Chapter 40
MAREN
Istand back and look at the canvas objectively. And, yes, it’s a thing of beauty. It also appears that the only thing I want to paint these days are pictures of Knox and me having sex.
This is the shower from the night of the hurricane, when he took care of me. Long, sweeping, vertical strokes of acrylic paint. Blurs of gray for the concrete and silver and white for the water, and skin tones for the bodies wrapped around each other as the spray hits the glass.
There is so much movement in it. At least, I think there is. Or maybe I’m just projecting my experience of that night onto my artwork.
Maybe it isn’t the actual application of paint to canvas that stirs me, but memories of those moments as I bring them to life.
And it will look perfect in Knox’s hallway outside the bathroom.
It’s an odd thing to step back from art and admire it, when you’ve been so intimately involved in its creation. It’s as if a little bit of my soul, or mine and Knox’s story, will live on in every deliberately placed stroke.
Maybe someone a hundred years from now will look at it and wonder who these two people are and why they consented to having their most meaningful and private moments of their life committed to canvas.
Or maybe it will end up in a charity shop, and someone will paint over it.
I wipe my brush on the cloth and then pop it into the solvent to clean it. I’ve set up my easel in the corner of Knox’s living room, where the windows face the water, not that the view matters when it’s so dark outside, I can barely see a thing.
When Knox called me earlier to let me know about the other clubs arriving and him feeling like he should stay at the clubhouse tonight, I had a slight worry about being out here alone, given how remote it is.
But he also sent a couple of prospects to keep watch, and it’s been a surprisingly peaceful and calm evening.
My eyes burn as I pick up my phone. It’s two in the morning, and I’m supposed to open the shop at eight.
Stretching my arms up over my head, I almost drop my phone into a pot of solvent when it vibrates in my hand and startles me.
I grab it at the last second, my heart racing, and catch sight of the screen.
Knox.
A helpless smile tugs at my lips as I open it. It’s schmaltzy and movie-worthy to be this happy just at the sight of his name, right?
Knox: I wish you were awake.
Knox: Whole damn country just rolled into my yard today.
Knox: Over thirty bikers. Bikes everywhere. It’s a fucking lot.
Knox: But I wish you were next to me right now in this bed.
I can almost imagine him standing in the middle of the chaos, taking responsibility for it all.
Me: That sounds overwhelming. Why did they come?
Knox: You’re awake. One sec.
My phone rings with a video request, and I answer it.
“You look good with paint on your cheek, sweetheart,” he says. His eyes are a little bloodshot, his speech a little slurry, and he’s on his bed in the clubhouse.
“I guess it’s a good party.” I know asking about club business is a no-no. And perhaps asking him about it while he’s drunk is a violation, but I need to know why all those men being there matters. “Are you going after the people who hurt Vandal?”
He nods. “Feels good…like we’re not alone in this. Don’t want them hurting you.”
Something in my chest squeezes at that. “And I don’t want you getting hurt trying to stop people hurting me. But I’m proud of you. For looking out for us all and taking a stand.”
His gaze changes, softens. “Careful.” The word is gruff. “Keep looking at me like that and I might forget I have a club full of men expecting me to lead them into a fight, get on my bike, and come chow down on that pussy of yours for a while.”
I wander to the bedroom and flop down on the bed, trying desperately to ignore the tug at my core at mentions of what he’d like to do to me.
“Are you wearing one of my shirts?” he asks.
“I wanted to feel close to you while I painted us tonight.”
His mouth opens for a second. “Wait? You painted us?”
I nod. “In the shower. It’s abstract, like all my other work, but…I painted it for down there.” I point toward the hallway. “Thought it would look nice opposite the door to the bathroom.”
He closes his eyes and flops his head back against the wall. “Fuck, can’t normally get a boner when I’m this drunk.” His hand slips out of sight, between his legs. “You wearing anything else besides my shirt?”
I shake my head. “I put it on after my shower. Which inspired the shower painting.”
He lets out a low, devilish laugh. “Jesus, Maren. You’re gonna be the death of me. You okay if I jerk one out while we chat?”
It sounds so unromantic, and…yet… “As long as I can do the same.”
