7. Chapter 7
CarleeWhen I admitted to Zane that I was a virgin, it definitely changed things between us. I thought for sure he was going to run for the hills, and that would be the end of our spending time together. Especially after the way the date ended.
But the next day, he found me out on the back lawn sketching a few of the guys playing football. Then the following day, he found me over in the barn sketching some of the horses, and today, he found me in the garden.
Only today he doesn’t have the tablet with him. We”re both communicating with ASL. Thank goodness those lessons are paying off.
Can I ask you a question?he asks.
My body tenses because I”m absolutely sure it”s going to be about me being a virgin or any part of the conversation we had at our picnic. But I nod and wait to see what he wants to know.
Faith told me that I need to start using ASL more frequently. I was wondering if we could talk strictly in ASL?he signs.
I think that would be good practice for both of us. I agree.
It will definitely be an easier conversation than typing into a tablet and waiting for the other to read it and then passing the tablet back and forth.
Have you started any of the paintings?he asks.
Yeah, at home. I’m working on one of the driveways with the trees covering it.
I can”t wait to see it.
It”s the one Lexi requested. She wants to put in the lobby.
I bet that driveway is beautiful in fall when all the leaves start to change, he says.
It’s then, as he is signing, that I notice his hand isn’t bandaged up anymore. So, gently reaching out, I take his hand into mine. Without thinking anything of it, I want to get a look at how it is healing.
This is the first time we”ve touched each other since the picnic. It”s hard to ignore the sparks I feel where his skin touches mine. Judging by the look in his eyes, he feels it too.
Pushing the dirty thoughts which are zinging through my mind of what his hands could be doing to me, I focus on examining it.
His hand is healing nicely. The stitches have been removed, and the scars are a red, almost purple color. They will lighten over time and eventually the scars will look like part of his hand.
Tracing my finger over the scars, I see they make an interesting pattern on his hand. He doesn”t move, but lets me run my finger over them again and again. Feeling a shiver down my spine, I notice how big his hand is and calloused, and how it might feel all over my body. I remind myself that this is a man who used them in dangerous situations. When I look up at him, his eyes are on mine and the heat that”s in them is unmistakable.
Sorry. Your hand looks like it”s healing really well.I apologize, trying to defuse the situation.
He doesn”t say anything. Instead, he just reaches out, takes my hand, turns it over, and runs his fingers over the lines on my palm like I did the scars on his hand. He traces the lines slowly, but his eyes are on my face. I feel the movement of his finger all the way down to my core. My nipples are hard, and I”m sure he can see them through my shirt and the thin bra that I”m wearing. My clit tingles and all I want to do is move to get some relief. Without even checking, I know I’m soaking wet and will need to change my panties.
This simple little gesture from him has turned me on, and I wonder if it did the same for him. When I look down at his hand holding mine, I chance a quick glance at his lap. His cock is hard behind his jeans, clear as day. How does this simple interaction have such a big effect on us both?
My eyes meet his again and we stare at each other for just a moment, neither of us saying anything. The intense emotion between us is too much, and I pull my hand away and open my sketchbook again.
He lies down in the grass beside me, something that he loves doing. While I sketch for the day, he enjoys soaking up the rays and simply being beside me.
Only today, instead of sketching the many beautiful locations around Oakside, I find myself drawing the same pattern over and over again. Looking down at my work, I see that I’ve sketched the pattern of scars on his hand.
When he looks over at me again, I decide to ask what is on my mind.
Why do you like being out in the sun so much?
He doesn’t answer right away, but just soaks in the sun for another minute.
I’ve been on a lot of missions. I can’t talk about the details. But many of them were spent sitting inside for hours waiting for a split-second opportunity. Then after my accident, I was in the hospital for so long I missed being outside. Now, I don’t take it for granted anymore.
I know he is letting me know not to ask questions about his missions. And I get the message loud and clear. I don”t want to make him uncomfortable and drag all that up anyway.
So, a weird question. If you can”t talk about your missions but you have to talk about what happened over there as part of your treatment, how does that work?
I”ve talked with Lexi and Noah quite a bit, learning how this place works. The men and women, who are patients here, have to talk in therapy and be cleared by the therapists before they”re able to be discharged. It”s one of the requirements so they can make sure that the men and women here are starting out on the best possible foot, whether it”s going back into service or starting a new life in the civilian world.
Dr. Tate has the clearance necessary for me to talk to him. The military has assigned therapists to many of us who were on classified assignments. When did you know you wanted to be an artist?
I recognize that he”s trying to change the subject and I guess this is a topic that makes him uncomfortable. So, I flow with his question.
In elementary school, we had art class once a week, and it was always my favorite. I think I was in fifth grade when I realized that I wanted to learn more about art and textures and all that could make me a better artist. When I asked my parents if I could take some art classes, they actually agreed. I tried sculpting, but that wasn”t my thing, and neither was pottery nor making anything ’useful.’ I use air quotes around the words that my mom would say because apparently paintings that just hang on the wall aren”t very useful around the house.
Who said your art isn”t useful?He asks me, catching on.
My mother. The best way I can describe her is old-fashioned. Women having a career is something to be looked down upon. Even more so when that career is art.
Well, I already don”t like your mother. I hope you know that”s bullshit. You”re following your passion and making money too. That”s an amazing accomplishment and you should be proud of it.
His words touch me, and my eyes tear up. I don”t want him to think I”m this emotional basket case. But outside of my sister”s encouragement, no one else has really pushed me to do what I wanted or thought that I was doing a good job on this career path. So, it makes his words mean all that much more.
I need to be careful. This man is doing dangerous things to my heart.