Chapter 15
Miles
W hen Dax told me he was in the hospital, I freaked out.
Being in nursing school, it wasn’t a huge stretch that he would have some other reason to be there than being hurt, but when I saw the word hospital , my mind wouldn’t let me imagine anything else.
It was a relief, not only to know he was working, but getting to torture him on the job. And I do enjoy torturing him.
When we finish our call, I text him my address.
Then I finish up a paper for African Art.
As I tidy up around my place, I’m smirking, proud of myself for the way I got him all worked up.
How obedient he was, always is. But it’s already after three thirty, and he’s not here.
It’s grating on my nerves, something I don’t mind letting him know: Where are you?
Dax: Heading to you.
Adrenaline shoots through me.
Me: You shouldn’t be texting and driving.
Dax: Walking up the drive now.
Oh.
Me: Callbox #8441
The tension from thinking he might have been distracted while driving turns to eager anticipation, and I’m impatient as I let him in the main entrance, waiting until there’s a knock at the door.
He’s in scrubs, his hair slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through it a few times.
His face is relaxed, his eyelids drooping, like he’s tired from a long day.
Am I a terrible person for enjoying that he looks…vulnerable? Yes, that must make me some kind of monster.
I seize his wrist, urge him in, shove him up against the wall. “I’ve missed that mouth.” My hand gravitates to his throat. “You like when I put my hand there, don’t you?”
He quirks a brow. “I don’t mind you doing more than that.”
I’m not surprised, and I apply a bit of pressure before taking the kiss I’ve wanted ever since I saw him on FaceTime. When I pull away, I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent that was just as good to taste on his tongue. “Must’ve taken that mint just for me,” I observe, and he smirks.
“I can think of a few things I’ll take for you.” His gaze lowers.
“You love my cock, don’t you?”
“It’s a decent fit,” is all he gives me, the insincerity in his expression giving away more than his words.
“If that’s all, then you don’t have anything to worry about because that’s not why I wanted you to come over anyway.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says with a slight chuckle, surely confused about why I got him all wound up at work and now have my hand against his throat.
I run my thumb along his jawline, caving to the impulse to move close and bite his flesh. Fuck, he makes me a damn animal.
Focus.
I pull away, and his eyes are wide, eager to see what I have in store for him, but I don’t think he’ll be pleased once I tell him. I release him and give him the tour, motioning with my hand. “Living room, and the bedroom’s back there.”
He heads in, his attention on my workshop area, delineated by the long black tarp covering the space behind the sofa. Finished works lean against the far wall, while cups, paints, and brushes are strung out across the glass table along the adjacent wall.
“I’m creative, not a neat freak,” I warn him.
“Looks cool to me.”
He assesses the pieces against the wall, taking them in, and I notice I don’t recoil the way I did when I first started showing my paintings to Tatum.
Could be that I’m getting used to Tatum coming in and seeing them right when they’re finished.
Or maybe it’s been the vulnerability of sharing them online.
Or maybe it’s because it’s Dax, and after what we’ve shared—him being with me during the panic attack, and our pain around the loss of our moms—I’m more open with him.
I know the answer, but shy away from it.
He’s fixated on one particular work, studying it like he’s viewing the piece in a museum. “I really like it.”
I, of course, can see all its faults and the issues I had when I was creating it, so I don’t trust my judgment. “What do you see?”
He’s quiet, pursing his lips before he says, “I don’t know that I see it as much as feel something in my chest—pain, but then there’s something beautiful there too. Something that feels hopeful.”
“The pain…can you describe it?”
“Maybe heartbreak or grief…a bit of longing.” He turns to me. “Am I right?”
“That’s not how art works. It means what it means to you. Fuck what I meant when I made it.”
But maybe I just don’t want to acknowledge how right he is. I’ve let him see plenty about me, more than anyone else, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that much. Not yet.
He returns his attention to the painting, taking a moment before he says, “They’re really beautiful, Miles.”
“People seem to think so.”
“Where do you show them?”
“I don’t. I have this…eh…TikTok account, and Tatum posts me painting.”
“Wait. On TikTok? I wanna see!” Before I can even respond, he adds, “Unless this is one of those things you want to be all cagey about.”
Even in the short time we’ve known each other, he’s getting to know me very quickly.
“Another time. That’s not why I brought you here.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, stepping toward me with this knowing look, clearly thinking the reason is fucking. Still, I don’t deny the kiss he plants on me.
When he pulls away, I say, “Not for that.”
His brows tug together.
“I mean, not that we can’t do that, but I saw you on that call, and I just really wanted to…” I stop myself. It feels so stupid and corny, I don’t want to admit it, but the longer I drag this out, the weirder it’ll be. “I want to paint you.”
His eyes flare. I was right. This was the last thing he’d have considered when I told him to come over. His expression shifts as he bats his eyes dramatically. “You want to draw me like one of your French girls?”
“Yeah, it’s dumb. Never mind. What was I even thinking?”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I didn’t say it was dumb, but you can’t expect to say something like that without someone making a Titanic reference.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“Of internet memes?”
“Take off your clothes.” That wasn’t a normal response to what he said, and it came out harsher than intended, making his eyes widen again. Seems I can’t act normal even if I try. Or maybe I’m not really trying. He doesn’t make me feel like I have to either.
I wait for him to change his mind or tell me to fuck off, but he glances around, starting to open his mouth when I instruct him, “Over here.”
