Rough Sketch

by Kate Canterbary

  Salt water and forest scented the warm summer air and it tasted like rebirth. Once again, I knew who I was and how to exist in this world. I meandered down trails both marked and unmarked, sat on felled trees until my ass was numb, watched deer cavorting in the distance. I picked up branches and rocks, drew nineteen different renditions of the jagged coastline, walked through the town's picket fence neighborhood and heartbeat village. I stopped into a bookstore and bought reading material on the area's pre-Columbian history after talking with the shopkeeper, a delightful woman who seemed to have several graduate degrees'-worth of information to share.

  Armed with new insight, I found a large, flat rock overlooking the shore and filled an entire sketchbook with the bounty around me. I didn't acknowledge the cramp in my fingers until reaching into my backpack for my spare sketchbook. I laughed at my stiff claw of a hand and hauled my ass off the rock. It was time to put the pencil down if I wanted use of this hand later—which I did.

  I respected the hell out of Neera's boundaries and limits. I also respected my cock's desire to get inside her many more times before returning to California.

  I picked my way through the woods and along the shoreline, collecting stones and stray bits of driftwood that intrigued me. I was busy turning a bit of old, knotted wood over in my palm when I bumped into a large outcropping of granite. I stopped, staring at the rock for a long moment. Earth and moss hid most of it, but the exposed portion angled toward the horizon, rough and harsh and amazing.

  I wanted Neera to see this with me, if for no reason other than seeing the incredible things hiding in plain sight.

  I turned in a circle as I looked up at the forest's canopy, imagining the way it would filter the moonlight, the shadows it would cast. The way Neera's dark skin would glow. I wanted her here. Draped over the rock. Kneeling, the earth staining her skin. Would she still savor being seen if the only ones watching the show were the animals and the trees and the sky?

  That could be enough for her. I could be enough.

  And this place, it could be enough for us.

  Chapter Nine

  Neera

  Craquelure: the small cracks and delicate lines covering the surface of old oil paintings. These defects are the result of the paint and surface's shrinking and movement over time.

  Owen stepped into the kitchen from the back deck, several grocery bags hanging from the crook of his elbow and a box clutched to his chest. "Babe," he called. "How's it going over there?"

  "Not bad. Neera hasn't killed me yet," Cole replied, not looking up from his screen. "How was the water?"

  "Good conditions. Swordfish for supper tonight," Owen stated, not looking up from his bags. "Brooke and JJ Harniczek too."

  "I imagine we're only eating one of those things," Cole chirped.

  "We'll see," Owen replied.

  I admired their easy exchange of affection. They kept their own priorities and they did it without abandoning themselves or each other. I wanted that. I wanted the man in my life to know I valued his presence and I wanted to express that without setting aside everything else in my life to do it.

  Cole shifted his gaze away from the screen, settling it onto me. "What else?"

  I eyed the list he'd scrawled on the side margin of the town's weekly newspaper. "You have a few items here relative to the board of directors signing off on several initiatives, but we've addressed most of the pressing matters. I believe we're finished."

  "Except for my Valley Forge," he replied.

  "That was in the winter," Owen yelled. "You aren't camped out in Pennsylvania and no one has captured your capitol and you're not allowed to make any more American Revolution references, babe."

  With a laugh, I said, "You mean Monarch."

  Cole bobbed his head. "I fear the Battle of Monmouth is ahead of me."

  "I don't understand your meaning," I said.

  "He is saying it will end with a stalemate," Owen called over his shoulder from his position in front of the refrigerator.

  Cole shrugged. "Something like that. I can see how the product will meet with mixed reactions."

  "That's your view of all your projects before you release them," I replied. "You never believe they'll succeed. If I'm not mistaken, you have a history of assigning derogatory nicknames to your projects because you doubt them to such a great degree. There was—hmm." I tapped a fingertip to my lips as I thought. "There was the Shit on a Stick project. Then, the Deformed Snail Monster project. I believe there was a time when I saw something titled Worthless Splooge Sock. Does that sound right?"

