Drift (Lengths) Read online

  “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.

&
nbsp; “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.

  19 LYDIA

  No matter how long I spend with him, he surprises me in new ways all the time.

  I look around at the girls in my class, young, beautiful women who primped just for this class. A few weeks ago I laughed at them, looked down my nose. Thought, Sure, he’s hot. Seriously hot. But get control of your hormones, ladies. This is college!

  That was before he tied me to his big, silk-sheeted bed. Before he painted me nude and sprawled on his dining room table. Stripped me on the beach and dragged me into the ocean, where he didn’t stop touching and kissing until I came hard against him.

  Now I can’t believe there was a time I could walk out of this classroom with my back to him, without any plans to see him in the future. I assume that was possible because I had no clue how empty my ears were without his laughter. How cold my body was without his wrapped around it. How dull my conversations were before I was able to hear his ideas and watch the light in his eyes as he listened to mine.

  He is the last person I would have expected to fall for, and the only person I can imagine my life unfolding with. But not the person I wanted to plan anything with. Because what I feel for Isaac goes beyond planning. Beyond knowing.

  He’s freed me. It’s scary as hell, soaring up here with nothing holding me back. Sometimes I want to swoop back into the safety of the cage where I lived among gleaming bars, tucked away from everything wild and frightening and gorgeous as all hell. But now that I’ve spread my wings and felt the air rush under them, pressing me close to the sun and out over the open water, I could never seriously think about going back.

  He unlocked something in me and then threw the key away. The old cage can’t hold me anymore.

  “I’ve been inspired, class,” he says, his hands clasped behind his back. Every female in the room—along with several young men—lean forward and hold their collective breath, waiting. I press my hands to my cheeks, knowing his smile is all for me even if he doesn’t dare look my way. “The other day I showed you a slide with a beautiful work of art on it. One that inspired me early on in my youth. I spent a good amount of time with this.” He holds up a hand that holds a tiny laser pointer. He looks down at it, clicks it a few times, and lifts it up. “Anyone need a pointer?”

  A petite brunette in the front waves her hand. Isaac leans forward and underhand tosses the device. She catches it with a squeal, and I know that little memento is going to be some kind of cherished reminder of this class and the passionate man who’s leading it.

  He smiles at her, and my heart thuds. Not from jealousy. Isaac and I are entwined in a way that leaves me unworried about that; I feel sad that she’s clutching a tiny hunk of metal and hoping for what I have.

  All of him, all of his genius and warmth and sweetness. I feel incredibly, undeniably lucky.

  It’s an amazing feeling.

  “What I need to do is stop standing in front of what makes my heart slam in my chest without talking about it, telling you all how much it changed my life and why with every word I have—” He flips to the first slide and a gorgeous nude appears in soft light, surrounded by crimsons. “This is Titian’s Venus of Urbina. A Renaissance piece, commissioned for a great man as an instructional aide to his young wife. Here is why I gave the pointer away. I want to tell you a story about ho
w, as a young man, I walked into the Uffizi in Florence, and fell in love with the soft washes of cream and pink in her skin. And I don’t want to distance myself with that flashing red light. I want to dig deep and unleash my feeling about it, for you. With you.”

  He turns to look back at her. Only his profile is visible, but it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him look at anything other than a painting with that mix of obsessive reverence and excitement—except for me.

  Art and me.

  My heart flutters in my chest.

  “Look at the way she lies on this bed, on these silk sheets, her body bold and inviting. Up until this point gorgeous nudes were painted, but with modesty, my friends! They looked away. They covered their beauty. This Venus has eyes that ask a lover to move closer. Do you see the way her fingers are curled between her legs? Like she’s crooking her finger at you. Inviting you. Calling you to her, to touch her, to climb in bed with her. When was art ever so intimate before?”

  He does it. He crooks his finger and I grab onto the undersides of my chair to keep from getting up and going to him. I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

  He never looks at me. I know it’s on purpose because he’s patterned when it comes to eye contact, and he’s always followed the same basic map—maybe making more stops at my eyes than strictly necessary—every other class.

  This lack of looking is arousing in its own way. It makes my skin prickle, and it worries me. Because what if he looks?

  I will burst into flames right here, right now. No questions.

  “Mark Twain called her ‘the foulest, the vilest, the obscenest.’ I would like to invite him to take a swift raft ride down a long river.” He smiles, the class laughs. “But I think the open eroticism of Venus’s gaze may have been the issue. I cannot lie.” Isaac lays a long-fingered hand over his shirt, over his heart.

  I can guess how fast it’s beating by the frantic flicker of his pulse, and I want to come up on the stage and press my lips to his neck, over that explosive pounding. “So let me show you Manet’s answer to this and tell you, no shortcuts, no circling with a little red light, why I love this goddess even more.”