Rough Sketch Page 5

  A small smile warmed her lips as her hand shifted to my dick, stroking me in long, leisurely pulls. "If you wish to join me, yes."

  "Little sparrow, I can feel your pulse on your clit. You're fucking right I'm joining you. I'm going to Maine. I'm going anywhere you go. That's how it's going to be."

  Her brows furrowed. "That's a forthright position, Mr. Guillmand. Announcing how we are to proceed."

  We. That glorious we. If I allowed myself a moment of wool-gathering, I'd be forced to acknowledge I'd never wanted for that we. Never inspected my life and came up with an empty space meant for a woman of Neera's caliber—or curves. Never desired permanence, never ached for possession.

  And here I was, wanting, desiring, aching—taking.

  With a sharp shove, I sent Neera sprawling on her belly. "Yes ma'am, Miz Malik. That's my position." I settled on my knees behind her and gripped her waist, bringing her luscious backside up where I wanted it. My hand met the heat between her legs. I coated my fingers in her arousal, painted it over her back channel before sliding one finger, then another, inside. "How do you feel about my forthright positions now, little sparrow?"

  Her hands fisted around the white sheets as she rocked back, meeting each of my lazy thrusts. That sight alone made my cock as rigid as a two-by-four, jutting straight at her as if I needed help finding my way home. "Left side. Middle drawer. Gray bottle, hot pink label."

  "Well, well, well," I murmured as I pulled open the nightstand drawer and retrieved the lube. "Prepared for everything, are we?"

  "I see your brash attitude doesn't concern itself with logic."

  Once I had the bottle uncapped, I drizzled it between her cheeks and over my cock. My hands moved as I readied us, but my mind was deep in the cave she'd unearthed inside me. I didn't know it was possible to experience this many powerful feelings for one woman—and experience them all at once. I wanted to know her, soothe her, annoy her, spoil her, protect her, see the world with her—and own every last inch of her body.

  "Me? Brash?" I shook my head though she couldn't see it. "That seems an exaggeration."

  She patted the mattress blindly until she found the Hitachi I'd abandoned a few hours ago, positioned it beneath her, and switched it to the lowest setting. My cock, shiny with lubricant and my own arousal, throbbed at the sight of her pliant and submissive in every way—but not at all.

  Another wave of sticky, clingy thoughts crawled up my neck and damn near strangled me as I pushed inside Neera. If I hadn't been preoccupied with pocketing the desire to drop some heady declarations on her, I would've made a fine mess of us both and come within thirty seconds.

  "If not for my preparedness, you wouldn't be fucking my ass right now," she replied.

  "That's how it will work. You'll be prepared and I'll pick the positions." My words came in quick, gasping punches as I thrust into her. "That's not going to be a problem for you."

  "Oh, it isn't?" she bit back.

  "No, Neera. You like me this way." I reached beneath her, fumbled with the vibrator until it clicked onto the next setting. A curse slipped from her lips and it felt like she was levitating. Like we both were. "And I like when you give it right back to me."

  I never went longer than a month without a project taking over my existence and though I hadn't known it until now, the same was true here. But this project wasn't a towering sculpture or myth translated onto canvas in the language of paint.

  This project was the most important art I'd create, and for the first time I had the pleasure of sharing my vision.

  Chapter Seven

  Neera

  Trompe l’oeil: a painting technique where objects are rendered with such verisimilitude, they force the viewer to contemplate the object's reality.

  Cole: I have many things to discuss with you when you arrive. I made a list.

  Cole: But if you ask me about the Monarch Project, I'll curl into a ball and rock in a corner. Fair warning. I'm not ready. It's not ready. Nothing is ready.

  Neera: No Monarch. Understood.

  Neera: I am prepared for everything on this list.

  Cole: That's your superpower. Anticipating the unknown and then kicking its ass.

  Neera: Speaking of the unknown…

  Cole: Now I'm nervous.

  Neera: No need to be nervous, though you should know I'm traveling with Gus Guillmand.

  Cole: Who?

  Neera: The artist-in-residence.