  On the other side of the room, Owen slapped his palm against the countertop as he doubled over in laughter. "Worthless Splooge Sock," he wheezed. "Cole. I love you."

  "You certainly do," Cole replied with a smirk. To me, he said, "Yes, you're right. I struggle to see how my work will be received when I'm in the development and early testing phases. You're correct, but that doesn't change my relationship with this project. I need more time. I need you to create the cover necessary to justify more time without anyone kicking up a shitstorm about me getting slow and directionless now that I'm his full-time splooge sock."

  "Oh my god," Owen panted. "I can't believe you said that out loud, Cole."

  "What? Neera's family," Cole argued. "No secrets between us at this table." He shot me a pointed glance. "If Neera wanted secrets, she wouldn't have brought the artist man here and forced us to watch while he made heart eyes at her last night."

  "I am not familiar with these heart eyes you speak of." I toggled to my email with the intention of drafting a message to the other vice presidents and the board of directors regarding Cole's request for more time. That was certain to be more pleasant than this conversation.

  "You know, that emoji with hearts for eyes," Cole said.

  "I know the emoji," I drawled. "It's the specific instance of Mr. Guillmand viewing me in such a light I'm disputing."

  "I disagree with the majority of this conversation, but on the topic of Gus and heart eyes, there is no argument," Owen stated.

  Cole pointed across the kitchen, toward Owen. "See? My husband is always right."

  "Now, that's something I don't hear too often," Owen muttered.

  I closed the lid of my laptop and sanded my palms together, desperate for a change in direction. My feelings about Gus and my feelings for Gus were complicated and contradictory. Much like Cole's Monarch, they weren't ready to share with anyone else. "How is that distillery you bought last summer? It opened recently, didn't it?"

  "I didn't buy the distillery," Cole answered. "I merely invested in its startup. I'm a fan of startups, as you well know from the earliest days of launching that Shit on a Stick startup with me." He dropped back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and stretching out his legs. "The distillery opened last month and it's doing well. Very busy, lots of good press, strong local energy."

  "I have a love/hate relationship with my husband's newfound gin hobby," Owen remarked.

  Cole hung his head, groaning. "Don't you start on that again."

  "Start, please," I said to Owen. "What's the love/hate all about?"

  Shrugging, Owen said, "I hate all the time he spends over at the distillery. He geeks out over the science of distilling and he samples everything. Everything. Twice."

  "And what do you love?" Cole prompted, a smirk fixed on his face.

  Matching that smirk, Owen said, "I love getting my husband back all nice and liquored up." He shook his head, chuckling. "Thankfully, Cole is an I love you drunk. Not too rowdy, hardly ever sloppy. But goddamn, is he snuggly."

  "It's true," Cole replied. "I am extremely snuggly."

  Before I could respond, the door from the back deck opened and Gus stepped inside. He was incandescent. That was the only word for it. He was alive and brilliant and glowing, his skin sun-kissed and his eyes gleaming, and I immediately wanted to lick that goodness right off him.

  "Hello," he said, nodding at us.

  I n
oticed several pine needles sticking out of his hair. I pressed my fist to my lips to conceal the broad, silly smile I couldn't restrain. "I take it you found yourself adequately lost," I said.

  "More than adequate," he replied, gesturing widely. "The trees—and the rocks, these huge boulders—and the cliffs! Have you seen the cliffs, the ones just down the way? And how the ocean water sweeps into the cove and pounds the outcroppings? I could watch that all day."

  "I see you stayed away from the berries," Cole said. "Since you're still alive, that is."

  Gus's brows furrowed as he said, "No berries. Thanks for that advice."

  "These two are wrapping up for the day," Owen said, gesturing toward the table. "They've passed the point of discussing anything useful and Cole finally acknowledged he needs an extension. Just in time too. I'm getting supper started now." He waved at us, shooing us away. "Stay if you intend to be useful. Leave if you don't."

  "Allow me to translate my husband," Cole said, pushing to his feet. "None of us are useful. We couldn't be useful if we put our entire being into it. My husband wants to cook in peace."

