Chapter 19
madison
. . .
Iwasn’t sure why I picked this place. We hadn’t slept under the stars since San Jose. We’d gotten kicked out of our apartment because the landlord needed to move in a family member. Boy, did he learn that despite renting to struggling college students, Wash was not gonna let that slide.
We’d snuck into a very closed Audubon Park. The wind rustled the trees, and Spanish moss, hanging low like curtains, veiled us from the city. But damn, this was more romantic than the hotel Washington suggested. Opportunistic ass.
I teased Washington. “So, you have a whole-ass duffel bag?” Mr. Sports Mom. Yeah. I kept that nickname to myself. It wasn’t clowning. That name could snatch the entire self-esteem of any grown man.
Washington, as if reading my mind, rolled his eyes. “Okay, then I’ll take the blankets back. See how cold you get tonight.”
“Nope.” I took the duffle from him and rummaged through it. It even had a foil blanket. This boy played no games.
“Yep. I knew you’d fold. People get stuck in their cars during storms, Madison. You know that.”
“Mm-hmm.” I smiled, stretching out yet another knit blanket. In a minute, we’d prepared enough padding to rival my thin guest room-grade mattress at Lynn’s.
Washington lay with his hands behind his back.
I straddled him, savoring the feeling of his laugh as it vibrated against my chest. He reached up to clasp the back of my neck.
The other hand slid along my thigh. “You tugged out all these blankets, Madison, but I bet you plan to stay here all night. On top of me?”
“Pretty much.” I reached down to kiss his mouth. One faint touch of my lips to his. A brush. Teasing. A test to confirm he wouldn’t fight for more than what I offered.
“With this position, Washington Babineaux, I’ll have you know, I’ve got ultimate power.” My thighs squeezed around his muscular waist. “And control. And will ensure all of you stays warm and comfortable … in your pants.”
“Could be warm and—”
I shut him up with a kiss that spiraled into a forest fire.
And that was it. No talking. No therapist-approved affirmations.
Or therapist denials. Our mouths met, a desperate hunger driving the kiss.
My tongue danced over his lips, and his tongue complemented every move, catching a rhythm.
I recalled the passionate lessons he taught me when we first met, yet I cherished his wisdom in allowing me to take the lead when I desired. And I needed this.
His heart pounded against my chest, heavy and steady, syncing me to something real. Anchoring me to the man I swore I’d love my entire life.
He groaned when I tugged his lower lip between my teeth. Because, baby, this game of torture I initiated caused us both pain. And that sound alone? His groan, a low rumble, vibrated through my breast and made a sistah’s whole body hum. Our kisses deepened, hungrier, hotter.
“Remember when,” I said, mouth falling into his beard, dragging over it. The rough, yet soft feel of his beard and the scent of his cocoa butter beard oil grounded me into something real, since something was getting real between my thighs, where his body speared mine.
“Nah, I can’t remember nothing,” he murmured, turning his mouth to catch mine again.
“Wash, we used to—”
Each time I spoke, his ravenous lips captured my mouth again. His claim was urgent and steamy. I grabbed his hands and pulled them above his head, as if that gave me more control. “Mmm, Wash. We used to kiss like this. Remember when we used to dry hump before I turned eighteen?”
“You’re killing me …”
I laughed against his mouth, a quiet, dizzy kind of laugh, like, this is double homicide, baby. “This is some Romeo and Juliet crap. Except we both swallowed that bitter poison called therapy.”
He chuckled, the low rumble of his laughter vibrating against my breasts. He pressed his lips to mine with such passion that it erased the sound of two people so in love they’d torture themselves to get it right this time.
Hours slipped by, and we hadn’t stopped kissing.
If I could bottle this night, I’d burrow inside and live in it for an eternity.
That old song, “Kissin’ You” by Total, played in my mind.
I wondered if that was on Volume seven, like Shonda suggested.
I might get it. Not sure how I’d listen to a CD these days, but I could do this … forever.
Then the air grew a little chillier. I wrapped the foil blanket around my back while I clung to him, trying not to fall all the way into the temptation we both so desired.
At some point, I dozed off on top of him, tucked inside powerful arms. I rested my cheek against his bare chest, the skin warm where I’d unbuttoned his shirt. I still felt the firmness of his abdomen on my lips, and the lingering taste of trailing my tongue halfway down his muscles last night.
Blinking awake in the diffused light of pale morning, I was still halfway sprawled on top of him. His palm rested lazy and warm against my bare behind. Well, well, well. Sometime last night he’d snuck his hand into my pants. Sneaky ass.
Washington blinked awake.
“Hands?” My retort exited with zero sass, but with the coo of a Good morning, baby.
“You mean hand.” His voice was all gravel. “Lefty is innocent.”
“So, Righty has been wilding out all night?”
“Pretty much.” He massaged my bare ass. “And still backsliding.” After another squeeze that almost felt like a gavel drop, he removed his hand from my tights.
