Thirteen
Uncounted sketches later, León finally saw movement inside Celia’s house. She emerged from her entry hall, walking loosely, dropping her purse on the couch. She’d been out socially, it looked like. The turquoise thing she was wearing…wow. Look at those curves, blue like the pool, like his painting.
He had to convince her.
She was going to skewer him, and he deserved it. He walked up to the house, to the slaughter.
She noticed him at the sliding door, illuminated by her interior lights. Her face didn’t go blank as it usually did. Instead, her eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, cheeks flamed red, mouth flattened to a line. León felt a mixture of pride and worry at her feeling and showing anger. And disgust. Disappointment. Hurt. Uh, not good. He was going to have to work hard to explain.
He looked a plea through the window, shocked when she came to open it rather than disappearing again.
“You stood me up,” she said flatly. “Do you have a good reason?”
“Yes and no. Yes. Please let me tell you.”
She opened up and waved him in. He was too relieved to wonder why.
She went to lean against the kitchen island in her familiar spot at the stove, but when he walked toward her, she waved him sharply to the other side. Contrite, he went where she pointed but climbed onto his knees in one of the tall stools, leaning his upper body on the island closer to her. She retreated to lean against the sink, keeping distance between them.
He drank in the sight of her. Her skin was smooth and tawny against the turquoise dress, the palette necklace’s thin chain draped over her collarbones. She stared at the floor instead of meeting his look, hair pulled back so he could clearly see her cheeks, rosy with pique all the way to her ears.
He felt irrational jealousy toward the person she’d dressed up for. It could have been him.
“You said you’d help me paint today,” she said, reaching to straighten the knobs on her stove. “It meant something to me, León.”
He hunched into his shoulders, looking up at her. She glared at the stove, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I know,” he said, uncomfortably aware that his actions had spoken louder.
“You promised,” she said quietly, throat tight.
“I ran away,” he admitted, ducking his head to try and catch her eyes. “I’m sorry, Celia. Again. I’ve been really stupid this week.”
“You’ve got that right.” She looked toward the dim hallway, maybe toward escape. “What about me is so scary that you ran away?”
“It’s not you,” he said, “it’s the painting. It scared the hell out of me this morning, and it took a while to figure out why.” He frowned, impatient for her to relent and look at him.
“You ran away from your own painting?”
“Yes.” He reached out a hand, but she pulled hers back until he withdrew. “Look, I have something big to ask you, and it’s too soon, and I don’t know how you’ll take it.”
The knobs on the stove couldn’t be straighter, but she went back to aligning them minutely, her knuckles white.
She wasn’t going to relent more than this. It was time to ask.
“Do you know what it is to be a muse?”
She finally met his eyes briefly, disgusted. “I’m not dumb.”
When she clicked a knob once more, he laid out across the island and impatiently pulled it off. He turned it over and over in his hands as her lips set into a line.
“But do you know about the relationship? It’s an artist being inspired by you, using you for their works.” He shifted again on the chair, pulling back to sit higher. “Art needs absolute transparency. Truth is hard to see in yourself, so the artist shows the truth of their muse, like holding up a mirror. It needs a lot of trust.”
Gently, he set the knob down and slid it silently to her. She didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she leaned against the sink again and crossed her arms. The flush rising up her chest and neck told him she was only acting at being impassive.
“Trust, after today?” she asked. “You can’t seriously be asking me to be your muse.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t asking. She already was.
“I’ve never had a muse,” he said. “It’s intimidating. It can go wrong.” Leaning toward her again, he tucked his hair behind an ear and took a deep breath. “Even when it works, it can go wrong. Like John and Yoko. Some of his best work was done with her. But he was credited, and she was treated terribly. We got great art out of it, but she bore the cost.”
She looked at him fully, finally, rubbing absently at her arms. “And this is how you’re selling it to me?”
He didn’t mind her sarcasm. She was looking at him, talking with him. He could get through to her. “There’s Frida Kahlo and Diego what’s-his-name. She painted him a lot. They were together for decades.”
“Happily?”
“Okay, not always. You see why I got scared?” He hopped down from the chair with a loud scrape. “The thing is, it’s too late. Come on, I can show you.”
As he rounded the island, her eyes widened in mistrust. She’d see, though! He could make her understand. He reached out to take her hand, and she fell back another step.
“León, I don’t want—”
He grabbed her wrist and gently pulled. “It’s important!”
He began towing her, and she followed, not quite unwilling but still holding back.
He dragged her to the pool house, muscling open the sliding glass door and setting her in front of the painting. The lamp by the bed shone too dimly, but he found his clip light near the easel. He shone it on the artwork, the blues glittering like jewels. She would see.