His eyes open at that. “Yeah. You want to?”
“Talk to me, Knox.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all fucking day, which is inconvenient, given I was supposed to be planning how to take a man and his operation apart.”
The reminder of his mission takes the edge off the slow bloom of arousal I feel, but when my fingertips reach my clit, I sigh.
“What kind of thinking?” I ask, slipping my finger into my wetness and then dragging it up over my clit.
“When I turned around in that shower the first night and saw you naked. Think I knew deep down in my bones there was no way I was going to be able to stay away from you.”
He smiles and closes his eyes again. I can’t see him work his cock, but there is something about the way his shoulder and bicep move that tells me what is happening off camera. And, God, does that turns me on anyway.
He shifts, then looks at me again. “If you were here right now…” He shakes his head. “Fuck, you wouldn’t even make it through that door.”
A shiver runs through me. “What would you do?”
He goes still, for a second, then works his cock a little firmer. “Would like to think I could be a gentleman about it…but I’ve felt that cunt of yours squeeze my cock, so…I’d probably fuck you like I did out by my place.”
My breath catches.
“So fucking dangerous,” he mutters. “Sitting there, looking soft and sweet, wearing my fucking shirt.”
I pop a button open, then another. “Jesus, babe. Yeah. Show me your tits. I’m gonna fuck ‘em one day. Slide between them and come all over your throat.”
I slide the shirt open, revealing my breasts.
It was drilled into me a million times as a kid to be careful what I do over the internet, but I trust Knox. And he’s too busy stroking himself and looking at me slack-jawed to even think about hitting any kind of screen-record function.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, his voice dropping low and gruff. “Look at you.”
The way he says it, like he’s half in awe, and half desperate for me, sends a sharp pulse of desire to my clit. My fingers slide through my lips, then drag over the hardened little nub. Years of practice of playing solo and I know just how to get myself off.
My body is already responding, already chasing the feelings so easily.
But the look in Knox’s gaze is ramping me higher.
“Don’t stop talking,” I whisper.
“Can’t believe you’re fucking mine, Maren. Sitting there in my bed. Wearing my shirt. Showing yourself to me like that. I’m gonna… lose what little control I’ve got left. Look how fucking hard I am for you, Maren. And you’re not even here.”
He flips the camera manually. In his drunken state, he doesn’t keep it stable enough, but it’s impossible to miss just how hard he’s working his own cock. And how precum leaks from its tip.
I remember the taste of it.
My breath hitches, my heels digging into the mattress as my hips move against my fingers, and I imagine Knox’s hands on me.
“Maybe I want you to lose control,” I admit.
That does something to him, breaking his last tenuous hold on control. His jaw tightens. “You’re gonna be the end of me, Maren.”
There’s a stretch of silence that isn’t really silent. Not with the way we’re breathing, gasping, and moaning when the feeling gets too good. I hear the wet slap of his hand as he works his cock hard.
“Come with me, Maren. Don’t wanna do it alone.”
“I’m going to,” I admit as the intensity of what we’re doing crests. “Oh, God.”
His gaze locks onto mine, sharp despite the alcohol. Present, and lost in this, just like I am.
“That’s it,” he says. “Just…look at me like that.”
The tension snaps, hitting me like a sudden and overwhelming wave. But I never take my eyes off him. Not when my whole body shakes, not when my mouth opens in a silent cry, not when I gasp at how good it feels.
On the screen, Knox lets out a low, strained groan. His head drops forward, his shoulders tight, like his release is sucking the life out of him.
For a second, neither of us speaks, even though the connection between the two of us hums through the screen.
“Jesus.” Knox tugs a hand through his hair.
I laugh softly, a little dazed by what we just did, but grateful because it will certainly help me sleep.
“Never going to take you for granted, sweetheart,” he says, finally.
He wiggles down on the bed. I don’t want to think about the clothes he’s wearing or where all his cum is. Instead, I look at his tired face as he closes his eyes.
“I love you.”
He smiles softly. “Don’t ever want to feel what it’s like…”
“What what is like?” I ask.
“A world that doesn’t have you in it.”