Shaded Lines

by Lilia Moon

  I’m not at all surprised when Callum is gracefully shuffled into the chair beside me. India and Rafe cuddle up on the bench across from us. Matteo has stayed at the stove, holding earthenware bowls as Liane ladles stew.

  An everyday scene of domestic bliss that makes my heart stutter, every week.

  The tastes and sounds and smells of contentment.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Callum

  I knew she had deep ties in this small village by the lake, but experiencing it is a different thing altogether. The five of them are clearly old hands at this, and I’m obviously not the first outsider to be generously swirled into their midst for an evening, but they’ve something very special here. I’ve known Matteo and Rafe a long time, and we come from a shared life that builds tight and durable bonds, but it’s not the three of us at the heart of this magic.

  It’s three women. Sisters, in the best and truest sense of the word. Three who know where all the scars and scratches and chinks live, and who offer love and support as needed to make those the interesting parts of the people they love instead of their flaws.

  Daley walked in here uncertain and determined and stiff, and they’ve neatly applied sweetness and prickles and ribald humor and set her feet on solid ground in the time it’s taken to get dinner on the table. Matteo and Rafe have figured out how to be moderately helpful cogs in that well-oiled dance, but it’s clear they’re taking their lead from the women who’ve chosen them.

  And it’s not all flowing toward Daley. She’s got Liane telling the story of Matteo’s soda bread mishaps as we all slather butter on our still-warm chunks, and the slight glaze in India’s eyes is clearing as food passes and Daley accuses her of having provided greens to adulterate the mashed potatoes. That it’s true likely doesn’t matter. It has India, who apparently worked hard all day on something she doesn’t want to talk about, defending kale and landing fully present in the room.

  One artist, making sure another truly shows up for dinner.

  There are eyes on me, too. Looks from two women who aren’t entirely sure about me just yet, and from two friends who are managing to keep their need to meddle impressively in check. I don’t expect that to last past dessert, but I smile as colcannon and delicious, savory stew do what they’ve always done—fill bellies and hearts and chase all that isn’t simple pleasure away.

  Daley bites into soda bread dripping with butter and mumbles something in a tone that has my cock rising to sharp attention.

  Liane grins. “We used some of the fresh-ground wheat you brought back from Nelson.”

  I hadn’t asked about the heavily textured flour, but it was perfect for the bread. It’s come out looking much like I imagine it did centuries ago, rough-hewn and hearty and tasting of the fields it grew in. “My mother grinds her own when she’s got special company or strong arms in the house to turn the grinder.” It’s not a job for the faint of heart, especially when harder wheats are in the funnel.

  Daley smiles. “Some of the locals are experimenting with growing grains. The shop in Nelson lets you mix types and then they stick it all in this fancy old-fashioned grinder and out comes flour. I’m pretty sure it’s electric, though. I didn’t see any heavily muscled labor on the premises.”

  “Too bad.” India grins and picks up her own bread. “That would be a selling feature.”

  Rafe flexes his muscles and makes a face borrowed from a sad puppy.

  She laughs. “Since you benefit when I go off and ogle sexy men, I don’t think you should complain.”

  Liane just shakes her head, clearly very content to keep her ogling pointed in one direction.

  Rafe elbows the woman he loves. “You could go sit in Daley’s studio while she works and ogle naked women instead.”

  The woman beside me snorts. “My portraits are more about naked souls than naked bodies.”

  Something Rafe would well understand, but he’s headed us down this path for a reason. He grins at her. “Both are sexy. And if the naked bodies didn’t matter, you’d let more of your models keep their clothes on.”

  India grins at me. “She gets submissions from prospective clients all the time. Lots of hazy boudoir shots, or women wrapped up in so many layers you can hardly tell there’s a body in there, but they’ve left a knee or a shoulder uncovered.”

  These people know how to herd a conversation. I look at Daley, happy to play along. “And what do you do when that happens?”

  She rolls her eyes and steals some of my bread. “I send them a form letter. One that defines naked in very small words.”

  I nod. “It would be necessary for what you do.”

  Her eyes fly to mine, picking up the conversational subtext. “It is. There are so many ways we stop seeing who we are, or we stop letting others see. Clothes are one of the biggest ways.”

  Kinky people know a lot about the value of getting naked. “You challenge them, ask them to step into a moment of discomfort so they show you something more real. Something you can work with and use to mirror their truth back to them.”

  She stares at me.

  I smile. “Every good Dom knows that trick, sweetness.”

  “Indeed.” Matteo eyes me as he reaches for the colcannon. “Callum, however, knows it better than most.”

  Daley’s cheeks go a lovely shade of pink. “So I’ve heard.”

  Rafe shakes his head at me wryly. “You work fast.”

  I grin and reach for more soda bread. “Not at all. I’ve yet to see anything more than Daley’s shoulders.”

  She shoots me a dirty look, but it’s one well capable of handling what passes for mild teasing in my world. “You caused plenty of trouble with that much leeway.”

  I lean over and nuzzle her neck. “Imagine what I could do with a knee.”

