Twenty
León quietly navigated the dark kitchen, stopping to lean against the dining room doorway. “Celia?”
Her face, hovering in the darkness, turned up to him immediately. She sat at the dining table, lit from below by only her laptop screen.
“It’s late,” he said. “Come to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought if I could write enough of it down, I could sleep.”
“I’ll help you sleep.” He let his hand slip down the door frame, the whisper of his palm against the wall curiously louder in the dark. She smiled.
The sudden urge to paint washed through him. He saw charcoals and midnight blues around her and Celia’s face softly illuminating the night like the moon. For a minute, she was the source of light, not the computer.
Then she closed the lid, winking the image away.
“Big night for both of us,” she sighed as she rounded the table, guileless in her sweats, and slipped her hands around his waist.
“We’re just getting started.” He reached up to brush back her hair, tucking it behind an ear. He could barely see her face, the moonlight outside filtering in to trace its curves.
She leaned her hips against him, and he felt that rush start in his blood. His Celia.
“Did you enjoy your opening night?” she asked, those wonderful eyes of hers looking up at him through those wonderful lashes. “I’m sorry if I stole some of your attention.”
“No more sorries.” He planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “We were there for hours. It was plenty.”
She nestled against him. “It felt like minutes.”
“I know.” He stepped back, reaching up to capture one of her hands as she released him. “Make no mistake, tomorrow I’ll gush about being in this show. I thought you’d want time tonight to make your lists.” He stepped back again, pulling on her wrist so she’d follow. Then he paused and stopped pulling. He wouldn’t like it if she towed him around, would he?
She followed anyway. “Things really will change now, won’t they?”
He turned for the bedroom, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Not everything.”
···
The leasing agent was eager to show the warehouse, and Celia met him an hour before the gallery opened. She’d wandered the first floor, of course, but never explored it with an eye to ownership. A tiny fear kept buzzing in her; could she find another building if this one was wrong?
But it was perfect.
The open main floor smelled of art—pine wood and stretched canvas and varnish and oil and clay. She hadn’t noticed last night, the scents too fragile to compete with the perfume and wine of a gala. The old brick walls soared over a dozen feet to iron rafters and sprinklers and a constellation of halogen light fixtures. Fan blades moved a mild breeze of clean air, their simple white noise masking the sounds of the city street outside.
When the artworks went home to their makers, the room would again be a ready sanctuary, a simple brick shell waiting for creation to refill it. Celia felt the room’s potential like a tangible thing, a shiver, a caress.
Across the smooth cool floor, long crosshatched paths of sunlight fell from tall paned windows, and Celia could envision her fledgling artists working there. Fed and bathed in sunlight, their art would be born into the world.
The arched alcoves along the back could be small classrooms. To the left of the front door, gallery shelves could be built. The whole warehouse could blossom with colored oils, ring with welded metal, flow with curves of clay. And Celia herself could finally contribute, leaning into her real talents to organize and feed and house her residents.
She stopped to look at León’s paintings in their warm little corner. They were a touch of home, welcoming her to the building. They’d just moved in before she had.
An original iron staircase on the southern wall led to the second floor. It had been painted many times over the years, its handrail cool under Celia’s palm, imperfectly ridged with layers of glossy black paint. The stairs opened onto a new wide bare space, twin to the floor below. It held desks and filing cabinets and racks upon racks of art. Here, practicality and dreams met; the backbone of Celia’s plan. She could wall off small offices for the staff she’d need, then fill the center of the room with dormer-style beds and cubbies. By this floor’s front windows, she could build a communal living space with a kitchen and couches. Creation would thrive below, but this floor would be for the mess of living.
Celia’s footsteps on the next flight of iron stairs set it ringing quietly. The third floor, in unused disrepair, was brilliantly lit and dry. Dust stirred by Celia’s feet floated into columns of sun from the domed skylights. She could live up here, after walling off most of the floor for the storage she’d inevitably need. She didn’t need much space herself.