···
Celia felt her resistance crack. She’d sworn that this time he wouldn’t break through her guard with his outrageous ideas, but…the painting. She hadn’t seen it up close since he finished. She could feel it like the statues in the Louvre. She felt the same flush of recognition, the same understanding of what was being said.
Vulnerability. Her body, floating in flashing water until you looked closer. Made of abstract shapes and shadows, more layered colors than body parts or skin, that one curve he seemed obsessed with as the main feature. The figure was calm, but maybe it shouldn’t be. There was a whiff of menace. How had he shown that?
He was good. So good.
He held the light further back. “I realized this morning. Look. See this shadow?” He traced the darker area with a finger. “It’s threatening. I thought it was your story, but it’s mine.”
She followed his gesture but not his meaning.
“It panicked me,” he said low. “I don’t want to be blind to my own work. But, Celia, it proves that you’re my muse. I painted you but accidentally painted me.”
Her heartbeat fluttered as he turned to her, flicking off the little light and fidgeting with it nervously in his hand. The low orange light illuminated half of his face, suddenly close to hers. His eyes were nearly black, pinning her in place.
“The truth is,” he said, “we’re both threatened. I can’t fail at painting, and you can’t fail at…well, being a part of art. We can succeed if you just agree!”
She eyed him. He believed that?
At her silence, he reached out to grasp her upper arm with his free hand. She tensed, but his fingers were gentle.
“You are already my muse,” he insisted.
His fingers tightened. Her whole body flushed awake as he stepped closer.
“Think what we can make,” he said. “This painting is just the start. We both need this.”
She felt a tremor in his hand, his palm hot on her skin. He believed that.
She finally spoke, but weakly. “What would I have to actually do? Just pose?”
His chest swelled, anticipation lighting his face. “Posing, yes, but I have to learn you, learn everything you feel. It could take months. Maybe more.”
The pressure she felt to say yes! But he’d been right earlier; it was too big, too soon. And all about him, his grand, intense wants!
“Why me?” she stalled.
She realized his breath was coming fast and shallow. Hers too.
“I don’t know why,” he said. “I just know it’s you.”
Her body answered with a slow, hot burn.
Her head needed to rule, though. She needed time to think. Telling him everything she felt for months? Was he going to be this mercurial and intense the whole time? Did he even deserve it after today? There were too many questions.
He was waiting impatiently for her assent, breath held. The compulsion she felt to just agree was daunting, but she would not be bullied into this. She would decide for herself.
“Maybe,” she finally said.
His eyes widened. “Maybe?”
“I need to think.”
He flinched, color draining from his cheeks. “You need to think?!”
He fell back a step, staring at her. His brows lowered, jaw dropping. He was shaking his head, his shoulders squaring to face her.
Careful, her body thrummed. She tensed, poised.
León’s hands raised, fingers raking through his hair, but he winced as the clip light still in his hand tangled and caught. With a frustrated cry, he turned and threw the light into the darkness of the pool house. It clattered loudly across the floor.
Celia lurched backward. “Don’t!” she gasped.
He turned pained eyes back to her and saw her cower. “You don’t understand,” he groaned. He wilted in front of her, hanging his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes and forehead.
“León,” she breathed.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He’d clearly thought she would agree. As she watched warily, he moved to the daybed and sank onto it.
“Why do you have to know right now?” she asked, fingers clasped tightly in front of her. “There’s time, right?”
He exhaled heavily, running his hands through his hair successfully this time. “I’ve been searching for this kind of inspiration my whole life,” he said. “If you won’t help, it’s over.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
“I’ll have to go home,” he continued, “find something else to do with my life.”
She sidled a step forward, still alert. “I don’t see why you’d have to give up painting.”
He raised an imploring face to her. “I’m not going to find inspiration like you again. I’ve been looking!” He pressed his hands against flushed cheeks. “My parents gave me this chance, and I’ll fail them. This means everything.”
He looked so desolate that she sat next to him gingerly. She never could see someone beaten without wanting to help, and this was…him. León.
“Your parents will still love you, right?” He wouldn’t meet her eyes, shoulders hunched, uncharacteristically still. She leaned in. “You’re more than just a painter, you’re their son. You’re kind and thoughtful. You care.”
He shook his head silently. Celia still didn’t understand his conviction but empathized with his despair. That feeling she recognized.
When she was low, Andrew’s antidote was to tell her he liked for who she was. Could she do the same? How would he react?
She braced herself and tried to find truth.
“I would like you even if you didn’t paint, León. I’m…I’m sad to see you doubt yourself.” Her throat ached from the tension, her hands trembled. The risk of putting this into words! Her whole body quailed, vulnerable. “I like you when you’re just you. You’re more than a painter to me.”
