by Tracy Wolff
It takes her even longer than it takes me. But eventually she stirs, pushing against me as she reaches down and picks up her panties. I pull up my own jeans even as I watch her wriggle that fantastic ass of hers back into her underwear.
I wait for her to say something, anything, to acknowledge what just passed between us. What I told her. But in the end she doesn’t say anything, just brushes a kiss over my jaw before walking around and climbing in the passenger side of the SUV.
Which is an answer in and of itself, I guess. I pour my guts out to her, tell her that I fucking love her when I’ve never said that to another woman in my life, and all I get is a kiss and a smile.
It’s a blow to the chest—hell, it’s a full roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. I have a million things I want to say, a million questions I want her to answer. But she’s already dodged—and in doing so, answered, the only one that matters.
And fuck. Just fuck. I knew that first day her name was a bad omen and fuck, was I ever right. From the time my sister died, I’ve spent most of my life refusing to hope for anything. And then Hope falls into my lap and turns the last twenty-six years of carefully avoiding emotional attachments to shit in less than a week.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
Saturday: Hope
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
The words are a mantra in my head, a storm beating in my blood, an explosion rocking every part of me again and again and again.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing Deacon’s face after I kissed him and climbed into the car without so much as acknowledging what he’d said to me. But what could I say when I was reeling with shock...and an unexpected happiness that I can’t quite ignore, no matter how much I try,
Deacon loves me. Deacon Loves me. DEACON LOVES ME.
I don’t even know what to do with the words, let alone the sentiment behind them. It’s been a week since I first walked into his studio. One measly week. Nothing’s changed in my life, or his, since I walked in the door of his studio. I’m still a starving art student trying to keep her head above water and he’s still Deacon freaking Vick, artist extraordinaire and the most complicated guy I’ve ever met.
No, nothing has changed at all, I tell myself as I park my car outside his studio. Even though it feels like everything has.
I’m an hour early. Not because I’m dying to face Deacon after I pretty much ran away yesterday, but because I was going to go crazy if I had to stare at the walls of my shitty apartment for one more second. In the end, sitting there wondering what he’s thinking, what he’s doing, what’s going to happen was worse than whatever could possibly happen once I confront him.
So here I am, wanting to get this over with even though I don’t have a damn clue what I’m supposed to say to him. Or even what I want to say. I mean, besides the obvious.
He can’t love me. He’s Deacon Vick, the man who lives, breathes, is art. The man who—for all intents and purposes—has never cared about a person anywhere near as much as he cares about his own creations. Why would he change that now? And why would he change it for me, when no one in my whole life has ever loved me? Not the way I want to be loved. Not the way I need to be loved.
If there’s one thing shuttling from foster home to foster home will teach you, it’s what you don’t want. And I don’t want to spend my life vying for Deacon’s attention—or his love. Especially when I know I’ll lose to his art every single time. No one’s ever loved me before. What the hell could someone like Deacon possibly see in me?
Sure, he likes to fuck me. I’m the first one to admit we have explosive chemistry. But love? He doesn’t love me, he wants me. But when that desire fades—and it will fade—where will I be? Desperately in love with a man who no longer wants me?
No fucking way.
“Are you going to stand there all day staring into space or are you going to get your sweet ass in here?” Deacon’s voice breaks into my racing thoughts. As I turn to look at him, I can feel my heart crawling up to my throat.
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s not for him to look so fucking normal standing there in nothing but a pair of faded jeans, his gorgeous abs and arms and chest on full display. There’s even a familiar look of impatience on that gorgeous fallen angel face.
As I stare at him—and the same old sardonic twist of his lips I’ve been greeted with every day that I’ve known him—I can’t help feeling like I’ve fallen into the twilight zone. Can’t help feeling like none of this is real. Or maybe, like nothing he said yesterday was real.
Which is what I expected actually, even as he said it. It isn’t that he really loves me, it’s that he was carried away in the moment. Blissed out from what I’m guessing might have been the best orgasm of his life—God knows it was the best of mine.
My stomach sinks at the thought and the little balloon of hope, and happiness, that I was carrying around deep inside of me sinks right along with it. Which is absurd. I knew it was too good to be true all along. I didn’t even want it to be true.
So why do I suddenly feel like crying even though I never cry?
So not going to happen.
Putting on my cockiest grin, the one I’ve used to hide every hurt I’ve ever had, I make a point of sauntering over to where he’s waiting for me. “I’m early. I didn’t want to disturb the genius at work.”
Deacon snorts. “Yeah, it’s a little too late for that.” Then, with that cryptic comment hanging in the air between us, he turns and strides toward the workbench he has set up in the center of the room.
I follow him—of course I do—and since I’m determined to keep things as normal as possible, I ask him the same question I’ve asked every day since he hired me. “Where do you want me?”
