Chapter 31

GETTY

I forgot how much I missed this. How much I needed this. And it’s crazy to me that I’ve had no desire to paint over the past few weeks—even after the dinner with my father and the chaos with Ethan—until now, on the eve of Zander’s leaving.

Maybe that says a lot about where I stand now in my life. My father and Ethan can no longer affect me. But Zander . . . by the flurry and fervor in which I’ve lost myself to the bold colors on canvas, he most definitely makes me feel.

I’m just not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

By the looks of what’s taking shape before me, it’s an all-new thing. Instead of blended soft colors of a sunset over turbulent water, the painting depicts sleek lines and defined edges. It might be called abstract at best and crappy at worst, but my first attempt at a moving object is much harder than the fluidity of nature.

“Wow.” Zander’s voice startles me. The absence of the hammer noise outside had gone unnoticed, my earbuds falling out overlooked, while my work once again consumed me.

“You think?” I set the brush down and look over my shoulder at him where he stands.

“Yeah. It’s actually incredible.”

He leans in closer while I scoot my chair back to get a different perspective. I angle my head and stare at it through judgmental eyes. The outline is just enough to make out the image of an Indy car flying across the canvas. It’s blurry on purpose, but I’m still not happy with it.

“It needs work yet,” I muse as I shade and frame the image more in my mind. “It’s only half-done and I’ve never really painted anything so technical like this before, so who knows how it will—”

“Shush.” He places his hands on my shoulders and begins to rub at the knots from my sitting hunched over a canvas for however long I’ve been here. “Quit being so critical of your talent. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”

“Well, I’m glad, because I was painting it for you.” And I’ve never felt the need to paint anything for anyone. The thought ghosts through my mind. And all I can think is that I need to give him something to remember me by.

“Thank you. I love it already.” He presses an absent kiss to the top of my head, which causes tears I refuse to acknowledge to burn in my throat. Such a casual gesture from him but so very telling of how far we’ve come since that first night when we made a toast to us.

“What are you up to?” I let my head fall back some, his fingers magic on my sore muscles.

“I finished up a few things on the deck and just wanted to see what the world-famous painter was up to.”

My smile is automatic. How ironic that he brought up a memory from that night out when I was thinking about it too.

“Oh, and here I thought you were finally coming to have me paint that nude of you.”

His laugh is sharp and fills the room with the suggestion lacing its edges. “You were, were you?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I have the right paint to give you the look you were going for.”

“What look is that?” he murmurs.

“Pretty.”

I yelp out a laugh as he spins my chair around without warning to face him. He braces his hands over my forearms on the armrests and looks at me, eyebrows raised, a lopsided smirk on his face, and eyes darkened with desire. Our laughter ceases instantly. The air of the room quickly heats from the chemistry sparking between us.

My breath catches in my chest. My hands tense on the arms of the chair. His look alone is causing my synapses to misfire. But this time, I’m much the wiser.

I want to use the match to light the fire. I know how good his burn is.

“Say it again, Socks. Pretty please,” he murmurs against my mouth before dipping his tongue between my parted lips and giving me a quick taste of the hunger inside him before pulling away—leaving me wanting so very much more. “Give me a reason.”

My lips curl as he leans back. My nipples harden against the cotton of my shirt from his proximity. The heat of his hands on my arms burns in the best way possible.

“A reason for what?” I’m breathless. Needy. Desperate for him.

“To make you beg.” His smile taunts. The look in his eyes tempts me. The lick of his tongue between his lips does all kinds of funny things to my insides. The intent in his words has me pressing my thighs together.

And oh, how I want him to make me beg.

I feign nonchalance. Try to act unaffected, but it’s impossible when he’s standing over me and every part of my body is aching for his touch.

But I try.

“How would you make me beg?”

His laugh sounds deep and rich. “You think you can bat those gorgeous eyes at me, act like you’re all sweet and innocent, when I know exactly what you want and just how to give it to you?”

“How do you know what I want?” My voice is coy, lips pursed, as I look up and play this game with him.

He laughs again, but this time it sounds like his hands feel when they run over my skin: smooth with a hint of roughness and a whole lot of desire. “I was born to give you what you want, Socks.”

It’s my turn to laugh. My body hums with anticipation. There’s a hint of edge to the gleam in his eye and the sexual side of me he’s awakened really wants to test it.

“So. Damn. Pretty . . .”

His lips quirk. His eyebrows lift. His breath catches. He stands up ever so slowly, mouth sliding into a smile that’s part victorious, part devious. I wonder what I just awakened in him at the same time as I can’t wait to find out.

“Stand up,” he demands, eyes daring, fingers twitching as they hang by his side.

I rise slowly. My heart pounds as anticipation becomes adrenaline. He steps forward and doesn’t touch a single part of my body aside from the hem of my shirt as he pulls it up. “Lift,” he orders, and I comply without question.

