Twenty Two
Celia awoke to León’s usual antics. He was already stroking her side, snuggled close, his unshaven cheek rough against hers.
“I’m waking you,” he whispered. “Is it working? Say yes.”
Celia stretched, wishing for a snooze alarm, but those hands felt nice. “Bring me tea, and we’ll talk,” she yawned, knowing full well he wouldn’t be distracted.
His fingers tickled their way down her bare hip. “You haven’t said yes yet. Say yes.” Her smile said yes, but he enjoyed the convincing. “Say yes,” he whispered into her ear, sliding his other hand over her breast, teasing her nipple. She turned to face him. “Say yes,” he murmured, his lips an inch from hers.
This man. “Yes.”
He took it easy with long slow kisses, caressing and petting her, teasing every inch of her skin. Then, slowly, he woke her with sensitive fingers and kisses in unexpected places. The comforter was soon discarded, and he spread her out in the fragile morning light, kissing every inch downward until her very nerve endings were glowing.
When he brushed that unshaven cheek against her inner thigh, Celia was ready to beg. He flashed his charming grin, teasing with kisses between her legs, no tongue, no fingers, but only for a few minutes. He was too focused to wait long.
His tongue was warm on her folds, lavishly stroking and exploring. He was tender and wicked, sometimes sucking, sometimes teasing with the tip of his tongue. He had her hips off the mattress in no time, helping to support them with his hands as he buried his mouth on her.
Celia thrashed and shivered, waves of pleasure surging in her from his silky tongue. It was heavenly torture. All too soon, she felt that flood of rapture and cried out his name, lost.
He climbed back up the bed to wrap his arms around her shoulders as her breathing started returning to normal.
“Good morning.” He teased some sweaty curls off her temples.
Celia was pleasantly exhausted, but of course he still had energy to spare. León kissed and coddled and placed her hand on his stiff member, encouraging her with specific directions. He could be persuasive.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he kept whispering but didn’t make it that far. Her hand stroking him felt too good, and every time she slowed, he took her wrist and directed her back. She knew he wouldn’t climb atop her when the Spanish began—words she now knew meant ‘good’ and ‘faster’ and ‘queen.’ He came in her hands quickly, shuddering against her, his face buried in her neck.
They drowsed together, entwined and sweaty and spent, until León’s energy rebounded. He hitched himself up to lean on an elbow next to her, cheek resting on a hand, and tickled her face with a lock of his hair until she giggled.
“I need to paint you today, Celia Rose. Maybe something blue,” he said, jiggling a foot against hers. “The blue shadows in here are so pretty. You’re so pretty.” He was in his playful morning mood.
“Do I get to pose in bed, then?”
“Would you? Sometimes I imagine a painting of you here.” He brushed her hair back. “I see you under me, or over me, or next to me. I love that. I want to see you like that all the time.”
“Well, here’s your chance. Live, not a picture.”
He teased her cheek with a fingertip. “I’ll take it.” He took a deep breath. “Damn, I am bought and sold.”
She felt a cold stirring of alarm. “What does that mean?”
“I’m off the market.” He grinned.
She smiled in relief and touched the fading yellow mark still on his neck. “You kind of have to be.”
He mock-pouted at her. “Aren’t you too, cielito? Off the market? I say something romantic, and you just say, ‘you have to be.’” He paused, looking at her more seriously. “You could tell me you’re mine.”
Again? Would he never get the hint?
“You belong to me, mi cielo,” he said with a confident smile. “I’ll capture your soul in paint and keep it. Will you finally say it?”
She looked away uncomfortably, and he went still. Oh lord. Deflect.
“Like, put my soul in a jar and seal it away? You don’t actually want that.”
He took her chin in his fingers, turning her face back to his. His eyes narrowed. “I do want that.”
“You can’t own a person!”
“Well, not legally!”
She laughed at the distinction in spite of herself. “You’re not being serious.”
Disbelief and annoyance twisted his features, his forehead furrowing. “I’m dead serious. I’ve been asking for it this whole time.”