  General laughter, and one where the electrical currents have stepped up nicely. I’m not the only Dom at the table who’s got talents with stray naked body parts.

  Daley kisses my cheek and pops a bite of butter-soaked bread into my mouth. “I’m thinking it’s you who needs to get naked first. My charcoals don’t often draw men, but they could probably be convinced to make an exception.”

  She’s not telegraphing it overmuch, but it’s a dare, all the same. An interesting and revealing one, even if she’s issued it to a man who’s entirely easy in his own skin. I look around the table, at the two women who are wondering if I’m brave enough to strip for Daley’s art, and at the two men who know the answer to that.

  And then I look into the pair of eyes that matters. “I’d best eat more colcannon, then. In case such an occasion arises.” I nod at Liane, who’s rising from the table. “And more stew, if you please. The herbs you added at the end are marvelous.”

  She smiles at me. “India babies them all winter in her greenhouse.”

  I turn to the metalworker with very interesting side hobbies. “There’s enough sun for that?”

  “Barely.” She shoots me an amused look with careful undertones of serious. “Daley washes the greenhouse windows every couple of weeks to make the most of what we do get.”

  I smile. Of course she does.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Daley

  This conversation is giving me whiplash without even trying. I’m pretty sure he just agreed to model for me. Maybe. While discussing stew herbs like they’re just as fascinating as naked bodies.

  I shake my head, trying to catch up. Usually it’s me tossing conversations helter-skelter, although Rafe’s got proclivities that direction too. With Callum, I don’t think it’s a need to disrupt. I think he’s just big and varied and interesting. A man who’s traveled great distances with his feet and his head and his heart.

  A man who just might let a woman who needs to do the same roam freely beside him.

  I sigh and take a bite of my stew. It’s a tempting thought, and one that’s somehow mixing with the fire he built in me earlier. I had it dampened down to embers before I arrived, but watching the easy connect
ions at Liane’s table is flaring it up again.

  He leans over and pitches his voice under the chatter of people wanting stew refills. “I haven’t forgotten the task I set you this afternoon.”

  I’m so not discussing that at the dinner table. I shoot him the most innocent look I can muster. “I finished up two of my Valentine’s Day commissions.” The most urgent two, the ones that have the furthest to fly after I drop them off at the post office in the morning. And the two who most need to see what my charcoals have revealed.

  He’s watching me carefully. “You’ve a particular pride in these ones.”

  That catches me somewhere inside. I roll my eyes and stick my spoon back in my stew. My eating’s not keeping up with the others, and I need to rectify that. “Is mindreading one of the classes at Dom school?”

  Matteo snorts. “No. These two were born with it. Some of us have to practice.”

  Liane dips her chin, mostly hiding a shy smile. Which her guy doesn’t miss, because he’s read her like an open book since the day he arrived. A fact worth remembering. If Matteo thinks he’s the guy with remedial skills at this table, I need to be a lot more worried about the man beside me.

  Callum strokes my hair. “We have eyes that tend to look in a certain way, just as yours do. And just as you do, we often see things. Does it bother you that I can see your pride in your work?”

  My lion won’t let me lie. “No. It’s true. These two are going to matter. Those are the commissions I like doing best.”

  His arm wraps around me casually, his hand stroking my upper arm. Gently massaging. Pulling me back to a hammock beside a crackling fire.

  I turn to look at him, because our audience doesn’t matter, or maybe they do, but not in any way that would change what I need to say. “I’m used to being the one who sees, the one with the artist’s eyes and the gift for clarity and pulling what’s hidden into the light.” I nod at my friends. “These two do it too, but you have to pay more attention to notice.” Their men, too, but it’s not usually pointed at me.

  He’s still rubbing my arm. “It’s different to be on the receiving end.”

  I make a wry face. “Yes. Especially while I’m eating stew and getting drunk on buttered bread.”

  His eyes glint, amused and pleased. “We grow a lot of artists in Ireland, and others who see deeply. They require the right kind of nourishment.”

  I smile at him, oddly warmed. “I’d better eat more colcannon, then.”

  He laughs as I echo his earlier words. “Save room. There’s chocolate cake coming.”

  I pick up my spoon. I’ll have room for cake. And for more mashed potatoes and stew and whatever else is being dished up around this table. I reach for the colcannon, but I don’t miss the looks in my friends’ eyes, even though they’re not aimed at me.

  They’re aimed at the man sitting beside me who has just passed another test.

  I could have told them that already. Not once has he let me squiggle away from turning clear eyes on myself, even at a table with an audience watching. He’s got this deep attentiveness to what moves in my depths, and as disruptive as it is to my steadiness when he aims his flashlight in my direction, it’s also kind of like mashed potatoes with green stuff in them. Comfort food with a few bits that are meant to be good for me—and there would be something important missing if it wasn’t there.

  I let the discussion flow over me as a finish my stew. He’s keeping his promise, the one where he won’t let me sweep me under the rug. Now I need to figure out what I’m going to do about that.

  The lion he stripped naked on a sultry rock this morning has some definite ideas.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daley

  I walk through my front door, dragging Callum by the hand just like I did the first time I laid eyes on him. The intent is a lot different, though. The banked embers in my belly woke with a vengeance the moment he leaned across me in his car to do up my seatbelt.

