Chapter ELEVEN
Elizabeth
I was seated in the bake shop staring at the canvas with a brush in my hand, waiting for inspiration to take hold.
I picked up the blue, then decided it was too blue. Then, after washing the color off the brush, I tried a soft green shade, but decided that wasn’t right either. After I trying several other colors, I finally gave up. All I could think about was him and our elevator sex. Was that really me?
I grinned to myself. That was by far, the sexiest thing I’d ever done. The minute he kissed me, I thought the roof was going to blow the fuck off. And those lips! That tongue! It should be illegal for one man to be so fucking hot. His tongue felt like heaven. His lips like a volcano. And even though we hadn’t actually fucked, that orgasm had been amazing. More than amazing. The best I’d ever had.
Just thinking about his dick. That hard shaft against my ass, begging for entry had made me want him all over again. Like now. I fucking wanted him now.
Focus. Focus.
Delilah. I so wanted to do her image justice. Dipping my brush into Laguna yellow and dabbing off the excess, I held it up in the air, letting the light shine against its it. I wanted the color of sunshine, but not too bright, simmering in the shadows around Delilah’s face. Was it the right color though? I couldn’t seem to put the brush to canvas, so thought not.
My panties started to stick and I wriggled against the chair, hoping nobody would notice when I reached below my skirt and slid off my panties so I could chuck them in my bag. I looked around to see if anyone noticed, but the girls behind the bakeshop were off in the kitchen. As for the rest of the crowd in the library, they were too far away from the bakery for anyone to notice. I started to paint a sunset, but my heart wasn’t in it.
I still didn’t know a damn thing about Damon Donovan except…
His tongue was magic. Soft. Velvety. Incredibly strong the way it tortured my tender folds, then shot inside my core as he twirled and teased me into submission. I let him do things to me I’d never let any other man do. Not even once. But Damon... He made me feel things. Exquisite dirty sexual things I’d never experienced before. I didn’t just see stars. I saw planets. Constellations. Whole solar systems, while he skimmed my fevered flesh with his lips, his tongue, his rock hard cock. I flexed my fingers, remembering that gorgeous head of hair cradled between my legs.
My muses. That’s what Delilah called men. Her muses. Was Damon my muse? Was he more than that? Was he more than just a beautiful cock?
After, and when he came up to my room, I found I loved being with him. Talking to him. Getting to know him a bit more. He told me how he’d been married, that she was a lunatic and he’d had to pay her off with a lot of money, that his aversion to liquor came after seeing too many patrons of the Cub lose their entire fortunes—and sometimes their families—how they made stupid decisions both personal and economical while intoxicated. He worked hard, and he believed in second chance love, although he’d never experienced it himself. When I heard him talk about bringing those inner-city orphans and homeless kids to the Club, just so they could swim and have some good honest fun in their dark lonely lives, my heart melted. I realized there had to be much more to Mister—Body-Builder-of-the-year—Donovan.
I tried to believe less of Damon to protect my heart, but as each day passed, it became harder.
He was simply a nice guy and skilled lover, I told myself. He was good for my art. I started painting more. As the painting took shape so did I. A little deviltry of the flesh to make my art better? He made me feel better too. Or maybe I felt better about myself. Was I using him? And me? Was I just a woman trying to heal? To dull the pain of my past? I’d loved my husband once. Even loved having sex with him and it had blown up in my face. Would that happen again? Was I really doomed like Jason made me believe?
Our time at the Delaney Club was almost spent. Soon, I’d be home and my holiday would be over. I needed to get my shit together. And soon. To stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with my life. I would to do something with my art when I got back home. I knew that now. I knew I needed to be productive. Maybe write a book. Who knows what the future held. But first things first. I needed to face facts. Time to give up on the whole happily ever after thing, or HEA as they called it in the romance genre. It was just a myth.—a story told to little girls so they wouldn’t run screaming in the other direction. Still procreate the human race.
I made a swipe at the canvas, going for a partial sunlight in the right upper corner. The color melded perfectly with the bright Mediterranean Spice and Ultra Violet I painted the previous day. It made me think of erotica. Dark, yet vibrant. Electrifying. Just like Delilah in her youth.
It echoed my mood.
My dirty, delicious mood.
