Chapter 8 #2
"Smooth line, Montclair."
"It's not a line." I open my eyes, meeting hers. "You look like everything I want to paint but can't quite capture. Light and shadow and—"
She kisses me.
It's nothing like I expected. Not tentative or uncertain, but sure and deep and a little desperate.
She tastes like the coffee she's been drinking and something uniquely her.
My paint-stained hands come up to frame her face, probably leaving streaks of blue and yellow on her skin, but she doesn't seem to care.
"Knox," she breathes against my mouth, and hearing her say my name completely undoes me.
I back her against the worktable, kissing her like the world is ending. Maybe it is. Maybe William will fire us all tomorrow. Maybe this ruins everything. But right now, with Britney still blasting and paint everywhere and Carina's soft hands in my hair, I can't bring myself to care.
She makes a sound that goes straight through me when I kiss her neck, her pulse racing under my lips. My hands find the hem of her sweater, and she nods before I can ask, helping me pull it over her head.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "Like a Vermeer. All soft light and—"
"Less art history, more kissing," she interrupts, pulling me back down.
I laugh against her mouth, my hands roaming her back, her sides, mapping the curves and valleys of her. She's soft and warm and real in a way that makes my artist's brain want to memorize every detail.
Her hands aren't idle either, tugging at my paint-splattered henley until I pull it off. The cool air hits my skin but her touch burns, leaving trails of heat wherever she explores.
"I've wanted this," she admits, her lips against my collarbone. "Watched you paint yesterday and wanted to be the canvas."
"Fuck, Carina." I lift her onto the worktable, not caring about the sketches that scatter to the floor. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?" She pulls me between her legs, and the friction makes us both gasp. "It's true."
We're a tangle of hands and mouths and desperate sounds, the music covering our breathless gasps.
I've never been with someone who matches my passion like this, who gives as good as she gets.
She bites my shoulder when I find a sensitive spot on her neck, her nails leaving marks on my back that I'll wear with pride.
The music is between songs just as I’m reaching for the clasp of her bra. Suddenly I hear footsteps echo on the path outside.
We freeze.
The footsteps are measured, deliberate. William. Of course it's William.
"Should we..." Carina whispers.
"No." I make a decision, continuing to kiss her neck, though softer now. "Let him hear. Let him know that someone chooses me, wants me, sees value in what I am."
"Knox..."
"Unless you want to stop?" I pull back to meet her eyes. "We can stop."
She thinks about this for a moment, then pulls me back down for a kiss that's answer enough.
The footsteps pause outside the door, and I know William can hear the music which has started up again, and probably hear us too.
Good. Let him stand there. Let him realize that his baby brother is more than he ever bothered to see.
Eventually we break apart, breathing hard.
“I need to go back in and start cooking,” she says.
I nod, smiling. I can’t stop smiling and I can’t wait to do this again.
"He's going to be impossible now," Carina says.
"He's already impossible." I help her off the table, handing her the sweater. "But that was..."
"Incredible," she finishes. "And probably a terrible idea."
"The best terrible idea."
We dress in silence, stealing glances at each other. The paint I'd gotten on her face has smeared, making her look like she's been thoroughly debauched. Which, I suppose, she has though not as much as I would have liked to.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I do know I want to paint you. The real you, not just from memory. Will you let me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Yes, I'll let you paint me."
"And the rest? Travis, William, this whole complicated mess?"
She sighs, leaning into me. "I don't know either. But Knox? Thank you. For making me feel like piece of your gorgeous art."
"You are art," I tell her. "Walking, breathing, living art."
She kisses me once more, soft and sweet, then heads for the door. "Turn the music down before William has an aneurysm?"
"Never," I grin. "In fact, I think it's time for 'Oops!... I Did It Again.'"
Her laughter follows her out into the snow, and I'm left alone with my paintings and the knowledge that everything just got exponentially more complicated.
But as I look at the canvas I'd been working on, I realize something. The dark blues don't look quite as suffocating anymore. And the yellows? They're practically singing.
Maybe complications aren't always bad. Maybe they're just life, messy and beautiful and worth the risk.
I crank up Britney and grab a fresh canvas. Time to paint something new. Something that captures light and shadow and the way a woman can walk into your studio and make you believe in yourself again.
Time to paint Carina.