“And I’ve been saying I won’t say it.” He reached for her wrist, but she evaded. “Don’t get masterful,” she said. “I will be with you, but you can’t own me.”
He stared for a moment, then got up to sit on the edge of the bed.
She looked at his back, turned on her. She’d hoped desperately that he was joking or talking about painting. She’d always known he wasn’t.
“You said last night you’d help,” he muttered to the wall. “That didn’t last long.”
She sat up, staring at her folded hands on the comforter. Guilt, really? “I can’t give you that, León.”
He bent, snatching his jeans from the floor in a fierce move, swiped roughly at his face, and left the room.
She sat in shock. How had that gone downhill so quickly?
She wasn’t dumb—he obviously meant he wanted some sort of commitment, though he sure never said what kind! Were her actions not enough? Was he so insecure that he needed to hear specific words he chose?
God, he could be exhausting. He didn’t mean to be controlling or manipulative; he was just so blinded by his grandiose ideas. But the anxiety, the pressure to give in, it was too much. He had to learn that she had ideas of her own.
She got up, pulling on her robe and following. León stood at the back door, buttoning his jeans, every line of him angry. His bare shoulders tightened in the pale morning light when he saw her. His eyes were red. It broke her heart, but she had to stay strong.
“Please,” she said. “Can’t we—”
“Just let me think, okay!” He held out a hand, warding her off. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he raised pained eyes to the ceiling. She remembered one of the nicest things she’d ever heard him say.
“It’s okay, don’t be scared.”
He pinned her with an anguished stare. “It’s not okay, and I am scared! You said you’d help, Celia! I finally found my muse, and we were going to outdo Frida and Diego, move back to New York in a few years, and….” He trailed off, hearing himself.
“Incubadora is here,” she said.
He grimaced. “You said taking care of me wasn’t enough, but what do you choose instead? To take care of people you haven’t even met! What about me? What about the art we were making?”
Unfair! “You’re still painting! I pose! And you know that Incubadora is going to be my art!”
“Why are you never honest with yourself?” he railed, balling his hands into fists. “It’s just a project, the big one that will finally fulfill you, right? You’re doing the same thing as always, working instead of feeling. I’m right here, and you’re…you’re abandoning me for them.”
Celia could feel tears stinging. “It’s not just a project! It’s my purpose!”
He pointed an angry finger at her. “You’re fooling yourself, Celia Rose!”
She reeled back, the words a punch to her gut.
A bitter, wounded snarl twisted his features and he stomped past her toward the front door.
She didn’t flinch. Betrayal crackling in every limb, anger a raw flame in her chest, Celia hit her limit. If he ran out now, she would lock that door behind him, permanently.
But as she seethed, he stopped at the hallway, bare back taut, sucking in a noisy deep breath. He steeled himself and turned back to her, a silent tantrum blazing on his face.
Fierce indignation torched through her. He wasn’t going to trample her this time. “I belong to myself,” she said carefully, tightly. “Fighting me on it, that’s a deal breaker for me.”
“Deal?” He threw his hands into the air, eyes wild. “You’re the one who keeps changing the deal! First you gave me everything, and now you can barely pose.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is! You were honest at first, a mirror for me! Then you needed this warehouse…Celia, don’t you see, the paintings are suffering!”
“I wouldn’t care if you never painted again!”
He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it wild and standing. “But you agreed! I told you being a muse was hard. Trust, commitment, emotional intimacy! I need you to promise. I need you to—”
He stopped, stricken.
···
He stared. Celia eyed him coldly, warily, from across the room.
Need. He needed her.
Jesus.
He had it all backward.
“I had it wrong,” he whispered.
His pulse quickened as he saw faint hope in her, hesitant but listening.
“I belong to you!” he crowed.
She drooped and sighed, shaking her head. “That’s the same thing, León, just reversed.”