“You a smooth brotha,” someone said from a distance, voice crusted from too much alcohol.
Washington’s eyes curved into the deep, slitted pits he gets when he decides between mercy and murder. Uh-oh. They narrowed too much. So, this was gonna be murder. We both turned to take in a man whose hoodie and jeans must’ve lost a fight with a lawn mower. A backpack carried the rest of his life.
The man stammered, “Thought you’d get some. Maybe tap third base.”
“I’ma beat your ass!” Wash popped up so fast, I nearly did a tuck and roll.
The guy didn’t wait for legal consultation. He took off.
“Baby, wait,” I shouted, grabbing his biceps. “We don’t know if dude is freaky or disturbed.”
Washington kicked at the grass and planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head.
“Hey.” I climbed up and held him from behind as he glared off into the distance. I reached up onto my tippy-toes and kissed the back of his neck, and then I muttered, “I sorta need to get to work.”
“For that dude? Omari Riche?”
Oops. Got yourself again, you self-snitch.
“Yes …” I outlined my deal with Omari. Except I omitted bullet point C, which detailed the imitation concept.
Reproductions, Maddy. Waving a hand, I added, “It’s only a few hours.
Like I said, he has a deal with the glassblowing studio.
He also mentioned introducing me to his HomeGoods and TJ Maxx connect. ”
Washington’s brows lifted, and he nodded. “Show me any contracts you signed with him and anything you plan to sign in the future regarding HomeGoods and TJ.”
“Okay. Future contracts.”
“I said signed, Maddy. As in, past contracts.” Washington opened the duffel, and I shoved the blankets in.
“And I’m saying, okay. For future stuff. We don’t live in the past.”
My man blinked. “You didn’t sign any contracts with him for the art you’ve already completed, Madison?”
“No. I’ve already signed one weak-sauce contract with a guy, and signing stuff gives me hives.
” I stood, arms folded. “But listen, I’ve seen all the invoices and some of the bank statements for the items we’ve already sold, Wash.
Besides, we’re art people. We don’t care about no damn contract. ” Big Lie.
My ex-husband stared down at me. After glancing around, I engaged in his staring match, then I sighed.
It was best to change the subject. “Wash, we had better get out of here. Audubon Park isn’t officially open yet.
And we’re in the historic Uptown, so the fines are probably more expensive than anywhere else. ”
“I’m still on the contract part, Madison.”
I chuckled. “We have spreadsheets. You love spreadsheets. And I don’t even think you match his accounting acumen. His books and financials are better than yours. Will you be jealous if he does my taxes next year?”
“How could you not sign a contract?” Washington rasped as he hitched the duffle bag over his shoulder, and we started walking through the park.
Man, I loved his annoyed rasp.
“Wash, baby, let’s enjoy the day.” My focus shifted from his gaze to the watercolor-like spread of morning light over Audubon, with soft golds blending into mossy greens. “See? Such tranquil scenery.”
Washington looped an arm around my waist as we walked.
After we crossed the street, I said, “Hey, meet me around two. If you don’t care that I’m still in yesterday’s outfit, let’s create something with the beginner class.”
“Okay.” Washington threw the duffel into the cargo area of the Land Rover. “I’ll get your car out of the pound. If it’s not too expensive. You need a toothbrush? I don’t mind you wearing the same clothes, but …”
“Wash-ing-ton! Just because I don’t have a bunch of extra clothing in my car.” I shook my head, remembering I’d left Daewoo behind bars. “Anyway, I have an extra toothbrush and floss in my purse. Now stop.”
The heat hit me the second I stepped near the furnace, a rush of air heavy with fire and molten metal. I breathed in deep. Man, I loved that smell. With my hair pulled up and my apron tied tight, I leaned in, shaping the molten glass as it swirled and glowed on my punty rod.
Okay, Francisco, I feel you even if you died like seventy years ago. This design, although created in the 1930s, was giving ancient Rome. I had spent almost an hour coaxing the vase into the elegant artwork of someone else, not mine. But it still seemed older.
At a movement on the studio’s farthest side, I glanced up from behind the face shield.
Oh no. My eyes landed on Washington. He’d changed into something more laid-back than his usual slacks. Khaki sweats and a matching sweatshirt softly molded to his muscles.
“You’re early,” I deadpanned. Lawd, please don’t let him recognize this vase. Wait. I was tripping. He was a man. He probably thought it was good enough to hold a dozen roses or beer. This Philippe design, unlike the others, came with a handle, giving it a mug-like quality. “Touch nothing.”
He smirked. “I don’t touch. I observe. And provide moral support.”
His moral support felt more like a death wish as I watched him grin at me and almost risked a third-degree burn. For that face, I might stare at him until I smelled the dank scent of barbecued flesh. My BBQ’d flesh.
Finished, I placed my vase in the annealing kiln.
He put down a shopping bag in his hands and clapped. “Good job. Very artsy. And vase-y.”