PaintedPassion

by Tamara Hunter

  Trella opened her eyes, staring at the front of his t-shirt, certain she’d find condemnation if she looked at him. She wiped her cheeks. “I’m tired. So whatever speech you intend to give, save it until morning.” She stepped backward, but his hold tightened around her.

  He put a hand beneath her chin, tilting her head back so she had no choice but to lift her gaze. Instead of censure and revulsion, understanding shone in his eyes. Something else flickered in their depths, but she didn’t have the strength to deal with it.

  She bit her bottom lip in an effort to stave off more tears. He planted a kiss in the middle of her forehead then on her damp cheeks.

  No words proved necessary when he swept her into his arms, returning to the chair he’d occupied at the table. He positioned her so her legs straddled his thighs.

  He pushed the silk from her shoulders, kissing every inch of flesh he uncovered. Joy burst to life inside her, blossoming from his care and concern. Hands on flesh, lips on lips, she allowed him to kiss away the past hurt and pain.

  His hot, demanding mouth worshipped her breasts, leaving them heavy and aching for more. She didn’t recognize the needy gasps falling from her lips as she sought cleansing and redemption.

  The nocturnal animals had grown silent. The rustling of palm fronds in the warm breeze provided the only background symphony.

  Driven by the desire to connect with him, to feel him move inside her and experience the release only he could provide, she unbuttoned his jeans and maneuvered his erection through the opening of his boxer briefs.

  He untied the robe, baring her completely. His fingers traveled to the juncture of her thighs. He stroked the sparse hair covering her pussy then slid his fingers up and down her lips, coaxing more wetness from her as he pleasured her.

  She rocked against his hand, craving more. Cradling his head between her hands, she touched her lips to his, teasing him with her tongue along the seam. With a groan, he opened his mouth, inviting further exploration. She kissed him then, tongue tangling with his as he sucked her deeper into his passion.

  She rose onto her tiptoes and positioned his hard length against her wet sex, stroking herself against the swollen head. Trembling, she eased him inside, accepting inch by inch. He groaned into her mouth as she enveloped him.

  He pushed upward. Gasping, she pulled away from his mouth, arching her back as he drove himself deeper. Her nails clenched his broad shoulders as he controlled the ride, each movement creating sweet memories. She stroked as much of his skin as she could reach, as they moved in unison like the undulations of the ocean.

  Leaning forward, he captured a nipple between his lips. His teeth scraped the surface. She cried out, bearing down on him. She didn’t try to keep quiet as sensations slashed at her from his mouth, his hands and his body.

  He rolled his hips, sending her closer toward her orgasm. She wanted to speed up her movements, but he kept their dance slow and satisfying. She again lowered her mouth to his, sucked his bottom lip in between her lips, stroking it with her tongue.

  Murmuring to her softly, he slid a hand beneath her hair. He ended the kiss, leaning her away from him. He slid a hand between them to stroke her clit. His fingers, slippery with her wetness, coaxed her closer and closer to completion.

  He removed his hand from her warmth. Holding her gaze, he slid his fingers inside his mouth with a groan.

  She licked at his lips then slid her tongue against his, knowing she wasn’t only making peace with her past but falling deeper in love with a man she prayed was falling in love with her.

  His hand returned to her pussy, stroking her, and she toppled over the edge first, unafraid because she knew he was behind her. She pulsed against him, giving him everything.

  He stiffened against her, hands holding her still as he sank deeper inside her. She swallowed his moan as pure pleasure flowed into her. Trembling, she acknowledged they’d been making love from the very first time he shared himself with her. He lifted his head, peppering kisses on her face.

  Trella lay against his chest, allowing her breathing to normalize. No matter what happened to them in the future, she would never regret being with him. But they hadn’t used protection.

  Sighing at the irony, she placed a hand over her tummy. Seconds later, his large hand covered hers.

  Carlos breathed deeply as he listened to her soft exhales. Kissing her was natural, making love to her more so. He’d never been with a woman without using a condom until tonight. After feeling the walls of her pussy with no barrier, he wanted her that way from now on.

  He brushed her hair from her face. He owed her an apology for pushing her to talk, but when he’d seen her holding Maria, the pain on her face shocked him to his core. He knew Trella’s natural reaction was to stuff her feelings deep inside. She deserved to have someone listen to her, to let her know she was important.

  She presented him with a profound gift tonight. She allowed him entry through a door previously closed, locked and double-bolted, which meant more to him than she could understand. He hadn’t expected everything she’d admitted, but who was he to judge? The fact she grew into a loving, kind and generous woman, despite her parents’ standoffishness, bore witness to her resilience. Her strength amazed him. No doubt, if she’d had a younger sister or brother, Trella would’ve showered her sibling with love and affection.

  Rising, he carried her into the bedroom. He laid her onto the soft sheets, considered climbing under the covers with her but decided against it.

  He understood her now. As much as he longed to bury himself between her soft thighs again, she needed time to accept the fact she’d fully allowed him into her life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A week later, vintage Sade blared through the speakers. Trella’s last piece featuring Carlos was finished, and the high of accomplishment kept a smile on her face. She gyrated to the music, letting her soul free as she danced.