“No, don’t you see?” He bounced, pointing at the faded mark on his neck. “You claimed me. It felt right, didn’t it? I’m the one that needs you. I’m yours!”
“I will not own you. No.” She crossed her arms.
He laughed. “You already do, Celia! It’s not a choice we made. It just…happened!”
“Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?”
“I fought it too, but I see now,” he said, heart pounding with relief. He gravitated toward her, but she held up a palm, retreating until she pressed against the tall window at her back. “Saying no doesn’t change the truth, reina. I’m at your feet.” He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers.
He knew her, knew that fluttering pulse in the hollow of her neck, her pink-stained cheeks, the tempest inside her waiting to be unleashed. He advanced until her hand, still raised to ward him off, pressed against his chest. He covered it with his own. Let her feel his heart beating as hard as hers.
“Celia, I love you.”
A deep, shaky sigh escaped her, but she didn’t move.
“You love me back, don’t you?”
Her hand trembled under his, but she stayed silent. The tension was too much—he pounced, knocking her against the window with his body.
“Why do you always hold back on me?” he growled, mouth taking hers roughly. His free hand reached for her shoulder, sliding under the collar of her robe, fingers curling at the base of her neck. He felt the hitch in her breathing, heard a whimper.
She gave in as always, her resistance snapping. She melted into him, reaching to thread fingers through his hair, pulling him close and kissing back frantically. He groaned into her.
He pushed the robe off her shoulder, nipped at her mouth. “Mi cielo,” he breathed. “Soy tuyo. I’m yours.”
She stiffened. He instantly felt the tension and eased back an inch, then swam in shock as she wrenched her hands back and pushed him away.
“No!” She was panting hard, her lower lip bruised. No, bloody. Just a little. Whoops.
Her tongue darted out, tasted the blood. Then she raised two fists to her chest and lifted her chin.
“You have manipulated me for the last time!”
What?
She was shaking, face beet red. “This is over.”
His mouth fell open. She wasn’t serious!
She stared at him, angry tears starting. “Get out.” Her voice was flat, final.
A chill washed over him. She couldn’t reject him—he needed her! Had she not heard anything he’d just said?
“You don’t mean it.”
“No means no!”
Fury rose. He stabbed at her with a finger. “This isn’t over!”
“Oh yes it is!”
Stumbling backward another step, León stared as an iron coldness stiffened her whole body. Her eyes were glacial, her mouth rigid. She marched toward him, and he retreated backward, chased into the hall. As she passed their bedroom door, she leaned in, one leg outstretched behind her as she leaned down. She reappeared with his hoodie from the floor, balling it up and throwing it at him. He caught it as it bounced off his bare chest.
“Get out!” she shrieked.
And so, he ran.
···
Stunned and frightened, León ran straight to Andrew’s, heart hammering for the entire car ride. Andrew knew them both, he’d know what to do. He took Celia’s side more than León had expected, though.
“Dude, that is a new kind of stupid,” Andrew said, mouth open in amazement. “No woman is going to agree to belong to someone. None.”
“She knows what I mean.” León’s footsteps echoed as he stomped his old pacing path from window to kitchen. “My paintings are there, my gear. She’ll have to let me in to collect it. I can talk to her then.”
“And say what? You’re sorry, and you’ll never bring it up again?”
León stopped at the front window, looking down at the empty pool below. “Fuck!” The word bounced off the close walls.
Andrew moved a pile of clothes off the couch. “How about you sit down, huh? Calm down a little.”
León wiped cold, clammy hands on his jeans. “I should just go back. I’ll apologize. She’ll listen.”
“Man, you are not as good at predicting Celia as you think.”
“I know her!”
“And yet here we are!” Andrew sat and patted the couch. “Come sit.”
León stalked into the kitchen.
“Celia can be a hard-ass,” Andrew said. “She bought that bitch mother a house a long way off.”
Back to the window. “So what?”
“So, you’re demanding things she won’t do. And now who’s banished?”
León bounced on the balls of his feet, prickly with adrenaline. A sickly cold weight was growing in his stomach. “Shit, Andrew. What do I do?”