  I stood, piling my devices and folders. I couldn't stop sneaking glances at Gus. He seemed to carry sunbeams inside him. I'd never seen him appear this light and loose. I wanted to feast on it, savor it until I shared some of those sunbeams.

  Owen nodded, adding, "And get this ugly whiteboard out of my kitchen."

  "Yes, babe. Right away, babe," Cole replied with a salute.

  "In that case, I'll get out of your way," Gus said. He ran a hand over his head, retrieving several pine needles in the process. "It seems like I need to shake the forest off before the meal too."

  "Do you need any help?" I gestured toward him but quickly snapped my hand back, pressing it to my neck. Cole didn't bother stifling his bark of laughter at my question. "I mean, did you get very dirty in the woods?" Owen allowed himself a low chuckle and I squeezed my eyes shut at my poorly chosen words. The gleam in Gus's eyes was systematically robbing me of brain cells. "What I'm trying to say—"

  "Yes, Miz Malik, I'm certain there's tree sap you'll need to scrub off me." He stepped toward the hall, waving for me to follow. "Come now."

  With my things tucked under my arm, I followed after him. In the periphery, I was aware of Cole and Owen observing every second of this exchange. They'd watched me babble—a crime to which I was never victim. That was a horror show of the campiest caliber but it was a matter I'd manage on a different day. After Mr. Guillmand was dispatched from my life and I could employ some memory-editing technology on them. Until then, I was content—no, eager—to follow Gus into the bedroom and I was determined to understand the beautiful energy pouring out of him. I needed to know whether he felt the same, tasted the same, touched me the same.

  He flattened himself against the door, holding it open for me but taking up too much space to allow me to pass without angling my body. "This way, sparrow," he said, his hand low on my back. He urged me over the threshold, my breasts brushing his chest as I entered the room. He groaned, closed his fist around my blouse. "This way."

  Gus crowded me, his big body hot behind mine as I took care setting my things on the dresser. He smelled of dirt and pine and sweat, and never in my life had I considered the possibility I'd favor that scent. Until this moment, I wasn't certain I knew the true scent of pine, not the artificial one of industrial cleaners and car fresheners. This—and everything else associated with Gus—was entirely real.

  He reached for my hand, turned my palm over, and gifted me a small, roughly carved bird. The wood was dry and dark, almost mottled. I stared at it for a moment, passing my thumb over the impossibly precise feathers. Then I turned away, breaking out of his hold, his scent, and set the bird on the bedside table.

  He followed, crowding me once again. His fingers tugged the hem of my blouse loose, drawing me back toward his embrace.

  "Neera," he said, my name nothing more than a sigh.

  "I know," I murmured, shifting in his hold to meet his sharp gaze. I was electrified by him. Not the rush of being seen or heard or anything like that. It was Gus, pure and simple. He was the rush. "I know."

  I brought my hands to his muscular arms, backed him against the wall. I smoothed my palms over his arms, his chest, his torso. All that pine and sweat, the hard muscle and warm skin. It was making me delirious. Then, I ripped his belt off. Yanked his button-fly open. Dragged his jeans down as my knees hit the floor. Still no underwear for Mr. Guillmand.

  "Can you be quiet?" I asked. He nodded, driving his fingers into my hair. "Truly quiet? Not a sound?"

  I needed that guarantee. Even if Owen and Cole knew we were in here and knew we were sharing this moment, I didn't want them hearing the specifics just as I didn't care to hear their marital convenings.

  Still, my brain was a complicated place.

  "Swallow me right now and I'll prove it, sparrow."

  And I did. I took him all the way to the back of my throat. He tasted fresh and vital and earthy, like he was composed of the land itself. I brought a hand to his balls, cupping and tugging and brushing a thumb over his back channel. His hips surged as if my mouth conducted electricity. He dragged his t-shirt over his head, balled it up, pressed it to his face. A noise rattled out of him, muffled behind the shirt. It sounded like a groan, a growl.

  The back of his head thunked against the wall as his hips moved faster, falling out of rhythm with my mouth. We kept trying and failing to meet each other, to match each other's pace, but this blowjob allowed for no artful choreography. My eyes watered, and the tears streaking down my face mingled with the saliva on my chin. His balls were heavy in my palm and my jaw ached, and though I'd never orgasmed as a result of pleasuring someone else, the clench in my center every time I squeezed my legs together seemed to suggest it was possible.