A smaller final stair led to the mottled tarpaper roof. Stepping out into the open air, Celia looked over the stuccoed buildings and businesses of the neighborhood. Downtown LA rose behind palm trees and bridges, only the tops of the buildings visible through the hazy autumn morning light. The air sang with the burr of cars and trains, pops of music from a distant market square, the bark of a dog on the sidewalk below.
She turned in a slow circle, breathing in the possibilities. This was a different kind of sanctuary–no pool, no distant view down the canyon. Instead, this building cupped her in full hands, embracing her purpose and potential. A wind rustled nearby palm trees, their tops almost at eye level. She was up high! She’d be giving up floating to start flying.
Trailing back down the stairs, head filling with lists, Celia knew. She could feel deep in her bones that this was her place.
There were a million tough decisions ahead of her, and it felt heavenly. She didn’t mind if she lost every penny failing as long as she got to try. With the agent locking up behind her, she pulled out her phone. Next stop, her financial planner.
···
León heard her close the front door, returning home. It had been strange, alone in the house without her quiet presence. He’d touched up all the paintings he could work on without her and desperately wanted her to sit more, but he should let her rest tonight. She’d been out on her project for most of the day.
Meeting her in the hallway, seeing her face lit like sunshine made the whole quiet day worth it.
“It’s going to work,” she said, blissful.
She beamed when she saw he’d cooked supper. Why hadn’t he thought of doing this before? They ate the grilled cheese sandwiches—his specialty—at the kitchen island, her planning already taking over the dining table.
She laughed and chattered about her warehouse. Look at her glowing!
“I couldn’t get my mind off you all day,” he said, and she glowed even brighter. Seeing her this happy was new. He loved it.
She followed him after their meal to the studio room to see the work he’d gotten done. Paintings lined the room, leaning against the walls, too wet to stack.
“Do you want me to pose?”
He shook his head. “That’s too much for one day, Celia. You still have some lists to make, I’ll bet. Maybe tomorrow around lunch?”
She nodded assent, looking closely at the nearly completed green painting.
He picked up a brush from where it’d been buried in yellow-green paint, keeping wet, and looked around for his cleaning gear. He hadn’t finished putting his things away before starting to cook. Celia found his jars sitting on a dining room chair he’d brought in. Paint stained the seat. His stomach sank.
“Oh no. I forgot to cover that.”
She waved it off, careless and smiling. He handed her the brush, turning to reach for a rag. In the scant moment before he turned back, she lit up with an impish energy. He couldn’t help but stare, her eyes alight and a mischievous curl on her lips.
She reached out and painted a stripe of green on the back of his hand. Surprise jolted through him.
“Paint gets everywhere,” she said with a barely straight face.
Who was this new woman? “You’re going to do me like that?”
She giggled and dabbed green onto his cheek. That paint was cold!
“You’ll make another mess,” he said, surprise fading into fascination. “Be careful.”
“Then stand still.”
He instantly complied. She drew a wobbly line down his nose, another little laugh spilling out.
“Spontaneous expression,” she said.
A shiver tickled down his spine as she drew a line down his neck. Look at her, so playfully intent, her glee so different from his usual somber girl.
She paused, scanning him for another likely stretch of bare skin, and he eagerly pulled off his shirt. “Here, you need more canvas.”
“I need more paint, too.”
He was quick to hand her the closest tube, and she squeezed a huge glob of yellow into her palm. What?
Lowering her face and looking up at him through her lashes, she painted a stripe across each of his collarbones. “Beautiful,” she teased.
That spark under his skin ignited. He’d never imagined that night would lead here, and certainly had never pictured her so confident. She was incredibly exciting this way, lit up with whimsy! Had he ever seen her unreservedly happy? She was mesmerizing.
He needed to paint her like this, but first—he reached for her. She stopped him with the paintbrush, fending him off and leaving paint across his knuckles.
“No. I am the painter tonight. I direct you.”