“Grovel? Ask her to marry you? Is that close enough to owning her?”
“This is about painting!”
Andrew gave him a disgusted look. “Jesus. Stupid.”
León rubbed a hand over his hot face. The small apartment was closing in like a vise. He needed to get out.
“The painting is over,” Andrew said quietly. “You know that, right? She’s not letting you back in there.”
No. She couldn’t….
The room spun in on him. He had to go, catch his breath outside. “Why did I come out here?” he shouted. “I wish I’d never met her!”
Andrew frowned. “You’re in love with her, stupid.”
“I know!” His throat tightened, nausea swirling up. “I screwed up. Bad.”
Andrew looked sourly at his friend. “You don’t say.”
···
Celia sank onto her couch and stayed there, like a stone in water.
Over.
Tears surged within her. Clutching a pillow to her face, she smothered the storm’s voice, her sobs soaking into the fabric in a muffled flood.
It felt like hours passed before she ran out of tears. She lay like a wet rag, limp and empty. Then, sniffling, hiccupping, she wiped her face.
She’d always known something would ruin this life with León—probably something she did. And she’d been right. She’d never given him all of her trust, not the way he wanted. She wasn’t capable of it. But then, he’d never listened to her. He’d always wanted what he wanted and pushed until he talked her into it. That was over now.
Her tongue probed the small cut on her lip that had shocked her back to her senses. It still tasted of copper.
To claim he loved her, right then! Even if it were true, it wasn’t fair to drop that bomb just to win the fight. And how dare he kiss her like that? She could still feel the heat of his mouth, his hand pushing her robe away, baring her. Her skin prickled at the memory of her body betraying her. She’d wanted madly to be manhandled, to relent and submit.
Too bad for them both—she was done being trampled on.
He’d have to come to get his stuff. He had boxes and boxes of gear, so much more than he’d moved into the pool house with. She’d watch it all be carried out, final, gone for good. Her heart ached at the thought, the hollow echo of his absence in every corner of her home. Her bed would be empty, her floors free of paint.
Now she only had Incubadora, named by someone who’d probably never set foot in it. She’d ruined everything with her new backbone. What good was ‘no’ if it lost you so much?
How can you be so selfish, Celia Rose?
Because no one fights for me like I need them to. It’s up to me.
Her phone began quietly chiming as Kelsey and Trevor checked in on the group chat. Word was out. Celia said she would talk later, when she was ready.
The sun slowly set, the room’s shadows growing long and then merging into uniform darkness. She didn’t eat, turn on lights, or move from the couch.
She sat in the darkness, and she didn’t spiral.
Andrew called after sunset. She felt more ready now, and heard surprise in his voice when she picked up.
“Hey, are you doing okay?”
She swallowed, her voice a raspy shadow of itself, throat thick from wallowing in tears. “I’m surviving.” She couldn’t help asking. “Is he there, listening to this?”
“No.” His unsettling pause went a fraction too long. “Celia, he’s gonna be gone for a while.”
“Until late?”
“No, for a while. Like, a few days. Maybe weeks, I’m not sure.”
“What?”
“He got a plane this afternoon. He flew back to New York.”
The chilled hole in her heart, the empty vacuum in her house, exploded to blanket the whole city. The whole continent.
“This hit him hard, Celia. Scary hard. I think he could have run there, he was so manic.”
She’d lived through this before. He’s gone, they told her.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“So you could chase him to the airport? You told him to get out. Did you not mean that?”
“I meant it.” A sharp pain twisted in her chest. It hurt. Bad. “I didn’t want it, but I meant it.”
“Maybe it’s better that he went.”
The stillness of the room seemed to hold its breath with her. She didn’t have any tears left, but for a moment, her throat was too tight to speak. “Thanks,” she whispered. She put her phone back on the table.
León had left everything behind, his biggest panicked escape yet. That stupid, dramatic artist.
She hated it, but she’d been right.