  This act was a mirror to the moment: frantic, untidy, starved, raw, irrevocable.

  I wanted to hold back a bit. Wanted something—anything—between us to be simple. What was simpler than a blowjob? Not much. But nothing we shared was simple. It wasn't pretty or tame or traditional. Never simple. It was a fucking mess and I didn't think we knew any other way.

  Gus dropped the shirt and whispered something in another language as he gathered my hair in his fist. It sounded like a string of obscene curses. When our gazes locked across the planes of his torso and he looked at me with unguarded desire, I knew it was more obscene than I'd imagined.

  I continued working my tongue along the underside of his cock while his entire body quivered.

  He continued speaking, the words barely audible and fully incomprehensible.

  He twisted my hair around his palm, tugging hard as the first hit of hot, salty liquid splashed my tongue. I swallowed as he hummed, gasped, shook. He gradually replaced those foreign words with my name, whispering, "Neera, Neera, Neera," as if it was equally obscene.

  When the spurts ended and he slumped back against the wall, I bowed my head, resting my brow on his thigh while he rubbed the back of my neck.

  "You know," Gus started, "I had it in my head that we had hot sex because we argued a bit beforehand. We don't need to say a fucking word and"—he barked out a laugh—"fuck, Neera. Fuuuck."

  A tight breath eased out of my chest and my shoulders sagged. I'd needed to hear that. I'd needed to know it.

  "Thank you for—" A sudden burst of sound stopped my words. Dogs barking, several new people talking at once, a baby crying. We turned in the direction of the noise, listening as it continued. "I believe the rest of our party for the evening has arrived," I said, still kneeling on the hardwood floor.

  "What do you think about this?" he asked. "This place."

  I stared at the door separating us from the sound, my cheek pillowed on his bare leg. "I'm not sure," I replied. "It's different."

  "So is a silent suck off but I can tell you right now I enjoyed it."

  I studied the door again, quiet for a long beat while I eavesdropped on stray bi
ts of conversation. "There's something charming about it," I answered. "Strange. Disarming. But also…charming." I shrugged, busied myself with smoothing the wrinkles in my shirt. "I didn't like it here at first. It seemed antiquated. Slow. Cole was slower too. I'd spent years adapting to his frenetic pace, his surges of hyper-focused activity and him expecting everyone else to move at that pace too. And then…he changed. He came here and he's still frenetic but it's manageable. It's—calm." I shrugged, glanced out the window. "To answer your question, Mr. Guillmand, I do like this. When I adjust to it."

  "Me too," he replied, hiking his jeans up.

  He didn't bother buttoning them while we shared a simmering gaze that spoke of quiet desires and filthy games. If he didn't fasten his jeans soon, this was bound to boil over. "Gus," I whispered. I didn't know what I wanted but I knew I wanted. Needed.

  "Hand me my belt, sparrow." When I arched a brow at this command, he continued, "You're the one who threw it. The least you can do is fetch it now that you've decimated me with your mouth."

  My palm braced on his washboard abs for balance, I pushed to my feet. I ran a hand through my hair. It was a tangled mess. I knew without finding my reflection in the mirror that my lips were swollen, cheeks warm, and eyes watery.

  "There will be no mystery about our activities in here," I murmured, gesturing toward my face. I bent to retrieve the worn leather I'd ripped off him and glanced over my shoulder. "Typical. I did all the work and it shows. You—you're Instagram-ready as usual."

  Yes, I'd seen his post from earlier in the day.

  Yes, it was wholly unnecessary for me to bring it up.

  Yes, I had strong opinions on the matter—opinions I shouldn't have entertained. The man was allowed to post all the suggestive content he desired and his audience was allowed to drink him in by the gallon. This was business as usual and I should've reined in my foolish reaction before it spiraled out in the form of catty off-handed comments. After all, I had no claim on him. There was no reason to assume he'd share anything about his bedmate of late with his followers.