Beyond Me (17 page)

After about fifteen minutes, I noticed my skin was beginning to burn again, so I grabbed my drink and went back inside. Maybe I’d explore. I was sure James wouldn’t mind, and the house was so gorgeous, I was dying to see the rest of the furnishings and setup. I started on the ground level, peeking into an array of guest rooms, and a sunroom with comfy chairs and bookcases stocked with goodies. I browsed through the shelves, making note of the eclectic collection of art, classic literature, and philosophy, then strolled upstairs. Another bathroom with a spa shower, and what looked to be a media room, filled with high-tech gadgets, a big screen TV, and various speakers. Hmm, maybe we could do a movie night and snuggle up. The idea intrigued me. I kept poking around until I reached the last door at the end of the hall. The knob easily turned under my fingers. I stepped in and caught my breath.

It was more than a room. It was a studio filled with blank canvases, paints, brushes, and different-sized tables. The light poured in from the ceiling-to-floor windows, and the floors were some type of wood, covered with drops of paint in various colors. Fascinated, I walked to the row of paintings and studied the bold lines and colors attacking the white background. It was as if something shimmered beneath, dying to get out, and I narrowed my gaze, trying to look deeper. I wasn’t an art major or anything, but had taken a class in college where we went over the basics and famous art. This was unlike any style I’d seen. Who was the artist James collected?

“They’re mine.”

I spun around and almost spilled my drink. He stood behind me, watching me with a curious expression. His words took a while for me to process. “You did these?”

James nodded. They were mostly portraits, sketched out in bold lines with an array of backgrounds in shocking color. The mingling of charcoal with watercolors was new to me. I flipped through a few more, and began to recognize a pattern emerging. As I made my way through his work, I recognized the development from earlier years to later. There was a growing confidence and better technique. The last one took my breath away.

An old man sat by the dock, his withered hand holding a tattered newspaper, looking out over the water as if a memory had broken his concentration. His face held the lines of one who had loved hard and lost much. The gorgeous symmetry of old and young jumped out at me. Usually, portraits bored me—a line of people I’d never met and didn’t know—but James captured an element that made me want to know the subjects. As if I had already met them.

“These are amazing,” I said, shaking my head. “They remind me of something that should be in a gallery, not locked up. Have you ever tried to sell any?”

He walked over and stood beside me. “No. Don’t think I’m good enough. I never trained.”

“Crap, James, can you imagine what you could do with some formal schooling?” My eyes widened when I spotted another small stack of charcoal drawings in a variety of poses. “These too?” I asked.

“Yeah. That’s how I started. I was always sketching, doodling. I used to make comics for my friends in school. I spent a lot of time alone in my room, drawing to keep from getting bored.”

These sketches were simpler, as if he was building the basics of delving behind the surface of people. He had taken something definable in each of them, whether it was a soft look in their eyes, the clenching of fingers, the tilt of the chin. Each one spoke to me on a different level. I put my drink down on the floor and immersed myself for a while.

When I was finally done, I looked up. “You said you weren’t an artist,” I said quietly.

He jerked back. “I’m not. I like to draw and paint. I never sold anything. I never trained.”

“Why not?”

He let out a breath. “Because it’s a hobby. Because it’s ridiculous to think you can make a career out of something like this. Everyone has a crafty sort of thing they do in their spare time. Just because I’m rich, I’m not about to force someone to show my stuff.”

Bingo. The truth slammed through me. He was born to do this, but had gotten caught up in too many voices telling him he couldn’t. Not that I blamed him. After a while, when everyone tells you you’ll fail, you begin to believe it. Anger coursed through me at the total waste of his talent and his belief in everyone but himself. “James, you’re good. Really good. This is what you’re meant to do. No wonder you were strangled at your dad’s bank and Ivy League schools. You need to follow this.”

“Whatever. Let’s go eat.”

He turned, but I jumped in front of him. His pretended ignorance was a big fat lie, and I couldn’t take it. Not from him. “Don’t pull that bullshit with me,” I said. “Why can’t you admit this is what you want? You have the money to go to art school and study. You have no excuses.”

His jaw clenched and his blue eyes sparked. “Exactly! Do you think I want the world believing I bought my way into galleries or school because of my money? I could make a call and get connected with something just from my family name. I don’t want anyone’s charity, goddammit. I’m not
good
enough.”

I practically spit with frustration. “Did you ever even try?” His stubborn expression told me no. “Maybe you’d find out if you submit your work to them and see? Fuck the family name. Just don’t use it—make one up and satisfy yourself it’s on your terms. You never gave it a shot, because that way you’ll be safe. But you’re not safe, James, you’re just alone. Throwing parties and wasting time and looking for something that’s already here. You’re a fucking artist! Just be one!”

He fisted his hands and stepped back. I watched the conflicting expressions war for dominance, and suddenly, all that energy hit me like a sucker punch. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“I don’t know if I’m good! Jesus, don’t you get it?”

I got closer to his breaking point, almost scenting his rawness beneath the surface he gave me glimpses of. But I wanted more from him, dammit, I wanted everything he had, whether or not I had the right. “No, explain it to me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I let out a strangled cry in pure frustration. “Bullshit! It does matter, it all matters, but you’re being a coward by not admitting it. Just fucking tell me what your problem is!”

