Shaded Lines

by Lilia Moon

  She runs her hand down the arm of my sweater. “There’s a thing I know to be true in art that maybe applies here too. Sometimes the biggest trust is built in the awkward moments, the ones when the charcoal breaks or the eraser is new and uncomfortable or the light keeps casting shadows where it shouldn’t. Getting through those moments builds something that matters.”

  I need to know more about how she does her art. There are lessons there. Ones that have shaped her. Ones that will shape us. “Yes.”

  She looks over at my bag. “These are your tools. You’ve built trust with them. Are there ones you would like me to consider that you just threw back in there?”

  Give and take. I feel my way into her question. A sensible Dom would say no, but she isn’t a woman who’s given me that power to hold. And she is one who understands why I packed them all away. I consider, and then an idea comes to me, one so delightful I let it out to play before caution gets in the way. “Would you permit me to pick something from your bag?”

  She stares at me. “I brought a swimsuit and a change of underwear.”

  She might be surprised at what I could do with those, but they’re not what I’m after. “And art supplies.”

  Her face flits from horrified to intrigued to skeptical and back again.

  That only makes my intentions more delightful. “You can veto anything I choose.”

  She snorts. “You realize I’d be vetoing it for reasons that have nothing to do with my sexual needs, right?”

  I grin. “Yes. You look like I might if you approached my floggers with a pair of very large scissors.”

  She makes a face and pushes up off the couch, heading for the bags she left at the front door. She returns with an uncapped black tube, perches on the edge of the coffee table, and holds it out to me, clearly loath to let it go.

  I survey my choices. There are a couple of pens, which might be fun if I had any artistic skill at all, but I don’t. There are dark pencils that might be charcoal or something similar, and two long, smudged white sticks that bend when I touch them. Erasers, perhaps. I move my fingers to the only objects in the tube that confuse me. “You paint as well?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Those are cheap brushes I use for blending.”

  That makes them perfect for my purposes. “May I use those?”

  She eyes me. “Do I want to know why?”

  “Perhaps.” I wink at her. “But I’ve no intentions of telling you. We’ve got a swim to get to.”

  She pulls the brushes out of her tube and hands them to me, trying not to look amused. “Tricky man.”

  I stand and pull her to her feet. “I’ve heard wondrous things of your hot springs.”

  She glances out the window. “They’re at their best at night.”

  So my accomplices have informed me. And on a Tuesday night in February, likely to be sparsely occupied. Which is when I’m at my best.

  Chapter Forty

  Daley

  It’s one of those dark nights, the kind where the stars are blotted out by cloudy skies and the air smells of snow. Strongly so. I grin as I make the mad dash from warm change room to the pool outside. Even sexy Irish Doms shouldn’t be able to arrange getting snowed in on demand, but he’s at least made an interesting effort.

  I lower myself slowly into the water, enjoying the way it intensifies the shivers on the parts of me still hanging out in the cold. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the hot springs. Too long. Tourist trap or not, it’s still wondrous, especially in the winter. I look around as my shoulders dip under the water. I’ve come in along the straight edge that overlooks the lake when it’s not murky dark out there, but the rest of the pool is organically shaped, with bump outs and railings and opportunities to tuck out of the way of the crowds that are often here.

  Tonight is quiet. A dozen others, and likely a few more in the caves, but there’s a hush, a sense of privacy, that doesn’t often happen here.

  More than one head is tipped to the sky. I’m not the only one smelling snow.

  I turn around, waiting for the man who brought me here to emerge from the change rooms. I’m quite sure I’ve come out first, the product of an upbringing with five siblings where stragglers got left behind. I’m the fastest person into or out of her clothes that I know. Which Callum might find amusing, for more than one reason.

  I can feel the liquid pull in my belly as I think of him. Our short stop at the cabin has taken things to a new place. A delicious one, but one where my feet are tempted to float up off the ground.

