Page 25 of Volt
“I need a shower,” she says. “Would you care to join me?”
“If I ever say no to that question, I give you permission to shoot me.”
She gives me a peck on the lips and takes my hand, leading me toward the bathroom. This night has been one of the strangest but also most unexpectedly pleasant nights I’ve had in a long while. And as I watch her naked body beneath the spray of the shower, I feel myself stirring and I smile. The night’s far from over.
Chapter Eleven
Fallon
I awake to the smell of coffee in the air. When I crack my eyes open, I see Blake standing in the doorway to my studio. He’s wearing his jeans, giving me a glimpse of his taut body. His every movement makes a different set of his muscles ripple beneath his skin. He’s lean but toned, and I smile as I think about having run my fingers and tongue along every ridged muscle in that beautiful body last night.
Speaking of last night, I feel so sore it’s almost painful to move. It’s been so long since I’ve been with somebody that I forgot the myriad of places you can hurt after a night of vigorous sex. And make no mistake, Blake was very vigorous. Several times. I really enjoyed that he seemed unable to get enough of me. That he was insatiable and demanded more of me. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that desired or wanted before, and the mere thought of it right now sends a flush of warmth coursing through me.
I slip out of bed, doing my best to avoid groaning in pain—which is not easy to do since I hurt in places I’ve never hurt before—and slip into a thin robe that’s white with blue flowers on it. I pad down the stairs and walk over to Blake, slipping my arms around his bare waist and plant a gentle kiss on his shoulder. He turns and pulls me into a tight embrace, planting a fiery kiss on my mouth that makes me forget my aches for a moment.
“Good morning,” he says as he pulls back.
“It certainly is now,” I say. “How many women can say they’ve got a gorgeous half-naked man in their apartment making them coffee?”
He laughs softly and plants a kiss on the crown of my head. “I hope you don’t mind that I was admiring your artwork.”
I frown. “Not sure what there is to admire, but to answer your question, no, it doesn’t bother me.”
“Not sure what there is to admire?” he asks, sounding shocked. “I mean, I’m no art expert, but your work is… beautiful. Powerful. A bit on the darker side, but I think that’s what gives it that power.”
My cheeks flare with heat. I’m not used to being complimented on my work. But then, I’m not used to anybody actually seeing my work in the first place. I watch as he walks over to the painting on the easel and points to it.
“With this one, I like how you left everything so ambiguous, but at the same time, so obvious and clear,” he says excitedly. “The shape within the shadow and flame you painted kind of looks like a car and the fact that you’ve embedded glass and a vodka label into the work—it’s obvious what this is. At least to me. And I can tell it’s personal to you, which tells me one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Your parents. You lost them in a drunk driving accident,” he says.
I look at him, stunned for a long moment, unable to believe his perceptiveness. I rack my brain, thinking back to last night and the conversation the night before that, trying to recall whether I’d mentioned to him or not. I shake my head knowing I hadn’t. I never tell anybody that let alone a man who’s essentially a perfect stranger to me.
“H-how did you know that?” I ask.
“I put two and two together,” he replies. “Last night, you told me that they’d passed away. They’d both still have to be fairly young, given that you can’t be more than twenty-three or so—”
“Twenty-four,” I correct him.
He grins. “Twenty-four then. Still, your folks would have been fairly young. It seems reasonable that something terrible happened that took them both from you at once,” he continues. “And then I see this painting and it all just kind of fell into place.”
“Jesus. That is scary,” I say. “You are scary.”
“Just perceptive.”
“Most people aren’t that perceptive.”
He shrugs. “I’m not most people.”
He kisses the tip of my nose and walks to the kitchen. I stare at the painting again, still in stunned disbelief that he’d put that many disparate parts together to come up with that. I hear the coffee mugs clink together as he pulls them out of the cupboard.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asks.
“Uhh... two Splendas and enough creamer to make it white.”
“White? Why even bother with coffee then?”
