The following day at the Youth Rec Center was long and arduous for Greer. Though she’d left Jamie at the police station with Chief Maguire, Hunter hadn’t seemed entirely satisfied. He’d kept to himself—tensely silent during the car ride home, curled in a ball on his side of the bed when finally they’d gone to sleep—and had been withdrawn all morning.
Her instinct to do, do, do, take action and be proactive had only worked against her in terms of connecting with Hunter so she gave up. No more pushing, no more coaxing, no longer determined to draw him out of his shell and force him to disclose memories he’d rather forget.
Though she knew they had been getting somewhere during their argument—at least Hunter’s anger had caused his emotional truth to emerge—the notion of picking up where they’d left off was so daunting that she decided instead to avoid him as best she could. He would come to her in his own time if at all.
She could only imagine where Jamie was. Had Chief Maguire connected with the boy’s aunt? Had Carol driven down from the northern side of Lake Tahoe to get him? Or had the chief driven Jamie back to the shack on Pond Road? She hadn’t called the police station to find out despite her curiosity and the anxiety it caused. As the hours ticked onward, her heart crept up her throat. But she kept telling herself it was out of her hands. She’d already done all she could and so had Hunter.
Clean up felt like torture, but she slogged through it—instructing the kids to tidy their stations, rinse the tools in the sink in the supply closet, cover the leftover clay with plastic.
By the time every last child had been picked up and the rec center was empty, she didn’t have it in her to rush off with Tasha and Jennifer and take advantage of all that Hope Falls had to offer. Tomorrow she would fly back to Los Angeles with Hunter for another art opening at a prestigious gallery, yet knowing she only had one more night in this quaint little town wasn’t enough to compel her to venture out.
Nothing centered her and quieted her racing thoughts like working on her own sculptures. The kids art show was in less than twenty-four hours and though she’d mentioned to Amy Maguire that she planned on showcasing her own piece, she hadn’t managed to find the time to create one all week.
Tonight was as good a night as any to sink her teeth into a brand new sculpture.
Fortunately or not, Hunter had the same idea, which she realized when he returned to the main room from outside and began setting up his station beside hers.
“You’re stealing my idea,” she teased, but was met with a wall of silence.
He dropped a fresh brick of clay onto his wooden pedestal and pulled his tee shirt up and over his head.
The way the afternoon sunlight was pouring through the windows and highlighting his muscular arms, his firm chest, the length of his toned abdomen only added insult to her injuries. She wanted to grab hold of his waist, run her hands up his chest, trace his lips with her fingertip, and kiss him...
But she might as well have been peering at him through a looking glass. He was a million miles away.
What could she do but use her sadness and frustration to create a powerful piece of art?
As they worked on their respective sculptures, she stole glances at him every chance she could, carving the lines of his perfect body into the mound of clay on her pedestal. At times she studied his sculpture—a few seconds here, a moment there—and as its shape took form she soon realized what it was supposed to be.
Her.
He wasn’t portraying her as a monster. There were no horns or fangs. Her likeness wasn’t devouring a man or child like most of his other pieces had depicted—cruel women swallowing the world around them. Instead his sculpture looked peaceful, alluring in its pose, highly sexualized yet bursting with innocence.
Nothing turned her on like being his muse, but knowing she couldn’t do a thing about it killed her.
Testing the waters, she asked, “What are you going to call it?”
In a flat tone he responded, “What should I call it?” without looking at her.
She remembered how they’d met, those long afternoons in her studio in Bushwick, how he’d modeled for her, his nude body draped on her couch. At the time, they’d gotten into a playful argument over titling their sculptures. Greer’s was called Old Flame and Hunter had high-jacked the sentiment, entitling his Brooklyn Flame.
She stared at him for a long moment until he met her gaze. She suggested, “What about California Flame?”
“I wouldn’t want to plagiarize myself,” he said.
“No?” she asked in a coy manner. “Only me?”
He cracked a smile, lowering his gaze to his sculpture and smoothing a palm full of water over its breasts to keep the clay slick.
She watched him for a moment, the gentle touch he used to moisten his sculpture, the particular regions he gave his attention to—the breasts, thighs, the apex between the sculptures legs—and said softly, “You’re making me jealous.”
He lifted his eyes to her and the darkness behind them brightened with a lustful glimmer, as he whispered in a deep tone, “You want me to touch you like this?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
Abruptly, he crossed the room and for a second she thought he might storm out of the building and leave her wanton and confused. But instead he turned the deadbolt, locking the door, and started back, keeping his eyes on her.
She stood from her stool, her breath quickening the closer he came.
When he pulled her against him roughly, having taken hold of her hips, she let out a relieved moan and draped her arms over his shoulders.