He gave a vicious curse. He seemed to struggle with temper that was more directed toward himself than with me, but it swirled with a raw emotion that turned me on. This was the James I ached for—his feelings and soul as naked to me as his body. The combination screamed sexual power. “What do you want from me?” he ground out. “Why are you pushing?”

I was breathing hard, aroused, and pissed off at his stubbornness. “What do I want? Oh, that’s right. Let me make sure not to demand too much emotion here. Let’s just keep it to fucking each other’s brains out, okay? Better now?” I knew I was taunting him, but I ached to push past his barriers, and when our bodies connected, all walls came crashing down.

His control teetered, paused, and crashed. “You want to know everything? All the touchy-feely bullshit? Fine—my whole life I had one fucking thing I dreamed of: making it in the art world, on my own. But if I don’t have
it
, and I fail, there’s nothing left. I shot my load and I got no backup. And won’t my fucking parents and friends laugh their asses off? You get it now? You happy?” His voice rose and crashed around me, full of naked and swirling emotions I never glimpsed before.

“Yes, I’m happy now. Now do something about it.”

He stared at me, poised on the brink, and then he closed the distance and hauled me into his arms. Blazing blue eyes locked with mine. My nipples hardened and I grew wet.

“Fuck this,” he muttered. Slamming his mouth over mine, he kissed me, his tongue thrusting into my mouth and taking what he wanted. I gave it back, pressing myself against him, digging my fingers into his hair and holding on tight. He bent me backward and swallowed me whole, until there was nothing left except what he gave me. My bare thighs scraped his belt buckle, and he ripped off his shorts, shoving down my bikini bottoms, and lowering himself to the floor. Our mouths never broke away, and I whimpered as I grew wetter, wiggling on top of him so I could get his cock deep inside me where he belonged.

He broke away and bit my earlobe. I shuddered. “Condom. Pocket. Put it on.”

I fumbled with the wrapper and rolled it on him. He gripped my hips and lifted me over him, my pussy dripping, my nipples begging for his teeth and lips and tongue.

“Ride me, baby. Ride me hard.”

I cried out his name as I sank down, taking his cock in one long surge. He buried deep inside me, and I panted for control, digging my nails into his skin as I fought for control. My hair streamed loose over his chest and he groaned, arching up so I was forced to take more. “All of me, Quinn. That’s good, so good.”

I moved in short spurts, adjusting to his length. Fire shot through my veins and heated me up everywhere. Frantic for more, I moved faster, working my hips, relaxing my muscles, and taking him completely. He controlled my movements for a while, but as I neared climax, I ripped his hands off me and rode him hard and fast and wild, not allowing him any control. He shouted my name and I felt myself coming, the pleasure squeezing me so tight I didn’t think I could take a moment more, but I kept coming more and then he followed me, my thighs gripping desperately for balance as every muscle collapsed in ecstasy.

I slumped over, breathing hard, and his hands settled on my ass. It took a while before we calmed down and I felt as if I could finally move. I managed to support myself on my hands and sit back up. He was still inside me.

“I love you,” he said.

I should’ve been shocked. I should’ve gasped, pulled away, and tried to decipher what had happened in four days. It was impossible to fall in love with someone so fast, right? I knew that. Yes, I had pushed him, but this confession was way more than I expected. We needed to talk and rationalize what we were doing, and figure out a plan. But nothing mattered anymore. Just the truth.

“I love you too.”

I lowered my head and kissed him. Sweet. Tender. My heart swelled in my chest, and I never felt more right about anything in my life. I loved James Hunt.

“Are you ready to eat?”

He’d said the words, but wasn’t ready for a long conversation and analysis of our options. Neither was I. I wanted to hold tight to the magic words, be with him, and not think of the future. So, I climbed off him and put out my hand.

James wrapped his fingers in mine and took me downstairs. Things would never be the same between us. And I was glad.

Thursday

Y
EAH.
I
T
was official.

I was whipped.

I watched Quinn chatter on the phone with her friend Cassie, going over their arrangements for their flight in case they didn’t hook up before. Since I confessed I loved her, we hadn’t left the house. We spent hours in bed, trying to top my record of how many orgasms I could wring out of her, and ordered in food so we didn’t have to break our rhythm. We swam, napped, and took long walks around the villa, but never ventured out to the bars or beaches or even the boat.

I didn’t want to lose any time.

I fixed her a Sex on the Beach and realized our week was almost up. She flew out Saturday afternoon, and neither of us wanted to try to figure out what we were gonna do. She had a year of school left. I was still a walking mess, with no future opportunity or job in sight. Did I really want to follow her off to Chicago like a puppy dog when I had nothing to offer? Would a long-distance relationship work? My mind buzzed with endless thoughts and worries, giving me a headache. I didn’t want to ruin a minute of her company, but we needed to have a serious talk. It was the third night in a row I had the same dream about her. We stood by the water, and Quinn reached her hands toward me. A small smile rested on her lips, and sparks of sunlight shot and reflected off the water, blinding me. I wanted to take her hands, but I was never able to lift my arms, and then she disappeared. I called out over and over, but it was too late. She was gone.