Drift (Lengths) (19 page)

“What the
hell
did you just say to her?” Isaac snarls.

His angel face is frighteningly beautiful when he’s pushed to the edge.

“Isaac, Richard was just leaving,” I say calmly, half-standing.

Isaac snaps me a look that sets me back in my chair. It’s very alpha, very commanding. I bristle at it.

I also feel a heat tingle low and fast through my body.

“Richard can leave
after
he makes his apologies,” Isaac says, his voice so serene, it seems impossible that he’s saying those words as he’s strangling Richard with his own necktie. “Apologize to the lady, Richard,” Isaac orders, yanking up hard.

“Sorry,” Richard gasps, his bugged eyes looking at me and back at Isaac. A busboy is dashing toward our table yelling something frantic. “Sorry. Let me go!”

Just as the busboy reaches us, Isaac releases Richard, who slumps over, choking and rubbing his throat. Isaac kicks the back of the chair Richard’s sitting in. “No one told you to sit. Get the hell out of my sight before I beat the shit out of you.”

Richard’s eyes flash. I know he’s biting his tongue. I know he wants to ridicule me because my protector is so young and so violent. I know he wants to string my emotions along and yank my chain, enjoying the way I respond to him.

But he scuttles back like a coward, not even bothering to mutter his contempt for fear of Isaac, who still stands tall, his shoulders thrown back, his teeth bared, his eyes on fire.

“Was that your ex-lover?” he demands.

I nod, my voice lost.

“Get up.” He jerks his head toward the door, ordering me to it.

“Should we...should we get food?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

His green eyes never leave my face. He puts one hand out to help me up, but it’s not an offer of assistance. It’s a command to go where he tells me to go. “I’ll take care of you.”

I take his hand because I believe him. And because I want him.

I want to be taken care of by him right now.

He rushes me to his car and gets me in, then drives back to his place, where he’s wanted to take me for weeks. I kept wiggling out of it, I guess because I loved playing this game on my own turf. But he’s not playing by my rules anymore.

Or by any rules.

He leads me up the stairs, and I walk into his space, modern, simple, and full of light. So much light. Light radiates from places I never would have expected to find windows. I turn in a circle, my head tilted back, and drink it all in.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, tossing his coat on the chair, yanking his tie from around his neck, tearing his shirt from his body so fast, a few of the buttons fly off and ping on the floor. He twines his arms around my waist, his chest to my back, and whispers in my ear, “And I want you. Now.”

“Now?” I stutter, but he’s already pressing me down onto my knees, kissing the back of my neck, and undoing my bun so my hair falls over my shoulders.

“Now,” he says, reaching his hands up. He unties the ribbon that held the front of my dress tight and runs his hands over my breasts, massaging them through the fabric of my bra. Gently, he dips his fingers into each cup and pulls on each nipple, squeezing it between his fingers until my first moan breaks free.

“That’s it,
mi amor
,” he says, his mouth dragging down over my shoulders. He presses hard against me, and I can feel the length of his cock against my ass through our clothes. His hands leave my breasts and run up and down my body, grabbing at my hem and pressing it over my hips. His fingers lock around the waistband of my underwear, the tiny lace pair I put on thinking of him this morning.

He pulls them down to my knees and kisses along my back, the curve of my ass, and lower. I feel his finger slide deep, part my lips, and press in and out. He moans, dropping his head down, and then he’s not moaning out loud. He’s moaning against me. And licking. And sucking.

My arms shake and I drop my head. I rock back and forth on my knees. “Isaac,” I sigh.

His thumb glides to my clit and his tongue follows. His thumb works in quick, pressurized circles, and his tongue pets me like warm, sweet velvet. His free hand moves up and down, rubbing and pressing on my skin, wild and untamed.

Like he wants it all, all of my body.

All of me.

And I know exactly how he feels. I arch my back higher, press harder, spread my legs to give him better access. He makes the best of all the opportunities I give him, and soon his rhythm undoes me. I rock back and forth hard, loving how his fingers sink and spread so deep, he’s touching places that have long wanted attention. My body shudders and slicks wetter and hotter, and I unwind, unfurl, spill out, and scream my pleasure, not caring who might hear. He pulls his mouth away while I’m still pulsing and tremoring.