He follows my directions like the good boy he is, standing at the edge of the tarp, kicking off his shoes as I approach the canvas I set up before he arrived.
I study his movements as he undresses, removing his pants with his underwear.
He’s half hard, and really, I’m getting hard just thinking about finally being able to do this.
It’s been so annoying in class, having to follow our professor’s directions, trying to recreate some basic representation, when I see so much more when I look at him.
Dax discards his clothes on the arm of the sofa.
“Do I keep my socks on?” he asks, and at my glare, he says, “Kidding,” before removing them and throwing them on top of his pile, and then he’s standing in front of me, baring it all.
He really is a beautiful man. It’s no wonder so many guys want to fuck him, even without knowing his many talents once he lets you inside him. Fuck, I shouldn’t think about other guys fucking him because now that’s making me all kinds of agitated.
I study his body, drinking him in, my mouth watering, my cock itching to get back inside. I restrain myself because what I want from him tonight is more important than a fuck.
“What should I do now?” he asks.
“Pose.”
He smiles, surely amused by such an ambiguous direction, but he’s been doing this in class long enough to know some good ones. He arranges himself with one arm against his hip, the other raised, looking off to the side.
“No, that’s wrong,” I snap.
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to guess the pose you had in your head.”
I snicker because, yeah, he’s not psychic.
“Look at me,” I tell him. “And spread your legs more.”
“For you, no problem.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I was too.” His gaze is so playful, so Dax.
Despite being amused, I’m on a mission. “I like the one where you have your hand on the back of your head and the other relaxed at your side.”
He does that, but it’s still not right.
I grunt and abandon my station, approaching. “You mind?” I ask.
“By all means.”
I adjust him, noticing how willingly he goes along with it. Once I’m satisfied, I do a once-over. “Yes, this is good.”
I memorize this position, those lines I’ve become so familiar with in class. Then I return to the canvas and get to work, not wasting a moment, using this visual to guide me.
Yellow might be the right color for him, something bright like he is. I add a few streaks to the canvas, but it feels wrong. Totally wrong. A surge of frustration pulses through me, and I snatch the canvas, tossing it off the stand.
Dax gives a little jump, but he’s good at getting back into position right away.
“Fuck it,” I say as I approach him again. “Stay like this.”
I look him over some more, trying to take it in, but my muse isn’t satisfied.
I need more. I follow my instinct, the impulse that drives me, moving closer, resting my hand on his elbow, then sliding it down along the inside of his arm before placing my hand on his hip.
Closing my eyes, I trace his body from either side, getting a feel for those things my eyes can’t fully appreciate.
How smooth and taut his bare flesh is.
How warm as I glide across muscle and bone.
I take my time, covering every inch, noticing the shift as his breath hitches. God, even his breathing is sexy.
As I make my way down, I squat, getting a grip on that firm ass. His stiffened cock is right in my face, so I take full advantage, rubbing my cheek along it, letting my lips take another taste before sliding it into my mouth.
“Oh hell,” he moans as I explore his length, memorizing his cock with my mouth, but eventually I have to move on, so I release it and continue probing down to his ankles, caressing until I’m satisfied I’ve covered every inch of him.
I give the head of his cock a kiss and a lick before standing up, my eyes still sealed as I process everything I’ve just felt.
When I open my eyes, I notice how close his lips are to mine, how easy it would be to take another kiss, something he seems to notice too, but I know that if I do that, I’ll miss out on this opportunity, and I can’t, not when I’m feeling this inspired.
Not when I think that might’ve solved my issue.
“Don’t move,” I order him as I grab another canvas and set it up on the stand.
Gold, it has to be gold. It needs to be bolder, brighter, glowing like he does.
Yes, this feels right…
I bite my bottom lip as I work, not even having to look up much since I can still feel the ridges of his body, proud I’ve memorized them so well.
But that’s short-lived because things go downhill fast.
No! I was wrong, dammit!
My hands tense, my fingers refusing to obey for another brushstroke, so I chuck the canvas once again, the stand toppling over. “Why isn’t it right?”
I’m worried my behavior might be concerning to Dax, but he’s silent, lets me have my moment before I set up yet again, sneering at the blank ivory linen, the brush hovering, but I stop myself because I’m missing something. I quiet my mind the best I can. “Talk to me, Dax.”
“About?”
“I don’t fucking know.” God, this is so damn infuriating.
“Well, I had a grilled-cheese sandwich earlier.”
“Did you make it?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That’s kind of adorable that you make grilled-cheese sandwiches.
” Focus! “No, that’s not what I meant.” I can feel a headache coming on, I’m stressing myself out so much over this.
“I need something bigger. Talk to me about something from your life. Something that matters. I don’t care what.
Just go.” I sound like I’m mad at him, but I’m mad at myself for not understanding what I’m doing wrong and why none of it feels right yet.
“Tell me about your mom.” I regret the words as soon as they come out. It’s too intrusive. Fuck, I’d lose my mind if someone asked me to just start talking about mine. “Sorry, no. This whole thing is a shitty idea.”
Frustrated, I grab the blank canvas, ready to chuck it to the floor with the others when Dax says, “No, no. It’s okay. I’m fine with that.”
The tension in me ebbs, and as I refocus on him, I see the sorrow in his expression. Yes, not gold. Gold was all wrong. What the hell is wrong with me?
Conflicted as I am about what I’m asking of him, I can tell he’s about to give me exactly what I need. Exactly what will allow me to capture Dax. The real Dax Armstrong.