  Cole: Please tell me I'm not sitting for a portrait. I'm not so egotistical that I'd have a portrait painted.

  Neera: No, he's traveling with me.

  Cole: He's painting your portrait?

  Neera: Also, no. He is with me.

  Cole: With you?

  Neera: Yes.

  Cole: As in…WITH you?

  Neera: WITH me.

  Cole: Should I call over to the local inn for lodging?

  Neera: Not unless you're uncomfortable with us sharing your guest room, in which case, don't derail your focus. I will see to the arrangements.

  Cole: Oh. No, yeah, of course. Completely comfortable. That's cool.

  Neera: Thank you.

  Cole: Thank you for allowing me to observe this in action. The gratitude belongs to me.

  Neera: Am I to interpret that as you believing I was otherwise incapable of forming amorous relationships?

  Cole: I've never doubted your capability. You are audaciously competent with all things. I am, however, thrilled to find myself with a front row view of your personal life.

  Neera: We've worked together for several years. You've had plenty of a view into my personal life.

  Cole: That's a matter of perspective.

  Neera: Perhaps.

  Cole: Perhaps you're a closed book wrapped in chains and locked under ten magical spells.

  Neera: Thank you for that vivid description.

  Cole: Always. I can't wait to meet the lad.

  Neera: I believe he's older than you.

  Cole: Does that mean I can't refer to him as a lad? Because Owen convinced me to read a book about the Revolutionary War and in Alexander Hamilton's letters to John Laurens, he refers to the Marquis de Lafayette and George Washington as "the lads" and they were older than him. I checked.

  Neera: I am certain you did.

  Neera: Should I anticipate you at the airstrip?

  Cole: Yes. I've told the lads at the tower to expect your arrival.

  Neera: It's convenient, I see. Having your own airstrip and air traffic control tower.

  Cole: Best piece of land I've ever bought.

  I laughed down at my phone before locking the screen. I hated to lean on the stereotype but there was something about boys and their toys. In this case, my boss and the long-abandoned cannery he demolished and repurposed as a private airstrip. He traveled no more than once each month but he kept a full-time ground crew because he loathed the hour-long drive to the region's other private airstrip.

  Gus nudged my thigh with his knee, jerked his chin up in question from his seat opposite me on Cole's private jet.

  "My boss," I supplied, tapping my fingers on the table between us. "He's rather fond of the runway he's built himself."

  Gus nodded and returned to the sketchbook in front of him. It was angled up, away from my view.

  It seemed we were running short on conversation today. When night had given way to morning, all of yesterday's freedom and courage and attachment had gone with it. The power and connection I'd felt hours ago was now replaced with awkward rigidity.

  I'd slipped into checklist mode when I'd woken, busying myself with reviewing urgent issues and firing off messages while packing for this visit. I hadn't lingered in Gus's sleepy embrace or invited him into the shower with me. I hadn't spoken to him much at all.

  It wasn't that I didn't want to speak to him. I kept a tight routine each morning. Cuddling—and conversation—didn't figure into that routine. I wasn't convinced it should. We'd shared one glorious night and I hurt in the bes
t ways from it, but I couldn't up-end the order of my life on account of that night.

  Routines aside, the ordered, strategic side of me doubted this. I doubted we could translate our animosity into more than highly spirited sex. I'd doubted Gus's desire to claim a place in my life. More than that, I doubted this hate-filled fondness of ours was meant for more than a weekend.

  We were different people leading vastly different lives. We'd have our fun in Talbott's Cove and we'd burn bright for several days. Then, we'd return to the real world and burn out.

  I shifted in my seat as the jet taxied down the runway, the pulses of last night aching low in my core. A noise rattled through me as I struggled to find comfort, part moan, part yelp. And now, it was his turn to laugh. My cheeks—my whole damn face—heated at the memories. But I wasn't embarrassed. I was overcome.

  "All right?" he asked.

  "Very well, thank you," I lied.

  "Doesn't look like it," he replied.

  "Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Guillmand," I snapped.

  "That tart tongue of yours," he murmured.