I hear the clank of his belt, the drag of his zipper, and feel him press the head of his cock into the slick heat he did such a thorough job preparing. He slides with a single, solid push, jerking my entire body forward. My hands ball into fists and I squeeze my eyes shut while my body adjusts to him.

“Do you want me,
corazon
? Do you want all of me?” he asks, his hands locked hard on my hips.

I spread my knees wider and lift my hips. “Yes! Please! All of you,” I whimper

He pulls back and presses into me, so deep I moan and cry out as he stretches me in a way that’s a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

“Good?” he asks.

“More,” I gasp.

He groans and begins to rock in and out, his fingers gripping on my hips until they bite. His pace is frenzied, and each stroke brings me closer to a breaking point I didn’t think I’d hit so quickly again.

“More,
please
, more, Isaac!” I beg.

He falls forward, his chest hot on my back. He leans his head down and catches my shoulder, biting with a gentle pressure that sends waves of need through me. His tongue laps at the place he bit, then works its way up to my neck, biting and licking, shocking me with tender pain and assuaging it just as quickly.

His fingers spread wide and press against my skin, up and down my thighs, cupping them and pulling them apart so he can sink deeper, harder, until I shake.

So hard my knees knock on the floor.

I buck. I try to crawl away from him, because what’s in me is stronger than anything I’ve felt before, and I don’t want it to loosen too much. I’m scared as hell to let it go.

He pulls me back, the tight flat of his hips smacking against the rounded curve of my ass. His rough hands, his long, strong cock, the nip of his teeth and glide of his tongue are all too much. I break into a million fragmented pieces.

My body sucks him close and douses him with a slick heat that only encourages him to drive harder, faster.

“Lydia!
Mi vida, mi corazón, mi amor
!” he gasps, and I let out a choked, strangled scream as my body gives out.

My arms, too weak to hold me up, slowly lower my body to the floor, but Isaac is there to lift me back up. His arms are crossed over my limp body, holding it tight as he plunges into me, deep, sweet, satisfying. And then he goes still and his muscles tense. He crushes me to him, and moans into my hair.

“Lydia.” His voice is muffled, but I hear two words. “
Te amo.
”

Before I can untangle what to do
—respond with the same words back? Pretend I never heard him? Say ‘thank you’?—he scoops me up and brings me to a large, neatly made bed and lays me on the mattress like I’m crafted out of china. His grin is devilish...mostly.

Am I just imagining the slightest hint of regret?

He kisses me deeply and opens a side drawer, tossing a pair of cuffs, a blindfold, and a riding crop on the bed. I smile at him. “Taking my advice? I know you’re a sex purist, but toys can be
very
fun.”

“You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever known. I’ll always take your advice. I’m going to strip you down, and then I want you to put your hands over your head like a good girl.” He picks up the riding
crop, slaps it gently on his palm, and winks at me. “Because round two is coming, and it’s going to last a long time.

It’s my nature to argue. It’s what I’ve been educated and trained to do. But when it comes to Isaac, who’s always so strong and sure and perfect, there’s no logic in telling him ‘no.’

So I don’t.

I strip out of my undone, balled-up clothes and stretch naked on Isaac’s soft bed, my hands over my head, watching as my Adonis of a lover tosses his remaining clothes and grabs the cuffs, looking at me like he wants to possess me.

Like he wants to seduce me.

Like he...
loves me.

18 ISAAC

It’s heady, having a woman this powerful cuffed to my headboard, the skin on her ass pink from the gentle lash of the riding crop, begging for me to remove the blindfold I tied over her beautiful eyes.

“No. I want you to feel. I want you to imagine your wildest fantasy right now,” I murmur as my hand replaces the crop, and I slap her just hard enough to make her bite her lip and suck in a pleasured hiss of breath.

A smile curves on her lips. “Are you insane? There’s no way in hell I could imagine anyone sexier than you, Isaac Ortiz.” She shakes her hips back and forth, brushing her skin against me so softly, it’s just the barest brush. And it drives me insane.

“Don’t,” I beg. “I want this to last. I want to do this all night. If you keep...ah!...if you keep doing that, I won’t be able to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to hold back,” she singsongs, stretching like a cat. “I want all of you. Now. And then I want to switch places. Let’s see how
you
like being shackled to the bed, whipped, and blindfolded.” Her voice is sweet with laughter.

I love that mix of innocent and temptress. “Being tortured by you is all I desire.”