···
León hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear that—from anyone—until she said it. Painting was what made him special, excused his worst behavior. Without it, he’d just be lousy, egotistical León.
He really didn’t deserve her kindness after today.
Hell, she was telling him her feelings, all on her own, just to make him feel better.
When he still didn’t respond, Celia shuddered out a breath, gathered her legs under her, and stood.
Leaving?
He raised his head, reaching for her hand. She paled, eyes flying to his fingers grasping hers, then to his face as he stood up slowly. He didn’t let go, his implacable hand gripping hers. No fumbling this time. He stood close, his hand tightening on hers.
“I like you too, Celia,” he said low. “Don’t go.”
Celia’s tentative face slowly eased, lips parted, her breaths shallow. Look at her, every tense line softening, a lovely understanding stealing across her face.
Her face lifted to him, and she met his lips with her own.
The soft touch of her mouth stunned him, finality thudding in his chest. This time he knew he was all in. Andrew could go fuck himself. Celia belonged to him.
His other hand lifted to stroke her hair, tucking it back so he could cup her cheek, holding her face to his as his lips tasted hers for the third time. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, feeling her shiver under the touch.
His blood rushed, but time stood still.
She brought up her own hand, sliding it behind his neck. Her fingers tickled, cool and smooth, brushing softly against his skin. She parted her lips to tentatively touch her tongue to his.
Jesus, why had he fought this?
Tightening his grasp, his mouth moved on her roughly, hungrily, his tongue seeking hers.
···
Celia reeled, heat radiating through her. He felt so good!
León swayed back just enough to look at her once again. In the low light, his eyes were black with both satisfaction and hunger. His intensity, when focused, hit like a sledgehammer. Celia felt it deep in her chest.
“Reinita,” he murmured.
Oh, did she like that word. It made her smile.
His crooked smile in return stole her breath. He stepped back long enough to tug his shirt over his head.
How could her heart pound even harder?
His shoulders flexed as he tossed his shirt behind him to the floor. She eagerly took in his warm brown arms, the sensitive hands she’d imagined on her. She shivered.
Eyes roaming lower, she saw those loose jeans, the waistband falling a bit too low on his hips.
She swallowed, her skin anticipating his touch. This was happening.
His breaths were quickening, matching hers. He stepped up to her again, slipping two fingers under the blue-green dress at her shoulder, skimming her skin as he traced the wide neckline to find the single button. His fingers tickled the baby hairs at the back of her neck as he undid it, raising delicious goosebumps. Eyes still on hers, he drew the soft fabric toward him, letting it collapse to her waist.
She undid the belt for him.
His fingers stroked delicately down to her collarbone, his eyes darkening when she inhaled sharply. Each touch burned her skin, and she struggled to remain still, just feeling where he would wander next. His hands arrived at the straps of her bra, and he slid them down her arms to expose her to him.
Breath catching, León took each of her breasts in his hands, lifting them slightly with his palms, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, watching them harden. His lips curved, the desire in his eyes melting her. His hands moved lower, eyes following, skimming down her sides to the dress, hanging to her waist.
One hand found hers, and he lifted it in the air, directing her to turn almost like a dance. With her back to him, he unhooked her bra and tossed it into the darkness, then pushed her dress off her hips to the floor. When she started to turn back, he stopped her.
“Wait,” he said, moving closer behind her, face hovering over her shoulder. “Look.”
She followed his gaze past her to the dark window. The low light reflected her murkily, the polarized film tinting her nearly-nude reflection a faint pearly purple. She had only moments to be amused before his hands traveled around her from behind to caress her bare skin.
···
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, but León watched their reflection.
It was another moment he had to remember—to paint. In his arms, Celia was warm flesh and scent and movement. He was free to explore her, the anticipation of it making his head swim. But in the window, he saw a shadowy mirror woman, faintly iridescent and indigo. She was shrouded, unobtainable, beckoning him with welcoming curves he could see his hands roaming, but untouchable.
He finally pressed his length against her from behind, pulling her body to him with one hand on a breast and one on her stomach, starting to slide lower. She inhaled as his fingers inched under the band of her panties and turned her head to his for a kiss. He was still sneaking a look at the reflection, his breath racing.
“León,” she murmured. He finally looked at her, the supple human within his reach. “If you are thinking about a painting, so help me god….”
“I’m not,” he said. “I mean, I can’t help it.”
She turned in his arms. “That light is going off.”
She left him, going down on one knee on the daybed and stretching to reach the lamp. He had just one second to see her, reaching forward with one arm, one leg stretched back to the floor. What a line, what a pose! Then the light was off, and he could only see her faintly in the reflected aqua light from the pool outside.