He didn’t kiss her, but searched her eyes, his expression clouding over.
Her hands were slick with clay, so were his, but neither cared as they began caressing each other—Hunter’s warm hands sliding under her tee shirt and up her stomach, Greer squeezing his muscular arms as if it was all she could do to trust that this moment was real.
“I don’t want to fight either,” he groaned before pulling her tee shirt up and over her head and quickly unfastening her bra. After discarding the lacey garment, he pulled her sharply against him then lowered, wrapping his mouth around her left breast. After suckling her, grazing his teeth over her skin and flicking her nipple with his wet tongue, he gave her right breast the same attention and said, “Some things have to be just mine.”
He was referring to his memories, the terrible facts of his upbringing, the darkness that lurked in his heart that no amount of time passing could brighten. How could she have thought it was her right to pry such a thing out of him? “I know,” she said, implying she wouldn’t make the same mistake in the future.
Popping the button of her jean shorts open, he said, “Good.” In the next moment, he tugged her shorts down over her hips and they fell to the floor.
She had braced his wooden pedestal for balance, which must have given him an idea, because he carefully lifted his sculpture off of it and set it on the ground just shy of the wall. She used the time to step out of her shorts and kick her shoes off.
When he returned, he spun her and bent her over the pedestal. The wood grains felt rough against her stomach as he held her down, pressing his hand against her lower back and using the other to trace the thin edges of her panties where they spanned her ass, her inner thighs, the curve of her vagina.
In a smooth, deep voice he said, “Don’t move,” and released her lower back in favor of grasping her hips. He took a moment to knead her flesh and the next thing she knew she was being aroused by the distinct sounds of him unbuttoning his jeans, pulling the zipper down, and letting his pants fall to the floor.
“Spread your legs for me,” he ordered and she quickly obeyed, widening her stance and feeling heat roll off of his genitals, warming her ass and her vagina, which he soon exposed, pulling her panties aside.
“Oh,” she exclaimed at the sharp stab of him penetrating her. She quieted, inhaling deeply, as he thrust into her.
When he filled her completely, having taken hold of her waist so she couldn’t squirm, he began grinding his thick, hard penis inside of her, using just enough pressure to cause her clitoris to rub against the wooden pedestal.
He was stirring up the hottest, most slippery friction inside of her and she immediately felt a sweet swell of tingles bloom between her legs.
Once he got her moaning, arching her back to urge him as deep as he could go and shifting her clit against the wooden surface of the pedestal, he began thrusting with long, firm strokes.
It was her undoing.
She relaxed into the rhythm of his quickening thrusts. Soon his hands were massaging her shoulders, grazing the length of her back, squeezing her ass, holding her waist to force her to bounce against his hips.
A sudden surge of slippery heat flooded through her and she cried out moaning, as sweat beaded across her forehead and along her back, causing her skin to sting.
Hungrily, he said, “I don’t know how to handle the power you have over me.”
“What?” she moaned, angling a glance back at him as he pumped into her. “But I don’t-”
“You do and I love it,” he groaned. “But it terrifies me.”
She couldn’t think straight, not with him working her into the throes of an orgasm. All she managed to say was, “I love you.”
“Greer,” he barked, pulling out of her. In a fast fluid motion he whipped her around and hoisted her onto the pedestal.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, as he penetrated her again—so fast and hard that she cried out at the sweet, surprising sting of his dimensions. He held her close, his arm cradling her lower back, and began thrusting in a tight, quick rhythm. She draped her arms over his shoulders and because of it her breasts brushed against the firm wall of his chest. Every inch of her felt like it was opening up with heat and mounting pleasure. Each breath was a moan. Every cell in her vagina was bursting with hot bliss in response to his hard thrusting.
If he’d intended to make a point, it was now that he finally finished it, “What I feel is bigger than love. It doesn’t have a name. It’s growing inside me. It’s changing me.”
Suddenly, her orgasm swelled and she cried out, going limp in his arms, as wave upon wave blossomed inside of her. In the next moment, she began clenching again and again around his hard erection, as he pumped into her harder and faster, bringing himself to the brink.
As he came, he held his penis deep inside of her and groaned loudly in her ear.
When finally their quaking bodies stilled except for their pounding hearts, she whispered, “It’s changing me too, but I’ve never been happier.”
He searched her eyes, their bond strengthening, and then kissed her.
That night, after stowing their sculptures in the supply closet and showering in their room at the Meadow View B&B, they met Tasha and Jennifer at JT’s Roadhouse for a game of pool, and in the hours of fun and laughter that passed Greer realized she had never felt more in love with Hunter Black.