  We stared at each other through takeoff, a silent exchange of heat and knowledge and mutual irritation. As we climbed in altitude, I battled the urge to antagonize him. This wasn't a healthy means of communication, even if it was entertaining foreplay.

  Gus tapped his pencil against his book's ring binding while he gazed at me, his eyes narrowed and a muscle ticking in his jaw. My belly swooped in response to that jaw. My toes curled, my chest lurched. His small, almost invisible reaction to me was enough to refill my courage, my power.

  That was when I knew, when I truly believed this wouldn't outlast the weekend. Taking this much pleasure in a twitching jaw wasn't the foundation of a solid relationship.

  Gus blinked away when the aircraft leveled off, revisiting his sketchbook. Not waiting for an invitation, I watched while he worked. He didn't appear focused, his gaze fixed on the windows dotting the opposite side of the aircraft while his hand moved the pencil over the page, seemingly independent from the rest of him.

  From this angle, I couldn't see what he was drawing. And I wanted to know. Was it mindless doodling? Did professional artists doodle? Did they call it that? Or was this how he created—without looking at his work? I had no idea.

  "May I ask what you're working on?"

  He blinked up at me and then frowned at the page, shaking his head. "Nothing." With a laugh, he added, "Oh, that's right. You're entitled to all my work. I forgot I'm on the clock." He mimed checking off a box. "Must complete masterpiece before noon. On it."

  "As I told you yesterday, that is not the case." I shot a pointed look at the pencil in his grip. "I asked because I was curious. About your work and—and how you do it. And I can't determine whether your comments are facetious or you aren't satisfied with this residency."

  He tucked the pencil over his ear. "You want to talk about the residency?"

  I folded my arms on the table between us. "If you'd indulge me."

  "You don't want to talk about how I can see your barbell through that shirt?" He glimpsed at my breasts before shaking his head. "I'd rather indulge in the story behind that than anything associated with the dancing bear portion of my existence."

  "I take that to mean you're not satisfied with the residency," I said. "How can I improve your experience?"

  He yanked the pencil from its perch and bounced the eraser on the table. "You could start by unbuttoning that blouse."

  I slapped my hand over his, stilling the pencil. "Give me five minutes of serious conversation and then I'll play your game for the remainder of the flight."

  "You believe this is a game?" When I didn't respond, he continued, "We're not playing, sparrow. It's not a game when it's the way you're wired. You love our tug-of-war almost as much as you love your structure and goals. As much as I love interfering with them."

  I ran the pad of my thumb over his knuckles. "If you know all about my wiring, you should know I don't stop until I've met my goals." I dragged my fingers over the back of his hand. "And you, Mr. Guillmand, are one of my goals."

  "You scored this goal," he said, his words rough. "Several times over."

  "Which means I've earned the right to know why you aren't pleased with this arrangement. With your residency," I added.

  "The residency is fine. It's terrible but it's also fine." He turned his palm over, lacing my fingers with his. He stared at our hands as he said, "Silicon Valley is a man-made world. The lines between authentic and artifice are almost invisible and I can't wander here. I can't get lost. I hadn't realized that before coming here. I should've known but I didn't."

  "I don't understand," I said. "Why do you want to get lost?"

  As if it was the most obvious conclusion in the world, he replied, "That's how I find things."

  "Is that why you climbed the tree?"

  He laughed. "You're fixated on this tree, sparrow."

  "Is it?"

  He glanced up, met my gaze. "Yeah," he answered. "That's why I climbed the tree. I was trying to find something real." He paused, gifting me a warm grin. "And I did. I found you."

  "I believe I found you," I replied. "How can I help you—what was it?—wander? How can I help you wander, Gus?" When he only blinked at me, I continued. "You might boil my last drops of patience, but I still want to help you succeed. Helping other people do their best work is my best work."

  That grin morphed into a deep, full smile. "Wandering can't be helped," he replied. "Back home, I'd follow the land, the trees, the rivers and streams. I didn't plan where I was going or what I wanted to see. No goals, no structure. No thinking more than a few steps ahead. Definitely not management coaching."