  “This is a sight I could get used to.” Carlos, dressed in jeans and a red, short-sleeved shirt, leaned against the doorjamb, a broad smile on his face.

  She danced over to him, inviting him to move with her. Surprising her, he captured her wrist, twirled her away then effortlessly rolled his hips as he moved toward her. He put his hands on her waist, pulling her flush to his body.

  “Finished with the paintings?”

  She nodded. “This is my last one. Francois will use it as the centerpiece.”

  “Can I see?”

  A chill of apprehension rushed over her. Tell him he’ll be the star of the show. Things were progressing well between them. She’d better wait until later. “Not yet, but it’s similar to the others you posed for and will fit into the series.” Not a complete lie but damn close.

  He brushed his lips against her temple. “I can think of a place I’d like to fit into.”

  “You’re bad.” She punched him lightly on his biceps. “You kept me up last night, remember? It’s a wonder I completed my work.”

  “You weren’t complaining last night.” He stole a quick kiss. “You were on top, so if you didn’t want to do it—”

  “Stop!” She laughed until her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be done in here soon. Want to take me out to a movie?”

  “A darkened theater? How can I resist?”

  * * * * *

  Carlos breathed a sigh of relief when Trella opted for a thriller instead of a chick flick.

  They selected seats on the end of the top row, and then chatted and fed each other popcorn while waiting for the movie to begin.

  Thirty minutes later, Carlos was caught up in the suspense and nonstop action. Something touched his thigh. He stiffened.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she whispered in his ear.

  He relaxed. “You didn’t.” Much.

  She moved her hand a few inches northward. “I have a confession.” She rested her hand on his bulge. “I’ve seen this before.”

  He squirmed in his seat. “What you’re touching or the movie?�
��

  Stroking him, she laughed softly. “Both.”

  He groaned. “We need to leave.”

  “In the middle of the movie? That’s bad theater etiquette.” She traced the inner whorl of his left ear with her tongue.

  He gripped the arms of the seat. “Naughty girl.”

  “Definitely.”

  Trella licked his neck. His dick pulsed, eager to be set free from the confines of his jeans.

  She leaned forward, staring in front and to the left of them. “Is that Melissa with Jose?”

  Carlos shifted in his seat. “Where?”

  “Ten rows below us in the section to your left. I think it is. They’re making out.”

  His eyes widened. Melissa sat so close to Jose their shoulders appeared fused. “Guess they hit it off.”

  “Looks like. You still want to leave?”

  He grabbed her hand and placed it on his lips. “We’ll bust them when the lights come on. Until then, we can join them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trella perched on the stool in her studio as Francois, dressed in a pair of white slacks and a peach shirt, stood before each piece, studying them from different angles.

  He clapped enthusiastically, a look of pure pleasure on his face. “Yes!” He splayed his hands wide, sweeping toward the displays. “This, my dear, is it. It’s better than I’d hoped. The sensuality, the colors. This is the fantastic work the world is accustomed to from Trella Arnold.”

  She hopped off the stool to execute a curtsy. “Thank you for the praise, kind sir.”

  “How could one not enjoy the beauty of the way you intermingled the light and shadows on his skin?” Francois adjusted his glasses. “I changed my mind about the landscapes. I’m including them in the show.”

  She frowned. “Why? You said they weren’t up to par.”

  He shrugged. “Are they as memorable as your trademark work? Of course not, but their value will rise simply because you are the artist.”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “Why am I not surprised money is your motivation?”

  Ignoring her comment, Francois kissed her cheeks. “What has happened in the last few weeks with Carlos to make you paint with such passion?”

  She groaned. She’d been afraid of the inability to hide her feelings.

  “You’re being true to your soul. You want him.” He shrugged. “Experiencing emotions means you’re alive. Be open to what the universe brings your way.”

  She glanced at him. “No wonder you never married.”

  “Maybe…but I’m satisfied often.”

  She grimaced. “TMI.” She wiped her hand down the paint-splattered khakis. “It’s not that simple.”

  He smirked. “You have invited him into your bed yes?”

  She sucked in her breath in a loud inhale. “If you can pick that up from my work—”

  “Art makes people think, feel and discuss. Trust me—your work will assemble a crowd before each painting.”

  “Yeah, wondering how often I got lucky with the model,” she mumbled.

  He chuckled. “A great artist captures emotions.”

  “But for my husband’s best friend?”

  Francois patted her arm as if she were a young child. “Louis loved him?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t you trust that your husband was an excellent judge of character?”

  “I know he was.”

  “Perhaps Louis knew the two people closest to him could not help but be close to each other. Will this Carlos be in attendance?”

  “He’ll be there.”

  Francois tapped a forefinger against his chin. “I wonder if he’d mind being introduced as your model or your muse.”

  Shock catapulted her off the stool. “Please don’t call attention to him. He agreed to let me paint him but I’m not sure he knows how intently his image will be studied. It’ll be a shock so don’t make it harder on him.”

