soft skin under his balls.

  “Ah, fuck, yes,” he hisses into my ear. “I need you.”

  I grab his ass and arch towards him, pushing him inside of me. There’s no more desire to keep it slow when he enters me in one powerful thrust. I yelp with pleasure, but then he gets control of himself and thrusts in and out at a slower pace to make it last.

  “Carson,” I whimper.

  “I knew you’d feel like this. So good. So perfect.” He struggles to talk and I like that I’m causing this.

  I run my hands across all his hard lines. I can’t get enough of him and it feels as if he can’t push into me all the way. Either I’m too small or he’s too big. He doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are half closed and it seems he can’t decide whether to keep his mouth on my breasts or keep kissing me. I love that his smooth composure has collapsed and he’s as frazzled as I am.