His heart skipped. Jesus, look at the light in her eyes.
She held the brush high, like a magic wand, a conductor’s baton. A new giggle escaped her.
“Lay on the floor,” she said. “I will pose you.”
He scrambled down into her usual spot, the drop cloth rough against his palms. He leaned back onto his elbows, waiting.
She ducked behind his canvas a few times, popping her head out to look at him cheekily. Finally, she stopped and stared, her eyelids lowering lazily as her gaze slowly roamed every inch of him. Ha ha.
“Do I—”
“Shhh.” She pretended to consider him, amusement shining from pink cheeks. The little crinkles at her eyes were adorable. He could stare at her like this forever.
“Lay back.”
He did as directed.
“Arms out to your sides. Leg slightly bent. Back arched. Neck back.”
Like he was floating.
She left the canvas and brush, bringing the tube of paint. Devilish, imperious, she loomed. Then she slowly removed her blouse and bra with her clean hand as he watched from the floor, trembling with the effort of staying still.
Jesus, she was beautiful.
She lowered herself to the floor, sitting atop him, straddling his thighs. She squeezed more paint into a hand, then considered him. She chose to draw stripes up his ribs as he squirmed. The pleasure from her tickling touch might shatter him.
“Reinito,” she murmured. León couldn’t help it—a snort escaped him. “What?”
“It’s not right.”
She leaned forward, reaching to drag a stripe of cold paint onto an outstretched bicep. “How do I say it? I want a cute Spanish word to call you.”
“Traditionally,” he teased, “you’d call me papi.”
She sat up laughing. “Oh no! I am not calling you daddy!”
He had to smile along with her joy. The expressions on her face! The emotions! She was lovely, just goddamn radiant.
“How do I say ‘masterpiece?’” she asked.
“Obra maestra.”
She shook her head, then painted dots on his stomach with her fingertips. Each touch made his muscles tremble.
“No. How about ‘my painting’?”
“Mi pintura.”
She shook her head again. “‘My canvas.’”
“Mi lienzo.”
Her eyes burned. “That’s it. León, mi lienzo.” She bent close over him and stroked paint up his side. “Mi lienzo.”
León had no words. To hear her purr that in his ear…she was everything. He loved her this way.
Shock hit him like a sucker punch, knocking the air out of his lungs, his vision blurring around the edges as he saw the honest truth.
He was in love with Celia.
Of course he was.
He forced himself still as she, still playful and unaware, painted a long thick line down his chest onto his stomach, stopping only when she reached his jeans.
“Unbutton yourself before I ruin your clothes,” she said with a coy glance. The realization, the touches, and the cold paint all compounded. León found his fingers trembling almost too much to undo his jeans.
“Look,” she said as she stroked paint low across his stomach, eager to cover each bare inch of skin as it was revealed. “We found art I’m good at.”
Still shaking, he reached up to her cheek. He wasn’t going to be able to control himself much longer.
She surprised him once more by moving first, wrapping herself around him, and kissing him fiercely. This time it was her holding a wrist to the floor. This time it was her mouth on his neck, nipping and sucking, marking him. He was too dazed to contribute, lost in the feel of his woman taking the upper hand for the first time.
Her paint-covered hand fumbled to push his jeans away, and he raised his hips to assist, senseless at her unusual aggression. Anything she wanted! She palmed him, already hard, over his briefs as she explored his mouth with her tongue, panting. When her fingers began slipping under his waistband, though, she paused, pulling back.
She had yellow and green paint all over her face from where she’d pressed it against his. He almost laughed. She was gorgeous.
“The paint, is it safe? If I touch you there? It won’t sting or…?”
He shook his head. “Bad idea,” he said, breathless.
She grinned. “Rinse off first?”
He nodded mutely. If that’s what she wanted, then yes. Anything.
He barely made it to his feet before she grabbed his wrist and led him across the hall, through to the master bathroom.