The only break in eye contact we have is when the shirt passes over my face, but we instantly find each other the minute it passes. His breath feathers over my cheeks as he lifts his shirt over his head to match my state of undress.

“This isn’t about me trying to control you, Getty.” He leans forward and brushes a kiss to my lips, his voice a soothing timbre now. Hands behind his back, our bodies are only inches apart. “This isn’t about me getting off on ordering you around.” An openmouthed kiss on the side of my neck, the scrape of his stubble as he rubs his chin over it. “This is you handing over the control of your sexual pleasure right now.” The other side of my neck this time, no urgency in his voice, but rather he sounds like he has all the time in the world. “This is you trusting me, Getty.” He leans back from me and I swear the hair on my body stands on end just to try to reach out so I can touch him in some way. “This is you, giving me your body.” His fingers slide inside the waistband of my yoga pants. “Your mind.” Strong hands continue their slide down the outsides of my thighs until my pants and panties fall to the floor. “Your consent.”

I inhale a shaky breath. His words entice. Intrigue. Inflame. He wants me to let him have control when he knows I have issues, but he’s created a situation where my body is aching to give control up to him. And I know there’s no way in hell I’m going to say no.

Desire’s thick in my throat as he stands to full height and steps toward me. I hear the wheels of my chair as he kicks it to the side so he can stand behind me. One finger slides down the line of my spine. My back arches at his touch. My mouth gasps. My eyes fall closed.

The heat of his breath hits right at my ear. His voice feels like aural foreplay. “I was outside working on the deck and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to taste you. Dip my head between those tan thighs of yours and flick my tongue over your clit, work you up nice and good. Your-hands-pulling-at-my-hair kind of good. Then I’d slide down to your pussy so I can taste how goddamn sweet you are when you come.”

Dear. God.

“But a pretty boy wouldn’t do that. No,” he murmurs, teeth nipping at the lobe of my ear. He nudges my head to the side so he can run his tongue along the curve of my neck, then back. He then places openmouthed kisses from the nape of my neck to the other ear. “A pretty boy would lay you down, go through the motions to get you off, but he’d be too afraid to get dirty.” He draws the last word out, his voice low, raspy. And yet he still denies my body the touch of his hands. “And I like dirty, Getty. I like hands-on.” He purrs the promise despite removing his lips from my skin.

My body feels electric. Needing the connection with him. Desperate for him to make this current between us spark.

“I like my fingers slowly working in and out of your pussy, my mouth sucking on your nipples or kissing behind your knees, my dick rock-hard with wanting you, and my control holding on by a thread, begging it to break kind of dirty.”

My mouth goes dry. Between my thighs goes wet. This gentle, considerate lover of mine has all of a sudden turned into a man on a mission to seduce.

The old me, the one in designer clothes and perfect makeup, would have blushed at his words while secretly getting hot and bothered and would have mentally filed them away to think about later when she was alone. But the new me, the one he’s sexually awakened with his considerate touch and evident attraction to me, stands up and takes notice. She waves her hand frantically in the air and says, Pick me. Choose me. Do those things to me.

“Do you still want me pretty, Socks . . . or would you rather I be dirty?” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.

“Zander?” His name comes out part plea, part question.

“Begging already?” A soft taunt of a chuckle. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

He steps back behind me. Fingers undoing the clasp of my bra. The scrape of the straps down my arms.

“So damn beautiful . . . Come, sit down.”

I turn to meet his eyes, the steamy look in them seduction all in itself, before I move to where he’s pointing: an ottoman that runs along the foot of the bed. I sit dead center against a pillow he’s placed there, our gazes still locked as he kneels before me. When his hands finally reach out, they touch my ankles. The spark ignites at the apex of my thighs as he slowly pulls my ankles as far apart as possible, my knees falling against the seat.

My arms are next. He directs them to the top of the bed’s footboard, then curls my fingers in position around its edges.

“Keep them like that,” he warns as he stands, my body screaming in protest when he steps away from me. “While tying them there might be fun, I don’t think you’re ready to give me that much control yet.”

My body trembles at the thought. An excited fear I can’t describe but think I could handle if he was at the helm.

“Another time. That I can promise you.” He stands before me, eyes scraping over every single inch of me. Such a different type of scrutiny from what I’m used to. One that says I want to touch every single part of you. Take and taste and sate and claim until you can’t handle any more.

And while he’s looking at me, I definitely get my fill of him: his tanned chest, the happy trail that leads below where his jeans hang low on his hips, the bulge straining against the seam of the denim, his bare feet. When I look back up to meet his eyes, there’s a lift of his brow, a kind of you like what you see? smirk on his lips, and before I can find an adequate nonverbal response, my eyes are drawn back down to his hands.

With a methodical slowness, they start undoing his jeans, shoving them down, and he steps out of them. All six-foot-plus of him stands back up to full height, giving me more than an eyeful of every firm, rippling, desirable inch of him. My nipples harden. My breath grows shallow.