  It’s hard to feel all that concerned. Here, floating is one of my favorite things.

  I smile as a silver head peeks out the exit door and the rest of his body follows. Like every other visitor, Callum makes his way briskly across the concrete, the winds off the lake in February plenty of incentive to get to the water fast. I curse the bright lights at his back. This is the first time I’ve seen him at least partly undressed, and all I’m getting is tantalizing outlines.

  My artist brain is happy to fill in the rest. And so are my hands. I reach for him as he enters the pool, eager to touch.

  He dips down to my level and drops one of his casual kisses on my cheek. “Isn’t this lovely.”

  A lifeguard meanders my way and flashes Callum a grin. She’s got an easy job tonight, and he’s well worth ogling. I lead the two of us deeper into the pool. We’re in the thoroughfare where people come and go, and I much prefer one of the side pockets.

  He looks around as we walk. “It’s rather bright.”

  I laugh. He sounds like a small boy who just dropped his lollipop in the sand. “The caves are dark. I’ll take you through there in a bit.” It’s the most unique part of this particular hot springs, but we’re in no hurry.

  He tugs on my hand, changing our direction. “I’ve a mind to go over here.”

  He’s heading away from the people clustered around the entrance to the caves, so that’s fine by me. He skirts a small interior wall in the pool and hums in approval when he finds the seating on the other side. “That will do nicely.”

  He sounds far too much like a man with a plan. Hot springs are for floating. We’ll get to the contents of his bag later. Or so I think until he tugs me into his lap.

  I don’t bother looking around. There were no kids in the pool, and anyone here on a quiet evening in winter takes their chances at catching a couple of locals being cuddly together. I run my hands over his chest, which is suddenly a far more appealing activity than floating. I keep a watch on his face, just in case getting felt up in public is outside his comfort zone.

  He chuckles and glides a hand up to cup my breast. “Green, love. I’ve very few boundaries you’re likely to cross tonight. Have your way with me.”

  I’m so used to being the most brazen one in the room. Unless Bee is around, but she’s a force of nature. Callum is elegant and controlled and comes across as a businessman on a holiday. Until you look in his eyes. There’s a brightness there at the moment that worries me—and that calls me to play. I fist my hands loosely and unroll them, lightly scraping his nipples.

  The low rumble in his throat is an excellent aphrodisiac.

  He casually lifts me and turns me to face him, settling me back down again so that I’m straddling his lap. It would be a lot more risqué if I could slide in close enough to sit on his cock, but the ledge we’re seated on is narrow and my knees have nowhere to go. I’m tempted to pout, but even this gives me plenty of interesting things to explore.

  My fingers move, tracing the anatomy of his shoulders, squeezing the muscles that run along the ridge to his neck. His head tips forward on a groan, so I linger a while. Rubbing. Enjoying the feel of parts of him softening under my touch—and other parts of him distinctly hardening. My fingers move up, pressing into his scalp, disordering his hair as I go.

  His hands run along my thighs and settle on my hips, but he otherwise leaves me to play.

  I slide my fingers down his neck and shoulders t
o his chest. We’ve created a pool of shadow between us and my hands play with it, brushing imaginary charcoal onto his chest with one hand, lifting it with the other, discovering the planes and angles and curves of him. He’s got the body of a man who leaves his suit behind with regularity. I imagine him in a thick sweater, hiking the hills of his homeland or the wilds of some far-off hamlet he’s chosen to drop in on for a while.

  I’m really glad he picked my hamlet.

  I tip my head up as the first flakes of snow begin to fall.

  My hands move lower.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Callum

  I’ve fallen into a winter wonderland, one complete with a sexy-exhibitionist wood nymph.

  She sticks out her tongue to catch the falling flakes of snow, big fluffy ones that reflect the outdoor lights and are rapidly enclosing us in our own personal snow-globe. It’s hard to concentrate on the weather, however. Her hands have found my cock, teasing it with the same brushing and rubbing she was using on my chest.