He’d been wrong. He didn’t mind her towing him at all.
She tugged open the glass shower door, threw the water on, and hurriedly pulled off the rest of her clothes as it heated. León followed suit, watching her greedily. Her coppery skin was striped in war paint from having embraced him. Her breasts, daubed with gold…his next painting swam in his eyes.
He followed her into the white-tiled shower under the stream of hot water. She wasted no time, slipping wet arms around his hips and pulling him closer. God, she felt perfect, her smooth skin gliding against him. As their bodies finally pressed together, he reached to kiss her, water running down both their faces, washing the paint away.
Her lips parted, her insistent tongue eager in his mouth. She pressed him back against the tile, kissing hungrily. Both panted shallowly, hands roaming freely across each other’s wet skin.
“Jesus, mi cielo,” he breathed into her. Her knee rose, her thigh sliding up his leg, his stiff length pressed hard against her. His hand slipped down to hold her leg, and she reached down to grab his wrist tightly. Her new intensity had him reeling.
The hot water splashed noisily onto her shoulders and back, spattering them both. He had to close his eyes, and the world became only touch and sound. The hard tile at his back and Celia’s slick skin sliding past his…her frantic breaths fighting his…he was lost.
“Here,” she whispered between kisses. “I want you right here.”
He was beyond responding. Her mouth moved down to his jaw, then she bit lightly at his neck again. Pain, pleasure, he didn’t know what he felt. He didn’t care.
Then she was disengaging, her body leaving him. He opened his eyes in alarm, water dashing into them. She moved backward, arm extended, until she stood against the far tiled wall. He nearly slipped in his rush for her, frantic to be enfolded by her body again.
His impact smacked her shoulders against the wall, and she raised her face, laughing toward the ceiling. This joyous goddess of his, this vital gold-skinned siren—he wrapped himself around her, beggared, in the steam and heat.
Her hands slid down his bare back, over his hips, pressing her mound against him. His mouth was on hers, fierce, trying to pull her slippery body closer. Words tumbled from him, but he was beyond knowing what he said.
She put one foot on the shower seat, tilting her hips up to him. His arm slid under her knee again, hand grasping at her hip.
He slid the tip of his cock between her lips, bringing gasps from both. Their eyes locked. Pressing her against the wall with his full weight, he pushed into her deeply. Her cry, her arms clutching at his shoulders, felt as good as her slick hot body taking him in. He sucked in a harsh breath, slowly stroked back out, then in again.
“Cielito,” he breathed, “mi amor, yes.” His hand squeezed her hip, holding tight so he could thrust inside again. He whispered her name with each stroke, fucking her fiercely under the pounding water.
His mouth found hers again as the pleasure built to new heights. His free hand scrambled over her, roughly finding her wet breast. He whimpered brokenly, small gasps being torn from him as he kissed her hungrily, thrusting harder.
Under his hand, her hip muscles bunched and slammed into his. “Yes, god, yes,” he panted, his whole body tense. He bent his knees to thrust even harder, lifting her to her toes each time he filled her.
Her rhythmic gasps became mewling cries, matching their motions. The sensations grew too intense, too close. As he buried his face in her neck, thrusting hard, her body exploded against him, her head knocking back against the tile. He felt her shudder and writhe against him, supporting her weight as he could, slowing his pace to let her release subside. But he couldn’t stop. He cradled the back of her head to him, his ragged breaths muffled against her skin.
With slow, deep, final thrusts, the world erupted, his body shuddering with pleasure. He clutched at her desperately.
For long moments they just clung to each other in the water, breathing hard, nearly in unison.
Incredible. Perfection. She was everything.
Finally, León slipped himself out of her. He kissed her again, his mouth everywhere in the water, on her lips, then her ear, then her neck. “My girl, my amazing girl,” he murmured. “Tell me you belong to me. Please, reina.”
She gently reached to touch his neck where she’d marked him, and he flinched.
“Mi lienzo, this time I claimed you.”