In a quick motion, he began unbuttoning his jeans. Celia turned back, standing, watching his fingers, lips parted.
He was done looking. It was time to feel those places his brush had gone first.
···
Celia sat back on the bed, the remnants of astonishment transforming into fierce hunger. His eyes were on her body, devouring the places he was about to touch.
When he stepped closer, she helped with his clothes, taking the opportunity to caress that tawny skin on his hips. He trembled, his hands clenched a fraction, but she saw him force himself still while she revealed his stiff erection, then bare thighs. He kicked the jeans completely off and then joined her on the cot, a knee between hers. She leaned back onto her elbows as he pushed gently on her shoulder.
“I’ve thought so many times about touching you here,” he murmured, running his fingers up her side. The curve he found so fascinating. It tickled. Possessive satisfaction flowed in his voice. “Jesus, Celia.”
Roughly, he leaned into her, sliding an arm behind her and tilting his head down for another kiss. She couldn’t resist running her hands up his back, wanting him just a few inches closer.
His other hand roamed her side and hip, his mouth still on hers. He explored it with his tongue, pressing her back onto the pillow. It was exquisite torture, every fiber in her aflame, demanding more touches, more kisses. She knew from his uneven breathing and the slight tremor in his hands that he was done waiting too. She began drawing him atop her with demanding hands, urging silently that this slow torment give way to action.
He gave in. His weight pressed her down, his hips hard between her legs, his rigid cock hot against her belly.
“León,” she pleaded.
He rested his forehead against hers, lips parted, breathing heavy. His weight shifted as he reached down between her to position himself between her wet lips, then slowly pushed in. A fiery shock wave traveled up her entire body. He groaned as she tilted her hips to meet him closer. She clutched his shoulders, pulled his head to her neck, and finally ran her fingers through that mane of sleek black hair.
He slowly stroked out, then back in, pressing hard. Every part of their bodies fit together perfectly. It was mindless, just the joy of touch and pleasure. He was fighting to go slowly, lavishly, but losing the battle as she twisted underneath him, meeting his hips with hers in spontaneous synchronicity, striving against each other but together.
His rhythm was sure, measured, with long slow strokes. Every one raised the stakes, bringing her fractionally closer to ecstasy, her body tenser, whimpers wrung from her throat each time he thrust in. He was slowly fanning the flame in her with every slick movement.
His panting against her neck was rough, small moans starting to tickle against her skin. Sweat was slick between their bodies, the tension increasing until she felt she might snap. His length slid smoothly into her, effortlessly caressing every sensitive spot.
The sensations were peaking, far too overwhelming to resist, unbearable. León’s cries matched hers, pushing her further, but his hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers sent her over the edge. She shuddered at that crest, León pausing as she wrestled under him. His hand tightened on hers.
“Mi cielo,” he whispered, his throat tight.
The climax faded, leaving behind the sweetest lingering feeling throughout her body. She clutched León to her, fighting to catch her breath.
“More,” she whispered. He slowly resumed his motion, shuddering himself. He’d been close, and the pause had strained his control. He moved in her with abandon, making her gasp.
“You’re mine,” he was whispering, pleading, repeating. “Say it.” Her reply was to buck against him, driving him further. He surged into her, clinging fiercely as he rode out his own release. She stroked his dark hair as he panted and whimpered brokenly into her skin. Finally, he quieted, nuzzling and sighing.
“I won’t say it,” she murmured, “but I’m not mad anymore.”
He chuckled, his face still buried in her neck, his hair sticking to her damp cheek.
“You will,” he breathed against her.
···
The daybed could barely hold them both. León tried to keep his weight off her and, amid caresses and amused wriggling, they found a comfortable spot, entwined closely face to face. It suited him perfectly.
Her face, palely outlined by the watery light, lay inches from his. It was enough, bumping at her gently with his nose, kissing her sweet lips whenever he wanted. Fingers tracing any skin they could reach, they exchanged little nothings that sounded like everythings. His vision wasn’t needed here. Her voice could be silent. The whole dusky world was touch and response, wanting and granting.
“What is the word you called me?” she whispered as he teased at her hair with his free hand. “It sounded like my name, but not.”
“Mi cielo,” he murmured back. “It means ‘my sky’ or ‘my heaven.’ Celia, mi cielo. It fits.”
They exchanged their hundredth smiles. Just to feel her move quietly next to him was his heaven.
“Encantadora musa,” he said softly. When her brows lifted in question, he translated again. “You’re my charming muse.”
Her sigh was blissful. “Talk to me more,” she breathed. “In Spanish.” She ran her hand down his back to trace his hip, lovely eyes half closed and content.
She hadn’t pushed back. She really was his.