  An artist who has made me her canvas.

  My cock, who should by rights be lulled to sleep by the warm waters, pulses up, trying to find the hands that want to be his new playmates. She chuckles, but she’s not in a hurry to give him what he wants. Her fingers skim the waistband of my swim trunks, which makes me deeply regret their necessity. Fortunately for me, her swimwear is the more accessible kind.

  I release her hips, bringing my palms up under her curls. “Your hair is collecting quite the wreath of snow.”

  She laughs. “More like a toque, probably.”

  I catch the cold drips as the heat of the pool has its way with the snowflakes that land too close to the water. Then I catch her wrists and lift her hands to my shoulders. “Keep them there.”

  She gives me a look. One that speaks of the lioness she told me about.

  I need to persuade her to let me hunt her for a while. I lean forward, nuzzling into her snow-flecked hair. “Can you be absolutely silent, sweetness?” I slide a hand between her legs and cup her so she doesn’t misunderstand my meaning. “I’ve always thought snowflakes are fiercely passionate, and they fall without a sound.”

  I can feel the alertness in her. The huntress, considering. It’s a fine line I’m walking and I know it. I’m not asserting control. Quite. I’m asking her to control herself while I play.

  My fingers move up her belly, finding the line of skin where her tank top and swim bottoms don’t quite meet. She hisses against my shoulder, but I don’t miss her head shifting to get a better view. I work my way into her bottoms, which give way to my questing fingers like they were made for this purpose. This time, when I cup her, I can feel the slick heat that has nothing to do with the hot-spring waters.

  I know I’ve not got much time. Water is a terrible lubricant, and I don’t want her sore for what comes next. I slide two fingers into her, curling them back towards me.

  I watch her carefully. I can see her answer to what I’ve just done, but I need to know she can see it too. “What color is your traffic light, Daley?”

  She blinks at me, snowflakes on her eyelashes. Her cheeks blush pink as she processes my words. Her head dips down. “Green.”

  An exhibitionist embarrassed by owning her own desire. Such a lovely contradiction she is. I move my fingers inside her.

  She moans as I stroke the bundle of nerves I find there.

  I put the fingers of my free hand under her chin and guide her gaze to mine. “I need your silence, sweetness.” I tap against the inner walls of her pussy. “I’m not going to make it easy for you. I want to see your wild tonight.”

  Her eyes narrow. She’s clearly figured out that I’m asking for her wild on a tight leash. One that’s in her hands.

  I smile calmly. I have reasons. It remains to be seen whether they work for her or not. I stroke the pillowed nerves inside her firmly, measuring her response. It’s instant and explosive—and never touches her voice. The rest of her arches and tenses and rocks, begging my hand for things it would dearly love to do. However, since we’ve not the lubricant for such adventures and I doubt her exhibitionism extends to dropping her swim bottoms and bending over the edge of the pool so I can use my tongue, I feed her intensity in other ways.

  I hold her gaze with mine. “No moving. I want you holding as still as a statue, letting the snow turn you into a winter goddess.”

  Her eyes flash a warning. I’m pushing and she knows it.

  I flutter my fingers inside her. The groan rises up in her throat, and she swallows it. A long pause. Then she sits up a little straighter, drops her hands to her thighs, and closes her eyes.

  Acquiescence—and a dare.

  I grin. I keep my fingers buried in her pussy and start flexing them, rubbing tight circles over the spot my fingers have claimed.

  Her eyes snap open, but the rest of her doesn’t move at all.

  I give her a wink and add more pressure.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Daley

  The blood roars in my ears, loud as a river. The rest of me might be under dubious orders to be quiet, but what lives inside me doesn’t obey orders. It pulses and pounds in time with the circling of his devious fingers. Fingers that know exactly what they’re doing. He’s as much a master of this as I am with my charcoals.

  A fact that bothers me not at all. History makes us more interesting.

