That guy just wanted an excuse to see you naked.”
She released my hold. “No, that’s not true. This is his interpretation of me. Jesus, Tex, that’s
very petty of you to say.” She hissed the words in my direction, managing to keep her voice to a very
low level, although she was shaking mad.
I pulled her back against my chest and put my arms around her so I could have full access to her
ear and she could clearly see the painting while I explained myself. “I know you’re an artist, and you
know art much better than I do, but I’m a guy, and I know the male head—both of them—much better
than you. Right now, I’m struggling whether to kick Florence’s ass or pat him on the back.”
“His name is Rome,” she replied, trying to keep her composure.
“Whatever. I’m not trying to be a jerk here. In fact, I think the idea was fucking genius as hell and
very creative, but then again, he is an artist. I’m just being honest with you when I tell you that this”—
I gestured to the painting—“has no resemblance to this.” I ran my hand down her neck, over the swell
of her breasts and down her trim waist. We were in a corner and the way I was hovering I knew we
wouldn’t be seen, not that I cared, but she would. Her breath hitched with my touch. “I know I’m way
too possessive of you, but it’s not something I’ll ever apologize for because I love you so damn much.
And the fact is, you are too free-spirited and look at the good in all people. It’s the thing I’ve always
loved most about you and the very thing that scares the hell out of me too. Do you understand?”
Her body was melting into mine, and I knew from the way she shivered it wasn’t from the cold.
“Rome wouldn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. He wouldn’t try anything.”
“Did you ever date him?”
“Is this your way of asking if he was my first?” She knew me so well.
“Maybe.”
“No, we’re just colleagues and friends.”
I was hoping for more information, like maybe who the first guy was. The fact that it bothered
me made me a douchebag on some level, so I kept it to myself. But my curiosity and resulting jealousy
generated from the way her eyes softened when she talked about that man as if he was very special to
her. “I’ll let it go, especially since you agreed not to pose again. You can’t blame me for asking,
though, since you’ve always liked artistic types. Isn’t that why you went out with Matt Sampson in
high school?”
She cocked her head, grinning at me. “I can understand why you might be upset about Rome, but
you really never had a reason to be pissed about Matt Sampson.”
“Why is that, baby?”
“He’s gay.”
I released her and spun her around. “Are you serious?” She nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?
You knew I was crazy jealous.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell. It was his and he trusted me with it, but I can tell you now since he’s
out of the closet.”
I pressed my mouth in a grim line, trying to make sense of what she’d told me. How did she
know that? She put her hand on my shoulder. “No, Tex, I haven’t talked to him. I just know it because
it’s on his website and Facebook. He lives in California now. I stalked him just like I stalked you and
Mandy.”
I nodded, chiding myself for thinking Sylvie would have revealed herself to someone else. I
relaxed and broke out into a smile, remembering my interactions with Matt. “You know, I threatened
him for asking you out. I wish I would have known.”
She turned toward me, with a sweet smile. “He told me. He thought it was cute you were so
jealous of him. He actually told me I could tell you if I wanted to.”
The conversation on the bench made so much more sense now. I’d always thought Matt had a
special bond with the girl I loved. In the beginning, it had made me jealous, but in the end, I’d actually
felt a kinship with him because of it. Like she tied us together. He saw her so clearly, like I did.
“Are you okay, Tex?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to brush her fingers through my hair.
“Why would he agree to that? Prairie Marsh isn’t exactly the most open community. It’s better
now, but back then…” I shook my head, imagining how the boys in my class would have made his life
miserable if they’d known.
“He said you wouldn’t tell. You were so different from the other boys, Cal. An old soul, like I
said. Undeniably devoted and generous, like Mr Darcy.”
I quirked my eyebrow. “Mr Darcy?”
She fiddled with my tie. “Yes, you know, from—”
“Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
.”
“You’ve read it?” she asked in surprise.
“Did you forget what I do for a living?”
She laughed, leading me by my tie to a vacant wall. “I guess I did.”
“If you’re going to compare me to a character in a book, I’d prefer someone a little more
badass.”
“Like who?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know… Jack Reacher or Jack Ryan maybe. Any Jack.”
“Maybe you’re a bit of both. A roguish gentleman who as it turns out cannot appreciate fine art.”
I bowed slightly, taking her hand and kissing it. “‘So this is your opinion of me. Thank you for
explaining so fully. Perhaps these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt
by my honesty.’”
She cupped her hand over her mouth. “Did you just quote Mr Darcy?”
“I did. You see I can appreciate art, but I prefer the written word to the visual experience. So
please allow me to paint a picture for you.” I cleared my throat. “‘I have faults enough, but they are
not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—
certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so
soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt
to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion, once lost, is lost
forever.'” I finished the Darcy monologue with another bow.
“Holy hell, that was hot.”
I stood, grinning at her, backing her farther against the wall, a hand on either side of her head, in
our own little world. “That turned you on, my love? Let me assure you, it’s just the tip of my
knowledge base. Would you prefer poetry? Maybe Keats, Wordsworth or Blake? How about the
female perspective? Emily Dickinson, perhaps? I know them all. I can sonnet you all night. And yes, I
use the term as a verb because the way I do it is an action.”
She waved her hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “All night?” she asked, arching her
brow, a sexy smile curling her lips.
“I have plenty of material. I hold a Master’s in literature, and words are my medium of choice.”
“I think you may have just mastered me, sir.”
