36. My Beloved
My Beloved
Liam
Things had been going…well. Though Cerise and I hated being apart, when we did travel to see one another it was incredible.
We would spend our time exploring the town where each of us lived, then fall into bed, spend all night continuing to learn each other’s bodies and fall asleep in a haze of pleasure.
It was everything I could ever want in a relationship.
And I wanted that with her and only her.
The sole thing causing any challenges was the distance.
And though I wanted to move to her city, I didn’t think she was ready to hear that yet.
It had only been a few weeks, everything still new and fresh.
A knock sounded on my office door. I looked up from my desk, twirling a pencil in my hand. “Come in.”
Coen entered, grumbling under his breath as he sat in a leather chair across from me.
I leaned back, propping my feet on my desk. Coen gave me an offended glare, looking at them with disgust. I shrugged. “What’s wrong with you? I’ve barely seen you since the gala, you’ve been so busy. You’re even more surly than usual.”
“Rosebud’s retiring.”
I adjusted my glasses. “Really? I never thought I would see the day. I assumed he’d remain dean of the botany department until he had a heart attack from smoking too much spiritweed.”
“That was the hope.”
“That he would drop dead?”
Coen crossed his arms. “No, you imbecile. Just that he’d be around a while longer.”
I chuckled. “Why are you so upset about it? You hate Doctor Rosenshield.”
Coen crossed an ankle over his knee. “That may be true but he left me alone. I don’t need some micromanaging asshole to replace him.”
“I feel terrible for whoever they do get to replace him. I wouldn’t wish being your boss on anyone.”
“Ha. Ha. Funny.”
“Why don’t you go for the job?”
Coen shook his head. “I’d rather be fired than be a dean. Managing other colleagues? Horrifying. And can you imagine the endless meetings? Kill me, please.”
“Good point. You wouldn’t be able to hide in your lab. Any idea who the candidates are?”
“No clue.”
“I’m sure whoever is hired will be just fine.”
He grunted. “How are things with you and Cerise?”
“So far so good. I hate being so far away but it’s working. For now.”
Coen gave me his version of a smile—that was more like a grimace hidden behind his neatly trimmed beard. “I’m happy for you. I’ve never seen you so enamored with someone. You deserve it.”
I placed a hand on my chest. “Did you just say something nice? I should write this down and preserve it forever.”
“I’m serious. I saw how she looked at you at the gala and how happy you two were.”
Memories of that night washed over me. “Thank you. Speaking of the gala…” I pinned him with a look.
“What?”
“Whatever happened with that woman I saw you talking to? Fiona…something?”
Something changed in Coen’s face. Was he…blushing? He cleared his throat. “Thatcher. Fiona Thatcher. She was nice.”
“You slept with her, didn’t you?”
He winced.
I almost fell back in my chair as I laughed, pulling my feet off my desk and setting them on the floor. Leaning on my elbows, I said, “She must have really been something.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was just a one night stand, Liam.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you still talking to her? Where does she live? Are you going to see her again?”
Coen stood. “Enough with the questions. It was two adults agreeing to have fun for the night. That’s it.”
I shuffled the papers around on my desk. “Ah. I see what happened. You had a night of pleasure with a beautiful woman. But she disappeared and you didn’t get her information. That’s why you’ve been even more broody than usual, hiding in your lab.”
“I hate it when you do that, you know.” He walked toward the door.
“Did you at least figure out where she worked? Perhaps you could track her down that way.”
He turned, his hand on the handle. “First of all, I’m not going to ‘track her down.’ Second of all, no.
All I learned was that she was in between jobs at the time.
She attended the gala to support a friend getting recognized.
” He sighed. “And she ran out on me before I could press for more information.”
“Well, she obviously made an impression if you’re still thinking of her a month later. Poor Coen. His one night stand has turned into pining.”
“Fuck you.”
He left my office, disappearing down the hall, his frustrated stomps echoing behind him.
“Not like that,” Cerise said, wrapping her hand around mine and guiding the paintbrush I held. “Sideways strokes, like this.”
“You don’t have to do it exactly like the instructor does. It’s called creative expression. Perhaps I wish for my ocean to appear vertical.”
She released me with a laugh and re-focused on her own canvas, violet eyes flicking back and forth from the scene before her to the example at the front of the class.
Cerise was visiting me this weekend and I’d scheduled one of those teacher-led painting classes. We were both having a blast—me with my ‘vertical ocean’ and Cerise painstakingly trying to copy exactly what the instructor did.