I planned to go slowly, to bring us both to an edge we haven’t felt yet, but all that will have to wait. Right now, we’re both wound brutally tight with a need we can’t escape or ignore. So I don’t try.

Soon there’s nothing but the slide of our bodies against each other, our low moans, and the tangle of our limbs. Once we come, I unlock her from the bed, untie the blindfold, and look into the eyes of the woman I know I’m destined to love forever.

She twines her body around mine, and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A few hours later, I sit up, wide awake. I’m hungry for her again, but she looks so peaceful, curled on her side, one long, sexy leg thrown over the other. I run my fingertips along every bit of her peeking out of the sheets, then walk into my studio space and grab a canvas. I light a few candles to give the room enough light and begin working.

I’ve always prided myself on using proper technique when I paint. Maybe it’s been a way for me to distinguish myself from my father. Maybe it’s a way for me to calculate my worth, to do something I know can be considered quantifiably correct.

Tonight I let go of some of my oldest rules. I mix colors that don’t seem to make sense, unless you happen to be looking at the warmest, rosiest skin of a satisfied woman smudged with dark, flickering shadow. I make mistakes and smear over them. I loosen my linear aesthetic and drop my paintbrush, smearing color with my fingers, tracing her curves with my bare hands, the exact same way I do in life.

She moves. I don’t care. The painting moves with her, limbs overlapping, her mouth anywhere it wants to be. I wish I could paint her eyes and the warm, coaxing way they seduce. But the inability to see them just makes me more determined to show what I see, what I love about her and want to capture without basing my ideas on troupes that have already been done.

I’m only half finished when she moves around, stretches, and sits up, blinking sleepily. I put the canvas with the painting of her sleeping to the side and grab a fresh one.

“Isaac! You’re...you’re covered in paint. I mean it’s
all over
.” She smiles and looks down, raising her eyebrows appreciatively. Incredible how just her gaze can make me hard.

“One of the hazards of painting naked. It will come off when we shower later. Right now, I need you to keep your eyes on me.” I start messing around with colors for her them, but that winds up being easier than the shape. Too tilted and she looks a bit like a cat. Her eyes are a subtle, gorgeous almond shape, and I want to do them justice.

“You’re painting me?” she asks. A rosy blush colors her cheek and neck. I jump on capturing that before the bloom fades.

“Of course. Let the sheet drop,” I demand. I know when she blushes it sometimes extends low, to her breasts. I want to see that. Badly. Not just see it.

I want to paint it.

She curls her fist around it tighter, then tilts her head to one side and unfurls her fingers. The silk rustles down to her waist, and I do my best not to jump back on the bed just to make her moan.

Damn I wish I could paint her moans.

I do my best to show how her face looks when she’s moaning. I do my best to show all of her, and fall in love with the painting as she takes shape.

“What will you do with these?” she asks.

I shrug. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, will you display them?” Her fingers reach down for that bit of sheet again, and I realize she’s spooked about other people seeing them.

“I can’t share these with anyone,” I tell her. She looks up, relieved, then suspicious.

“Why?”

“Because men will fall in love. With you. And some of them will be better men than me. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold you, Lydia. I don’t know how I’ll be able to keep you with me, and I’m a jealous asshole. If other men saw these and wanted you, I’d fight like crazy. And then I’d have broken hands and no more career.” I smile at her, and she smiles back.

“And I’d dump you,” she says matter-of-factly. “Make no mistake. I like an alpha in bed sometimes, but I need respect. Always.”

I wipe my hands on a rag and set it on the stool, walking back to the bed. I crawl in next to her and she giggles.

“You’ve got paint all over. You’re going to ruin the sheets.” She leans over and kisses me, and I take the opportunity to yank her into my arms.

“I don’t give a damn about the sheets.” I kiss her deeply. “I give a damn about you, though. I was serious when I said I’m jealous. I never have been before. I’ve never felt anything so intense before I met you.”

She goes soft and pliant in my arms. “I know what you mean. I feel it too, Isaac. But it’s dangerous to get too attached to anyone. And that’s good advice for both of us.”

I back up when she tries to kiss me again. “Wait. Why?” I look at her, and her eyes are shaded with a dark something I can’t put my finger on.