  A heat rises inside me, fueled by water and fingers and the needs of a body restricted from every outlet except feeling this moment. The blood in my ears thunders, the last stretch of a turbulent river before it tumbles over a waterfall.

  “Gorgeous.” A single, whispered word goes over with me, giving voice to my free-fall. I slump into him, a statue suddenly without her bones. His fingers stay where they are, deep inside me. Stroking lightly, stirring the remnants of my waterfall into a lazy, circling pool.

  I tip backwards and let myself float, anchored only by his fingers. The snow falls thick on my face, turning to droplets of water on my cheeks. I stay like that a long while, not thinking, just feeling. His free hand runs gently over the parts of me he can reach.

  A man entirely content to wait.

  I let a few more snowflakes cool my cheeks. They’re coming down more slowly now, keeping pace with my heartbeat. I know Callum doesn’t control the weather, but sometimes the very best art comes from the parts you can’t control. I tip my head back a bit further, dunking all my curls into the water, and lever myself up to sitting.

  His fingers slide slowly out of me, a meandering journey that says they’re not in a hurry to leave and they’ll be back soon. His eyes are full of messages, all of them adoring, which puffs up parts of me I didn’t even know existed. “Thank you. I’ve never had my delight in snow expressed quite so beautifully.”

  I take his words in, pondering them as I touch his face. He’s not speaking of my delight. He’s speaking of something shared, an experience where I was the playground, but he was right there on the slide with me. I run my fingers through his hair, feeling tender. Undone. “You were more a part of that than I understood.”

  His eyes are solemn. “Yes.”

  A man who gave—but also took. I’m fiercely pleased by that, and realizing just how much I might need to remodel some of my definitions with this man.

  He smiles. “Will you show me the caves?”

  I chuckle at the flashes of small boy under the request. I slide off his lap and stand up. The crisp air feels good against my overheated skin. I bring his hand with me, and the rest of him follows gracefully.

  He shivers and holds out his palm to catch the still-falling snow. “You Canadians have thicker blood than I do.”

  I move in for a kiss. “Need some warming up, do you?”

  His laughter rumbles low in his throat. “Apparently it doesn’t take much.”

  I can feel his cock hard against my belly. I lead him in the direction of the caves anyhow. Any man who can put his hand down my pants in a public pool is well ca
pable of dealing with an erection. Not that anyone is looking our way. The pool is full of lovers tonight, intent on each other. It feels good to be part of that energy.

  “So.” He leans into me as we walk. “I’ve a mind to see you come on my fingers again.”

  I roll my eyes. The caves magnify even tiny sounds, much to the consternation of most couples who try making out in there. I suspect that might not deter this man, however.

  His hand on my back teases the waistband of my swim bottoms. “One more in silence before we go back to the cabin and give your lion a chance to roar.”

  The throbbing between my legs gets more insistent, as seduced by his words as his touch. “She’s generally a very sleepy lion in February. And you’re surprisingly spry for a man with gray hair.”

  He nips at my ear, which somehow chases out a very unlionlike squeak. “I’m a man who knows how to bide his time. And I’m quite capable of making you come in your sleep, but I’d rather you were awake. Perhaps we’ll roll in the snow before we visit the sauna.”

  I adore saunas, something I’m quite sure I’ve never told him. “Playing all your cards just right, are you?”

  He chuckles. “We’ll see. Show me your caves, Daley Cohen.”

  I focus on my surroundings long enough to realize we’re nearly at the cave opening—and we’re getting some interesting looks from the people gathered there. Amused ones in some cases, envious ones in others.

  A man cocks his head at the entrance. “Go ahead. We’ve all been in.”

  That doesn’t mean they won’t come in again, but it does mean we’re likely to have a little space. Which is a nice thing for more than the reasons they might be thinking. The caves are interesting even when they’re full of tourists, but a stretch of time in there alone is a far better way to discover their sacred.

  The kind of sacred that will welcome who we are tonight.