  “I understand.” He removed his car keys from his pocket. “You did tell him about the last painting right?”

  She concentrated on straightening the row of paint tubes. “Uh, not yet.”

  Francois muttered to himself. “Are you trying to push the man away? If you think he’ll suffer a shock from the study of the other paintings, what do you think he’ll say about the last one?”

  “I’m waiting for the right time to talk to him about it. I’m sure he won’t have a problem. It’s tasteful and flattering.”

  “Tell him, Trella. No man enjoys being blindsided.”

  Eager to change the subject she asked, “Are the caterers squared away? I don’t want them running out of food or champagne.”

  “Everything will go off without a hitch.”

  She hugged him. “I’m grateful you organized the showing.” She looked up, meeting his titanium-colored, slightly myopic eyes. “You knew what I needed.”

  He patted her back. “Of course. I’ll have the van over in a few hours to move the canvases to the gallery.”

  She led Francois downstairs. “After the showing is over I want to host a party for your up-and-coming artists.”

  “Consider it done. They’d love to meet you.” He paused in the doorway. “Several reporters are scheduled to interview you upon your arrival so look your best.”

  * * * * *

  The day of the gallery show was Phoenix perfection—sunny and toasty warm but with a gentle breeze. In front of the bathroom mirror Trella brushed her hair into a French twist then secured it with decorative pins. She applied her makeup heavier than usual then swiped her lashes with mascara before applying a berry lip stain, which she covered with a clear gloss.

  She slipped a cream and tan, calf-length, cotton sateen dress over her underwear. Diamond studs—a gift from Louis—accessorized the outfit. A dab of her favorite fragrance at her wrist and the bend of her elbows and she was ready.

  A knock at the door sounded as she replaced the stopper of her cologne.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  “Are you ready?” Carlos asked.

  She glanced up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Clothed in a pair of black jeans, a bright white dress shirt and a flaxen-colored sport coat, he brought a smile to her face.

  This morning he’d pampered her with breakfast in bed. And after their sweet and sticky dessert of hot sex, she knew the afterglow remained on her face.

  She smiled, turning to face him. “You like?”

  He grinned. “Beautiful, sweetheart.”

  From the closet she removed a nude leather clutch then slid a pair of cream-colored strappy sandals onto her feet.

  “Limo’s downstairs.”

  She put a hand on his chest. “I need to confess something.”

  He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Talk to me.”

  She’d meant to tell him last night but his wandering mouth and hands had sidetracked her. “You know how you said you’d pose for me as long as the paintings were tasteful?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s one of you with considerably less clothing.”

  His brows furrowed. “I didn’t pose for anything like that.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “Not intentionally.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I painted from a sketch…the morning I walked in on you.”

  Carlos swiped a hand down his face. He lapsed into his native language as he paced the floor. He ranted so fast she only caught the words loco and desconsiderado.

  She held out her hands as much to stop the flow of words as the movement of his feet. “I agree it was a crazy and inconsiderate thing to do but I included a towel around your waist.”

  He stared at her, nostrils flaring with the breaths he dragged in. “¿Positivo?”

  “I give you my word. Francois is showing the painting but it’s coming back home with us. It’s my best work and not for sale.”

  Several minutes dragged as she nibbled her bottom lip, hoping he wouldn’t demand s
he not use it. Finally a smug look crossed his face.

  “I’m your best work?”

  She grinned. “Everyone will wonder what’s beneath the towel but I’ll know for sure. Please say you aren’t mad.”

  He gathered into his arms. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad. Glad you told me before we arrived at the gallery though.”

  She hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry. I just, uh, didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Apology accepted.” He kissed her nose. “You sure that’s all?”

  Carlos wasn’t as versed in art as Francois. He probably wouldn’t be able to see each stroke of love that created his form. She was worrying for nothing.

  “Yes. Now let’s hurry so we can come back home.”

  He slid his hands down her arms. “I love the way you think.”

  Walking down the stairs, Trella had a strong feeling she was leaving the past behind and heading into her future with Carlos.

  * * * * *

  Jazz emanated from hidden speakers inside Renault’s Fine Art Gallery. Waiters dressed in black slacks and white shirts balanced silver trays of hors d’oeuvres while floating through the throng of art enthusiasts, critics, the curious and those interested only in free champagne.

  Trella’s works hung centered on white walls. Carlos recognized some of her older paintings, which featured women dressing for a night out. He spared a quick glance at the first likeness of him. He shuddered. It was creepy to see himself on canvas. A painting draped with black fabric rested on a large easel in the middle of the room. Francois stood nearby as if guarding the piece with his life.

  Carlos was unnerved to observe as many men as women studying the paintings. Trella stood near the front of the expansive gallery, charming the reporters. From the puppy-eyed look on one cameraman’s face Carlos was fairly certain the man never moved the camera’s focus off her face.

  He made a beeline to the back of the gallery where Miguel and his former squad members huddled together.

  “Anyone see Rodriguez?”

  “Not yet,” Jackson answered.