“I have half a mind to paint you like that. Just how you are. So you can see what I see when I look at you. Sexy.” He takes a step toward me. “Confident.” A step. “Beautiful.” Another step. “Innocent.” He’s between my thighs again. My face angles up to his. “But I’m not a painter, Getty.” He drops to his knees. “So I’ll have to show you in a different way.”

With eyes still on mine and his hands on his own thighs, Zander leans forward and slides his tongue between the seam of my sex. I can’t hold back a moan or the unabashed writhe of my hips. The eroticism of him watching me react to the devastation of that single swipe of a tongue is more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced with a man.

Even better, he doesn’t stop. Yet he takes his time. With tongue and lips and stubble all affecting me in different ways. His attentions make my muscles tense and every nerve ache and want and need, before he backs off and looks up at me with my arousal on his lips and a gleam in his eye. Just as fast, he’s diving back in to start the buildup all over again.

On the third time I’m so pent up with need that as he begins to pull his mouth away, my hands grip what I can of his short hair and hold his head against me. It’s his chuckle that reverberates against my sex, though, not his tongue like I wanted.

“Did you just beg, Getty?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know!” I’m breathless. Worked up. Desperate. And his laugh is not what I need right now.

“Do you want to know what happens when you beg?” My eyes flash back to his and the mewl falls from my mouth as his fingers find me, part me, and begin to work in and out of me. He watches my reaction for a few seconds until my head falls back as the sensations he’s evoking prove to be too much.

And then when he adds his tongue to the mix, it’s me bucking my hips into his hand and my voice begging for more, because if this is his type of punishment, then I’ll take it.

“Zander.” His name on my lips as my body climbs higher and higher. His fingers stroke. My nerves react. His tongue is godlike. “Oh God.” My hands tense in his hair. “Yes.”

And then nothing.

My head whips up as he leans back, uses his fingers to coat his cock in my wetness, and begins to stroke himself. Slowly. Adeptly. Thoroughly. Thumb sliding over the precum on his head before the palm of his hand slides all the way down until it hits the base. And then repeats the process all over.

This. This is the repercussion of my begging. He’s withholding my orgasm while making me watch him chase his.

And holy hell, I’m not sure if it’s much of a punishment, because I am so turned on by the sight of him, by what I do to him, by seeing my arousal on him, that I’m afraid to look away for a single second.

But when I force myself to take my eyes from his hand as it begins to pick up the pace on his cock, his eyes burn into mine. And that single look alone is almost as arousing as watching him jack himself off. Almost.

Especially as our gazes hold and the unmistakable sound of him working himself harder begins to fill the room. His teeth dig into his lower lip. His breathing speeds up. His head falls back and a guttural groan overshadows all other sound.

And I can’t help myself. I’ve never seen something so damn sexy or been so aroused in my life as I am from watching him. My hand goes between my thighs without thought. My fingers slip into my wetness before sliding back up and circling over my clit, already swollen and sensitized from his touch.

I fight my own need to close my eyes and fall under the haze of pleasure, because I know watching Zander is enough to help me get there. The sense of voyeurism has brought me to new heights of arousal.

The thought of getting off watching your lover get off does something incredible to me.

The visual before me and the emotions within me create a potent combination that has my breath growing shallow, my body aching, as I watch the strain of Zander’s forearm, the swell of his dick, his crest disappear between his thumb and forefinger before coming back out to his visceral groans. I falter momentarily and close my eyes under the ecstasy of the moment.

And when I open my eyes, Zander’s blue gaze looks back at me with absolutely no barriers between us. In an instant, every single boundary between us is erased.

Because letting someone see you pleasure yourself is almost more intimate than pleasuring each other. The veil is dropped. You’re completely exposed in a primal intimacy.

The moment he shoves up, I scoot my ass off the edge of the bench. The jingle of his belt as he picks his jeans up off the floor and digs in the pocket. My hand still circling my clit gently. The rip of foil.

“Getty . . .” The groan of my name is part Are you ready? and part warning he’s not going to last long. And it’s okay, because I’m so primed, neither will I.

“God, yes . . .”

I catch the quick flash of his grin, followed by a moaned, “Fuck,” as he parts my folds and slides into me without stopping, from root to tip. His fingers dig into the sides of my hips as he tries to hold on to some restraint.

But I can’t. Mine’s gone. I rub my finger over my clit, my hips lifting out of necessity to drag the crest of his cock over the sensitive bundle of nerves that are burning for him. And once he hits where I need him to, I begin to buck my hips against his to urge him on, to tell him what I need.

Restraint has snapped. Control lost. In an instant we’re a mass of hips thrusting and voices crying out and hands grasping and fingers digging. The room fills with a symphony of noises but ends with our both calling each other’s name moments apart as we succumb to the moment, to the challenge, and to each other.