I set down my paintbrush and watched her. Brow furrowed, she stuck out her tongue as she mimicked the strokes we had just been shown, trying to perfect the reflection of the moon on the water.
After a few minutes, she glanced over, catching me watching her. “What?”
I let my eyes wander over every feature of her face. The slope of her nose, her rounded cheeks. “You’re enchanting…you know that, right?”
A flush along the bridge of her nose made her even more beautiful, as if it were possible. “You say the sweetest things.”
“I say what I feel.” I squeezed her thigh.
“Are you going to finish your painting?” she asked, eyes flicking to the paintbrush I was no longer holding.
I wrinkled my nose. “Nah. I’m kind of bored with it. I have the most random urge to set it on fire.” I flipped my palm up and grew a flame in my hand.
Her eyes widened. “Don’t do that. You can still fix it.”
The fire disappeared. “I’m not upset about it or trying to fix it. Just tired of painting the same scene as everyone else.”
“So do something different,” she said. Then she took my paintbrush, dipped it in bright red paint, and swiped it across my canvas. “There. Now you’ll have to work hard to figure out what to do.”
I stared at her, shocked.
She gasped, looking down at the brush as she realized what she had done. “Oh gods. Did I really just do that? I’m so sorry, Liam. I ruined your painting. I was trying to be spontaneous…or maybe funny…but—”
She yelped when I stole the brush in her hand, dipped it in green paint, and ran it down her nose. A laugh burst out of me at her incredulous expression.
“Did you just”—she looked around the classroom—“Did you just paint me?”
I dipped the same brush in blue and swiped it across her cheek, grinning.
“Liam,” she hissed, snatching the brush from my hand and painting a line of blue-green along my chin.
“Are we about to have a paint fight like immature children?” I asked. We were now getting curious looks from our classmates.
“You started it,” she retorted, but she was holding back a smile.
I dipped my finger in purple and ran it down the side of her throat. She swiped the brush still in her hand across my forehead so quickly, she knocked over a glass of water, the echoes of it shattering silencing the class.
“Excuse me,” the teacher, an older woman with bright red curls, called as she walked our way.
“You’re in trouble now,” I murmured in her ear.
“Me?” she gasped. “This was all you.”
Patrons were muttering, some laughing, others giving us harsh glares. The instructor reached where we sat, hands on her hips. “If you two can’t behave, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Cerise pressed her lips together. “We’re so sorry.”
The woman sighed and marched back to the front of the room.
“We’re not sorry,” I whispered before I dipped two of my fingers in yellow and painted another spot on Cerise’s cheek.
She dipped her brush in pink and flung it at me, spraying me and the person behind me with bright speckles of paint.
“Hey!” my neighbor said.
“All right, you two. Leave. Now.” The teacher shouted.
Cerise started giggling as I grabbed her hand and pulled her after me, leaving our half-finished canvases behind.
Pausing at the door, I took a bow. “Sorry about the mess folks. Having a paint fight in public was a lifelong dream of my girlfriend’s. It’s kind of a weird sexual kink and all, but I couldn’t say no to—”
Cerise clapped her hand over my mouth and shoved me out the door. “You are horrid!”
I pulled her into an alley between the painting establishment and the next building. “And you're trouble. What were you thinking, Cerise? Misbehaving like that in there.” Gripping her hips, I yanked her against me.
“Me? You’re something else, you know that? And sexual kinks? I can’t believe you—”
I flipped us around, pinning her against the brick wall as I kissed her. She immediately melted, opening for me. My tongue dove into her mouth and she whimpered. Every kiss with her was as good as the last. I never wanted to stop.
Cerise pulled away, panting. “You’re trying to distract me from that scene we just made, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
She stared at me, lips quirking, then a small laugh filtered out of her, growing as her eyes scanned my face. “You have pink paint everywhere. It’s even in your hair.”
“You should see yourself.” I leaned in and nipped her jaw, then pecked her lips.
“So…girlfriend?” she asked. “Isn’t that term a little juvenile?”
I couldn’t stop kissing her face. Couldn’t stop touching her. Feathering kisses beneath her ear, along her neck, I said, “What would you prefer? Partner? Sweetheart? Lover?” I pulled back to look at her. “Old lady?” She scoffed. “My beloved…” I kissed her nose.
“I think I like that one,” she said softly, fingers playing with my hair.
I kissed her lips again. “Me too.”