“Richard was my lover. And he took me down. He ruined me in so many ways. I never want to do that to you. And I never want you to do that to me.” She runs her hands over my arms, but I feel a chill instead of the usual heat.

“Lydia.” I keep my voice gentle. “Richard was a fucking asshole.”

She laughs a little and shakes her head. “I know that. I do. But I trusted him. And he hurt me badly. Shame on me for not protecting myself better.” She swallows hard.

“No,
mi corazon
,” I say, cupping her chin in my hand. “No. Shame on him. Shame on him for not treasuring you the way he should have. I would never make that mistake.”

She gets out of the bed and pads over to the canvases, looking at them with her arms crossed over her chest. “These may be the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” She walks close to one, puts out a hand to touch it, and lets her fingers dip over the still wet paint. I love that the print of her finger marks the canvas. She looks at me, her eyes wide, her arms crossed over her chest, and her next words shake out.
“I stand in front of them, and I want to cry. I’m actually tearing up. My body reacts to them, and it’s not just because they’re of me. Your work is amazing.”

“It means so much to me that you like them,” I say softly, and if I doubt her words, I need only to look at her face. Tears run down both cheeks and her lips tremble. Her reaction is exactly what I would have wished for, and it’s as pleasant and painful as I expected it to be. “I have more. You’ve been my muse since the day I saw you in class. I felt like a bit of a stalker before, but now that you’ve begged me to be your sex slave
—”

She laughs, but
it’s muffled by tears. “I want to see them all. Every one of them. And I’m scared to.”

“Why?” I want to go to her. I want to hold her. But I don’t want our bodies to take over before I know the answer to why she’s frightened of seeing what she’s inspired. Seeing my best attempt to show her exactly how she makes me feel and the levels she’s taken me to. The bottom line is, being with her has made me a better artist, and I want to give her unequivocal proof of that.

“I know these are art. But they’re also
me
, Isaac. If anyone saw these, in public, there would be repercussions.” She shakes her head, her fingers running over the top of the canvas lightly. “And I hate that. I hate that I’m even thinking that way with you. But I have to protect myself. I have to make sure I take care of me.”

I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to do that anymore, because
I’m
here to take care of her. But I don’t know exactly how to get the words out. So I stand next to her and take the work that may be the best, most impressive of my life and toss it into the corner without blinking.

“I would
never
hurt you, Lydia. I would never see you worry for a single second. If you’re worried about the paintings, don’t be. I will get rid of them, forget about them. I won’t have them in private or put them in public.” I pull her into my arms. “The only thing that matters to me is you. And I would never betray your trust.”

She looks at me, then turns her head and looks at the painting. She wiggles out of my arms and picks up the canvas, holds it at
arm’s length, and examines it. “I didn’t realize you painted people. I looked up your work. It seemed more architectural. Modern landscapes.” She lets her fingers hover over the canvas reverentially.

“I did. I do,” I clarify, and then I explain what I’ve always been
loath to admit to anyone before. “I think my subject choice was a reaction to my father’s work. He spent years throwing his art up on cityscapes. Painting over doors and on walls, obscuring the lines and shocking people with images that didn’t fit the majesty of what he was using as his canvas. In my work, I wanted to show what he was bent on taking away from.”

She turns to me, her eyes shifting with a range of emotions I can’t lock down. “What I saw of yours is amazing. But it felt...restrained. This is very
—” She looks up from the canvas into my eyes, then back at the painting. “This is so incredibly...
alive
.”

“Of course.” I never have a problem with being naked, but right now I feel exposed in every way. A pair of boxers would be a blessing. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.” She places it gently against the wall and takes a few careful steps back. “You should paint this way all the time. You should stop thinking about your father when you paint.”

“I will.” I can’t tell her that the only thing that frees me from the oppression of painting in answer to him is painting her. I don’t want her to feel like she’s supposed to accept being my muse when the exposure clearly makes her uncomfortable. “But, right now, I think we should eat.”

I smile and lead her to the kitchen, where I will prepare a feast to woo her, to thank her, to keep her warm and safe in my kitchen for a few hours more. Because I feel like she and I are coming to a point where we’re going to have to throw down our intentions, tell one another what we honestly want from this relationship.

I know exactly what I want. And I know what I’m willing to offer.

But I’m not sure what Lydia will say. What she’ll decide. This was just one tiny example, but I feel like she may be pulling away faster than I can keep hold of her.