His head turns so fast it’s amazing he doesn’t get whiplash, and his green eyes are smoldering as they look me over from head to toe. Despite everything, heat rushes through me. I hate myself because as I hold his gaze it’s hard not to notice that there’s a distance behind the smolder, a space he’s put between us that was never there before.
It’s my fault, I know it is. But understanding that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
“On your knees.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, hating the way my voice trembles just a little. Hating even more how vulnerable I feel now that it’s obvious Deacon’s got all the power.
“You asked where I wanted you. I answered you. On your knees.” His voice isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. It’s...impersonal, I realize, and that’s why it’s so hard to recognize. Because Deacon’s been a lot of different things to me over the last six days, but impersonal isn’t one of them.
“My knees?” I repeat, when I can finally find my voice amidst all the regrets.
“Is that a problem?”
It’s all kinds of problems, because I wouldn’t have thought twice about kneeling for Deacon any other day—even the first day. But today, when he seems so far away from me?
But I’m not here for Deacon. I’m here for the twenty dollars an hour that will pay my tuition. As long as I remember that, I can do whatever he needs me to do.
I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor next to my feet. Then strip off my jeans, followed by my bra and panties. I do it all without looking at Deacon and still it’s harder than it’s ever been. Because, even though I’ve got my head down, I can feel him looking at me.
Again, it’s not that he’s watching me—God knows, I’ve spent dozens of hours with him staring at me this week. And he’s not being gross about it by any means. He’s being totally impartial, like I was any model and he was any artist. Completely professional, but it’s not what I’m used to from him.
And it’s not what I want from him.
But there’s no way I’m going to let him kn
ow how much his distance hurts me. Not when I’m the one who caused it to begin with.
So, after I’m naked, I pretend it’s any other day at his studio. I gather my clothes up, drape them over the nearest worktable, and then ask, “Where should I kneel?”
“Here.” His voice is cold, so cold that it makes me shiver a little as I walk over to where he’s standing.
“Here?” I ask when I’m right in front of him. There’s a large pillow on the floor at his feet and for the first time I realize it’s for me.
“Yes.”
I don’t say anything else, just drop to my knees in front of him. I sit back on my heels and clasp my hands in front of me, wondering if this is what he wants or if he’s looking for something different. When he doesn’t say anything, when he doesn’t reach over and start moving me into one position or another, I finally do what I’ve avoided since I started taking my clothes off.
I look straight into his eyes...and nearly gasp at the heat I find there. Gone is the distance of a few minutes ago and in its place is enough electricity to light up a city block...maybe even two.
I wait for him to say something, because surely no one can keep all that inside of them for long without exploding. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he thrusts his hand into my hair and pulls out the ponytail holder so that my curls tumble around my shoulders.
Despite everything, heat leaks through me, hardening my nipples and making it difficult for me to breathe. I know he sees it, know he reacts to it—there’s no way he can hide it when I’m kneeling right in front of him. But he doesn’t do anything about it. Instead, he turns and walks away, leaving me kneeling here in an agony of want I’m afraid will never go away.
He grabs a chair and turns it round, so that the back is facing me. Then he straddles the seat, sketchbook in one hand and charcoal in the other. “Let me know when it starts to hurt,” he says, right before he begins to draw.
Despite everything, watching him work is as incredible as ever. It’s thrilling to see the intensity that comes over him, the fierce concentration that takes him over in the entirety even with all the baggage littering the air between us.
Does he realize what he looks like? When he sculpts or sketches or merely stands around thinking about his art? The power, the beauty, the total and complete sexuality that flows from him to his work and back again? How it wraps itself around me until all I can see—all I can feel or hear or think about—is him?
He must not know, because if he did he’d understand why I’m so frightened. If I let him love me, if I let myself love him in return, what will it be like to be loved like that? So totally? So completely? Until it’s an all-encompassing thing that totally takes me over until there is no me separate from him and no him separate from me?
I have no doubt it would be wonderful. Have no doubt that it would be everything. Until he tires of me. Until he moves on to some other model or some other art piece. And then, what will I do? How will I ever recover? How will I ever go back to just being me?
We’ve only known each other a week and already I’m terrified that I’ll never be the same. How much worse will it be in a month or a year or even longer?
Just the idea of being with Deacon that long fills me with a wild joy...and just as much terror. How did this happen? When did he slip past my defenses so completely and become the first man—the only man—I’ve ever wanted to stay with. The only man I’ve ever wanted to go to sleep next to. The only man I’ve ever wanted to tell my secrets to and hear his secrets in return.
It’s a disaster. A goddamn disaster. Because, kneeling here, watching him watch me, I know that if he says he loves me again, I’ll say it back. I’ll give him anything he asks, everything he wants. It’s frightening to realize that, to realize what will happen to me if I yield to him as completely as he wants me to. If I give him what I’ve never given anyone before.
Will I simply cease to exist? This woman I’ve fought so hard to become? Will she just disappear? And if she doesn’t, will I even recognize whatever parts of myself are left when the fire between us eventually burns itself out?