Determined to use the vision of Damon for just what it was…a dream of perfect erotic bliss, my hands flew in all directions as I caressed my enormous canvas with color. I wasn’t quite sure if I should paint Delilah with clothes on or off—in the prime of her youth or today as I saw her. One thing I did know, I wanted it to scream Delilah the minute anyone who knew her saw it. How I would do that still needed to be determined. I found myself worrying about it. More so than about any other subject I’d ever painted.
Standing back from the canvas, the handle of the brush poised on my front teeth, a single word popped into my head. The word was red. Just…red. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew it had to be a sign.
I took out my sketch of Delilah. Unfolded it. I was about to pin it to the top of the canvas when I realized the canvas was still wet. “Better let that dry,” I said aloud. I still wasn’t happy with the background, so I gently placed the cloth over the canvas. I brought my wet brushes over to the lunch counter.
“Oh,” said the waitress. “Yes, Mrs. Delaney said we are to assist you in any way you need. Let me rinse those out back. In the pot skink.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“No trouble at all.” As she took my cups and brushes, I saw her glance at the canvas.
I smiled. “I’d show it to you but…”
“Oh no. I can wait. Really I can. I’m just glad someone around here is painting again. This used to be a grand place for painters you know.” She gestured in the distance to the library.
“Oh?” I said. “Were those painted right here in this building?”
“They were, and most by the same person. Well, except for the odd rare piece interspersed here and there.”
“Really?” I made a mental note to look at all the signatures on the paintings. There must have been a hundred or more.
She waved the brushes at me. “I’ll just take care of these for you. Be right back.”
I was going to tell her to place them on the table next to the easel because I wanted to look at the paintings closer, but she disappeared into the back room before I had a chance.
Deciding not to wait, I strolled across the floor, stopping at one painting, and then the other. While half of the paintings belonged to very famous painters, about fifty were actually from a local artist. Or so I assumed if he or she painted them in the Club however long ago.
I peered closer, careful not to touch a particularly abstract one of a beautiful blonde. The waitress was right. Hand scribbled in the lower right corner of every painting were the initials, DD.
Delilah Delaney.
Of course.
I moved around the room. Each painting seemed to tell a story. While one was absolutely breath-taking with color, the next one literally had death written all over it, and still another was of a little girl in what looked like a death shroud. I thought of my new friend. Naturally, at her advanced age, she would have lost more than her share of loved ones. Painting them would help her with her grief. But I couldn’t picture her as a morbid person. Instead of immortalizing tragedies for all eternity, I thought of Delilah as one to celebrate life. All life. No matter how short. Then again, what the hell did I know about Delilah Delaney? According to the bartender, she didn’t use her real name most of the time. She probably had secrets.
Gathering my art supplies after they were returned to me, I packed them in a satchel. I thanked the waitress, gave her a tip, and made my way out of the library. Before I got very far along the hall, I caught the reflection of something shiny up ahead. Two men were carrying what looked like a bunch of ropes, chains, and…Was that a disco ball? A few minutes later Damon and the blonde I’d noticed him with the other night appeared from out of nowhere.
My jaw clenched.
A sharp pang of jealousy squeezed my gut and the hair on my arms stood up. I thought of his tongue trailing up my leg and wondered if I was just foreplay….for her.
Get a grip, Liz! You aren’t even dating for Christ’s sake. Unless you can call raw dirty sex some sort of social arrangement. I took a deep breath, berating myself. This is what I got for having a conversation with Mr. Stud Fuck!.
What was wrong with me anyway? I gripped the side of the entranceway, hiding behind a poster, taking a much needed breath and willing myself to keep calm. I wanted to scratch her eyes, especially when I saw her kiss him on the cheek.
A group of businessmen emerged from behind me, all chattering about stock prices, the price of futures and whether their time on the golf course or private jets would be deductible in their taxes. I blended into the crowd, making my way past Damon and the blonde with my satchel held up in the air.
As I passed by the lovers, I watched their body language. Arms flailing, they seemed to be in a sort of heated discussion. Passionate. That’s what Delilah would call it. I wondered if she knew one of her employees was bonking two women on the same day. What was I saying? This in no way meant he slept with her. Still, they looked close. Intimate. Tears flooding my eyes as I rushed back to my room.