I jerked my head toward the exit. “Shall we take our leave?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
We walked toward the exit. I took one more look around at all the various forms of femininity
around me. “Tell me, have you posed for any other paintings here?”
“No, this was my first and last foray as a model.”
“Good.”
“Relax, it could have been so much worse.”
“Worse than having a guy staring at your goddess-like body for six hours?”
She looked away shyly, a rose blush creeping up her cheek. “I’ll show you.” She took my hand
and led me to the far side of the room where we hadn’t been before.
A voluptuous blonde woman stood there next to what looked like a dressmaker’s frame, but
more detailed. It had a myriad of gold and silver wires forming the female upper body. “Caleb
Tanner, meet Jenna Stewart, the model for this sculpture.”
I shook her hand.
“This is Devon Bradley, the sculptor.”
He was a short man who walked with a cane and sunglasses. It took me a second to realize he
was blind.
“Nice to meet you both.” I stared at the woven wire form, wondering how he was able to create
all the bends and curves from such an unyielding medium.
“I have to feel the model and then I mold the wire to her shape,” Devon explained. I was glad I
hadn’t had to ask since I had no idea how to appropriately phrase the question. And I sure as shit was
relieved as hell that Sylvie didn’t pose for this one. I couldn’t deal with another guy looking at her
naked, let alone needing to touch her.
“Would you like to feel me up?” Jenna asked.
I almost choked on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“It’s an interactive display. You can touch it. If you close your eyes, and see it with your hands,
you’ll understand what a remarkable artist Devon really is.”
I stood dumbfounded, turning back to Sylvie. She smiled reassuringly. “Go ahead, Tex. This is
the only time I’ll give you permission to put your hands on another woman.”
“Yes, please. I’d love to get your take on it, Cal,” Devon said, hitting the pedestal with his cane.
I moved hesitantly, following Jenna’s directions. I closed my eyes and let my hands roam over
the structure. I had no idea how this man did it, but he made a hard substance like wire feel smooth
and pliable. I roamed up the torso and paused knowing what was next.
“The breasts are the best part,” Jenna interjected.
“I may be a layman, but this appears to be a very dangerous form of art. What do you call this,
Devon? The ex-boyfriend maker?” I asked, trying not to grin. They all laughed. “Are you trying to test
me, baby?”
“Nope, I just wanted you to gain an appreciation for this kind of art since it seemed to confuse
you before.”
I moved my hands up, lingering over the hefty hills that were there. Although I didn’t see them
clearly with all the wire, I definitely felt the nipples protrude. Shit. Devon Bradley was a damn fine
artist.
I opened my eyes and dropped my hands. “Very impressive,” I conceded.
“Thank you,” both Devon and Jenna answered at once.
We bade our goodbyes quickly, stopping only to find Rome so Sylvie could say goodbye.
As we made our way out, I noticed several men feeling the statue of Jenna.
“You are so right, baby.”
“About what?”
“I would be starting some fights in this joint if I had to watch other men grope you.”
“Don’t worry, I only like you groping me.”
“Well, let’s get home so we can get on with that. I would like to paint you too, you know.”
“You want to paint?” she asked, in surprise.
“Yes, very much so, but you won’t be my model, you’ll be my canvas. And I’ll be using my
tongue and hands in place of a brush.”
“I think that would be some art we can both appreciate.”
We ended up going back to my place. I let her walk in first. She took off my jacket and put down
her purse. I locked the door, leaning against it, watching her. When she turned back toward me, I
crooked my finger, beckoning her. I managed to take off my tie and start unbuttoning my shirt before
she took over for me. I plied her face with hot kisses, letting my lips glide down her jaw line. My
fingers searched her dress for a clasp, a zipper, a button, but came up empty.
“On the side,” she said with hitched breath.
“Damn, this dress is fucking torture.” I slid my hands down, but she moved them to the concealed
zipper. Women’s clothing seemed unnecessarily complicated. I moved it down, the audible sound
causing my cock to lengthen further. Was there a better sound than a woman’s zipper coming undone?
The dress fell in a swift motion, puddling on the floor, a pile of silk and lace, with a goddess standing
in its wake. My eyes drank in the sight of her gorgeous body. Long legs draped in black stockings,
garter belt around the slim waist, barely-there lace panties and a matching black bra containing her
heaving breasts.
Fuck.
I shrugged my shirt off, prowling toward her with lust running through my veins. She was right
there with me, moving back until her bottom hit the dining table. “Sit on it,” I told her. She sat on the
edge. I pulled her legs apart and took up the space. She undid my belt while I worked to free her hair
of every pin and clip that jailed it. I combed through the strands, shiny as spun gold and soft as silk. I
unhooked her bra, liberating her breasts. I slowly manipulated them, feeling them change shape in my
hands. “Lie back for me.” She complied, lying flat on the table while I stood before her, a hungry
predator surveying its delicious prey.
I removed my pants and boxer briefs quickly and stared at her spread across the table like the
most decadent dish I would ever consume. I slid my hands across her quivering body, flicking each
nipple, and coming down her waist until I reached those panties. I meant to remove them gently, but
my need was too great and I ripped them off her. She gasped in response. “I was thinking you weren’t
wearing panties. I never thought of you as a thong girl.” I held them up, hoping she owned other pairs.
If not, we’d have to go shopping…and really soon.
“I was trying to avoid a panty line,” she breathed, writhing beneath me.
I knelt down and began kissing the inside of her thighs. I wrapped my arms around her legs and
pulled her toward my lips. I rubbed my nose in her wet pussy, sniffing her arousal, before thrusting