  He keeps touching me as we strip off our outerwear and boots. I throw my cape over a chair, but he hangs his coat up neatly. Not because he’s any less heated—I can see the evidence of that in his eyes. Because he’s a different sort of fire than I am. One that likes control.

  For someone who doesn’t like to be controlled at all, I find him awfully damn appealing.

  He takes my hand and leads us both down the waterfall of stairs to the main window overlooking the water. There are only shadows out there tonight, and little more inside. He sets me in front of him and runs his hands down my arms. “Tell me about this afternoon.”

  I shiver at his touch. Which won’t do. I ease out of the place he’s put me and head to my glass-sided stove. I left embers banked there as well, and they should reignite as easily as the ones in my belly. He says nothing as I lay several chunks of hardwood on top of ashes that need very little incentive to come back to life. Small flames lick up the sides of the wood even as I close the door. I play with the air intake a moment and use the door handle to lever myself to my feet. “I finished two commissions. I’ll mail them tomorrow.”

  He smiles at me from the seat he’s taken on my couch, the growing light from the fire casting stark shadows on his face. I can see the warrior India spoke of lurking there. “Is that all of them, then?”

  I feel like a fish who’s just been given a suspicious amount of line. “No. It never is. I always have more waiting in my inbox.”

  “Do you take them all, or have you the luxury of picking and choosing?”

  I walk over and tuck in beside him, my knees facing the back of the couch. I set my hand on his thigh. “Why are you letting me avoid your question?”

  His hand settles on my thigh, mirroring my moves. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  Not really. But it would somehow be easier if he weren’t giving me quite so much wiggle room. “I spent the afternoon thinking. And drawing. And I took three breaks determined to get myself off and extract from your silly game.”

  He chuckles. “Three, was it? You’re persistent.”

  I run my hand a little higher up his thigh. Two can play this game. “I came close. In the end, I think curiosity won out. I want to know what happens next.”

  He shrugs, his eyes glinting with amusement. “That very much depends on you. You had your arousal well under control at dinner.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You thought I cheated.”

  His hand slides between my legs. “Did you?”

  It takes everything in me to stay annoyed and not rub against him. “No.”

  His fingers press up, but not nearly enough. “Why not?”

  I asked myself exactly that the third time I stomped out of my bedroom, hot and bothered and unsatisfied and entirely cranky. “I don’t know. Some kind of hazy instinct at work. I think I need to know what happens next to answer that question.” I slide my hand over his, pressing his fingers into my fire.

  He chuckles, but there’s steel underneath. A man who won’t be handled, no matter how charming his exterior. “I’m not done with my questions yet. Is this how you touched yourself earlier?”

  I’m not a shrinking violet. I never was, and living down the road from Bee has cured me of any remnants of sexual shyness I might have had. But it’s an oddly hard question to answer with his hand between my legs. Especially when he’s not doing enough to get me out of having to come up with a response. “No. I often draw in just a cover-up. It makes the nakedness on the paper more real, somehow.”

  Something potent flares in his eyes. “Did you touch yourself in your studio, surrounded by the women you draw?”

  That’s a pretty picture, but the realities of my art are dirtier than that. As is the heat in his eyes he’s carefully tucking back away. That grates, somehow, irritates skin he’s already left raw. “No. I washed the charcoal off my hands. Most of it, anyhow. Then I headed to my bedroom and cursed at you.”

  I get a little more pressure from his fingers, which is pure torture. “Hands or a toy?”
<
br />   This would be clinical if I weren’t so riled up. “Hands. I’m not a fan of things with batteries.”

  His lips quirk. “Good to know.” His other hand runs up my front and cups my breast lightly. “Do you lie on your back with your legs spread wide, or something different?”

  This is beginning to feel like a kinky personality test. I swallow, because there’s the answer that matches every porn flick in the world, and then there’s mine—and the eyes watching me right now have no tolerance for anything but the latter. “On my belly. I wriggle around with my hands between my legs and my ass in the air. Not sexy, but it gets the job done.”

  He leans toward me, cupping me firmly, mouth to my ear. “Truth is the sexiest thing there is, sweetness.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Callum

  Enough words. What’s in me is snapping at a very short leash, and I need to give it a little play. A very little, until she decides what she wants to do with what’s inside her. I find the hem of her tunic and lift it up slowly enough for her to catch my meaning. Her eyes glimmer as she grabs it out of my hands and shimmies it off.

  Consent is not in question tonight.

  I stand her up in front of me and peel off the black leggings she wore to dinner. She toes off her thick wool socks to help me out—or to hurry me up. I kiss her belly while I deal with the fastenings of her bra and divest her of the lace underwear it matches. I’m not foolish enough to think they’re for me. They’re bright purple and a little worn around the edges, worn by an artist for her own pleasure. And perhaps to make a point.

  Her hands weave into my hair, her sigh breathy as her underwear lands at her feet. A woman who thinks she knows where we’ve arrived and is very glad to be there.