  "That sounds…" My voice trailed off as I searched for the proper description.

  "Wonderful?" he supplied.

  "Overwhelming," I replied.

  "Not when you do it right." He knocked his knuckles against his sketchbook. "I can't do this without also doing that."

  "I think I understand the origin of this conflict," I said. "You really do need to wander."

  "Do you wander, Miz Malik?" he asked.

  I glanced down at the sketchbook and then back up at Gus. "Not as often as I might like."

  He gestured around the cabin. "What in the world is stopping you?"

  "Having a private jet at my disposal doesn't mean I have the luxury of wandering whenever I wish," I replied. "My time is not my own."

  He cocked his head to the side, his brow wrinkling as he asked, "When was the last time it was yours?"

  I clasped my free hand around my phone. "I haven't slowed down in an age. That's the pace of things. It's an arms race."

  He leaned over, pried my fingers from the device. Set it aside, just beyond my reach. "No, it isn't."

  "I understand that's your view of the matter, but as someone who has lived in this world for—"

  "Too long?" he asked. He gathered my hands between his, squeezing just a bit. "Too long without a break? What would happen if you gave yourself time to wander, Neera? Even if only for"—his shoulders lifted as he grinned at me—"this weekend?"

  Yes, that was exactly what I was hoping to discover.

  He traced the inside of my wrist, much as he had last night at the eatery. I felt the same intensity from him—from me—as last night. The power, the freedom, the courage, whatever it was, it was back. "Have you ever done anything like that? Like last night? Anything in public?"

  I couldn't justify my need to know. Not in a manner that made sense. Gus was aware of the lines I'd crossed but he hadn't matched my confession with one of his own. And I needed it. I had to put this thing—this experience—into a quantifiable structure. I had to know what was happening, even while I knew it would flash and cool.

  "Before last night, no. But I'm more than happy to be your accomplice." He dipped his head to meet my eyes before glancing to the back of the cabin. "Are you looking for an accomplice right now? Here?"

&nb
sp; I followed his gaze to the nook where the flight attendant sat, her legs crossed and her iPad balanced on her thigh. I tossed the idea of her finding me in Gus's lap or with his hand up my skirt around my mind. It didn't zip through me like lightning, didn't quicken my pulse. "No. Not here." I gave him a disappointed frown. "It's not my plane. Doesn't feel good."

  He barked out a laugh. "And if it was?"

  "Then I might have a different mind about it," I replied. "There are other issues, but that's on the top of my list."

  Seemingly content with that explanation, Gus lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. Then, he popped the next two buttons on my blouse. "There. That's better," he murmured.

  By my standards, this was indecent and unprofessional. By modern fashion standards, it was merely risqué.

  And yet, I'd enjoyed sex in public places yesterday.

  The brain was a complicated organ.

  Gus asked, "Now that we have those matters settled, what should I expect from Maine?"

  I was prepared to describe Cole and his husband Owen, the charming town where they made their home, and the routine of my monthly visits with them, but I stopped myself. "I believe you'll be able to wander."

  Chapter Eight

  Gus

  Lightfastness: the pigment's chemical stability under extended exposure to light and therefore, measure of a work of art's value and life expectancy.

  I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but the whiplash of owning every intimate part of Neera last night and then barely owning her attention this morning had left me bruised and reeling. My ego took most of the hits but my hopeful heart didn't get out unscathed.

  At first, I'd resolved to back off. Give her some space. It crossed my mind to dodge this trip altogether but the truth was, I needed to get the hell out of Silicon Valley. If Lucifer himself was offering rides, I would've hopped in with him.

  I'd done an adequate job of backing off this morning. As best I could, considering. I'd put distance between us during the ride to the airport, I'd ignored her adorable expressions as she'd responded to emails and text messages, I'd kept my hands to myself. I'd wanted to lick her neck and twist the barbell teasing me through her shirt, but I'd done neither. Not until she'd insisted I tell her about the residency. When she'd asked me to stop playing games.