“Hope, darlin’, where are you?”
I shiver as Deacon’s voice slips over me, around me, wrapping me up in a cocoon I never asked for yet want so much. I shake my head, blink a few times, and realize he’s stopped sketching and is standing above me again.
“I’m right here,” I answer, trying to sound flippant. But I just sound lost instead.
“I don’t think so. You’re never right here.” He sinks down next to me.
“What does that mean? I’ve been here every day. I’ve done whatever you asked—”
“And you always have one foot out the door. To be honest, it’s one of the things that attracted me at the very beginning. The fact that you could give as good as you got and that you never backed down.”
“And now you hate it, right? The fact that I won’t make myself weak for you?” I’ve heard it a dozen times from a dozen other men. It’s just never hurt before.
“Is that what you think of me? That I want you to be weak?”
“I don’t know what to think of you.” The words burst from me like an eruption. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“That’s just it. I don’t want anything from you, Hope. I just want you.”
His words scare me like nothing else ever has, not even when he told me that he loved me. No one’s ever wanted me before, not really. Not the way Deacon means when he says it.
“You don’t mean that. You just want to fuck me—that’s not the same thing.”
“You think I don’t know the difference?” He looks incredulous. “I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve fucked a lot of people in my life. I’ve never told one of them that I love them. I’ve never told anybody that, before you. I know what I want, Hope. And it’s you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I want to believe him, so much that it’s an ache inside of me. A gaping wound that grows bigger with each second I look at the sincerity on his face, the desperation in his eyes.
It’s a desperation that echoes my own. “How can you say that? You don’t know me. Six days isn’t enough time to love anyone.”
“So how much time is enough? A month? A year?”
I shake my head, fight the tears burning behind my eyes. I never cry and I’m not going to start now. “I don’t know! I just know...”
“That I can’t love you.”
“That you can’t know me.” Even as I say the words, I think of the picnic he made that suited me so perfectly.
“I’ve spent the last five days studying you for hours at a time. I’ve drawn you a million different ways.” He grabs my hand in his, pulls me into his lap. “You think I don’t see you? That I don’t see your ambition and your talent? That I don’t see the determination to blaze your own way and damn the consequences? Or is it that you think I don’t understand where that determination comes from? That the reason you’re so determined to do things on your own is because there’s a part of you that believes you don’t belong anywhere—or with anyone?”
I’m frozen, terrified. I’ve never heard my own fears said out loud before, never known that another person could see that much of me. “How?” It’s the only word I can get out, the only thought reverberating inside of me.
“Because I see you.” He cups my face in his hands. “I saw you the minute you walked into my studio and I’ve seen you a little more every minute since. And everything I’ve seen has made me love you more, not less.”
The tears are in my eyes now—I can’t blink them away. So he does it for me, leaning forward and pressing soft kisses to first one eye and then the other.
“I won’t hurt you, Hope.”
I nod, leaning into Deacon’s strength—because he’s here and because I need him in more ways than I’m ready to acknowledge.
He moves my legs so that I’m straddling him, lifts my arms so they wrap around his neck. “Tell me you believe me.” His eyes are narrowed, intense, powerful—all the passion I’ve seen him show for his work now focused completely on me. “Tell me you know that I’ll never do anything to cause you pain.”
My heart catches in my throat. “Deacon—” My voice breaks and I have to start again. “I know you won’t mean to.”
His eyes narrow even more while his hips surge powerfully beneath mine and I realize—for the first time—that he’s fully aroused. Huge and long and thick and more than ready to bury himself in me.
I move against him, but his hands clamp on my hips like a vice—cementing me in place. “That’s not what I said.” He thrusts again, this time so hard that he almost bruises me. I feel an answering heat uncurl deep inside. “Say it.”
I eye him disbelievingly. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound, trying to intimidate me into saying I know you won’t hurt me?” I struggle to get away, but he holds me firmly as he continues to thrust against me, the hard ridge of his jeans riding between my slit.
His eyes turn a stormy, sea-tossed green. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” He lifts and lowers me and the rough material of his jeans against my wide-open pussy sends rockets of sensation shooting through me. I curl my hands on his shoulders, hold on tight to ground myself as the pleasure starts to build.
He squeezes my nipples with calloused fingertips, his thumbs flicking over the hardened tips again and again. I try to move, to rock against him, but his hands are still clamped on my hips. He’s still in control and torturing me seems to be the name of the game.
“Deacon—” I cry out, a low and keening sound, as heat streaks from my nipples to my stomach. Down my spine, between my legs, into every part of me. “Come on...”
He shoves himself a little bit inside of me—jeans and all—and I scream, but can’t get away. Can’t get closer. Can’t do anything but take what little he’s giving me, helpless to control his movements or my body’s response to him. Helpless to regain control of myself or my fears.
