“Look me in the eyes,” Mason urged. His powerful thighs bunched and the sex intensified.
Caleb did as he asked, and the level of intimacy rocketed. He felt like he was careening through space and time as he stared into Mason’s burning eyes. Was he falling? Caleb wanted to look away, but he was compelled keep watching, wondering if things were getting dangerously out of hand. This was supposed to be a fling. A fling, he reminded himself as the pleasure clouded his thoughts and made him forget again.
As Caleb gripped his hips and jack-hammered into him with delicious fury, Mason’s mouth dropped open in awe and his eyes rolled back. He swore through clenched teeth. The punishing thrusts ushered him closer to orgasm. How was that possible? Could he come from penetration alone? All of this was so new.
Mason’s painful erection stood to attention, untouched but begging to be touched. Caleb ramming into him made pre-cum spill from the tip, and Mason clutched himself with a muted groan.
Seeing him touch himself, Caleb found the lubricant and drizzled it over Mason’s throbbing cock. “Does it feel good?” Caleb asked softly. He made a tight fist and jerked him off while he pounded into him.
Mason was speechless. The jarring thrusts, the silky glide of Caleb’s hand made him gasp breathlessly. He threw his head back, all thoughts now driven from his mind. Harder and faster, they slammed together. The sounds of wet connection filled the bedroom. The musky scent of sex accompanied it, and it was primal and honest and Mason lost all inhibition.
“Yes,” he gasped. It felt better than good.
“Yeah?” Caleb growled as he threw Mason to the bed. “What about this?”
Mason’s legs spread eagerly, and he tugged Caleb back to the entrance. Caleb plunged into him. “Yes…Ah, God, yes!” Mason whimpered. Caleb plunged into him again and again. He pushed Mason’s knees back and rocked with manic determination. His sweat fell to Mason’s mouth, and he licked Caleb’s salty flavor. Caleb’s tongue darted out to flick Mason’s lips. Their tongues met, and they kissed hungrily. He slipped a hand to Mason’s cock to continue masturbating him. The combination of sex, masturbation and intimate kissing proved almost too much to bear.
“Caleb, I’m gonna—”
“Huh! You feel so fucking amazing,” Caleb sobbed, kissing him.
“Caleb,” Mason whined.
“Not yet, baby. Take it. Take every inch of this. Tell me you want it.”
“I fucking want it!”
Mason clawed at his shoulders and deepened the kiss. His spine arched. Caleb bit his shoulder to mute his fierce growl. They were animals, wild for each other. For someone who had lived his whole life conservatively, this was proving a thrill second to none. Mason’s hips danced higher, and his body shuddered, taking it. Caleb’s expert touch promised relief. Mason cried out as his cock shivered and sputtered threateningly.
Caleb kissed him hard to silence him, their teeth bumping. The press of lips softened, and Caleb whispered for him to be quiet. Mason want to shout from the rooftops. Bliss set every nerve ending afire. Pools of desire rippled out from his core and touched the shores of climax. The punishing thrusts rubbed whatever it was inside that made magic happen.
Mason thrashed his head from side to side. His cock exploded in a shower of jizz that forcefully erupted over Caleb’s fingers. Copious liquid rushed free with rippling spasms of orgasm. Mason sobbed with relief. His body shook with the ecstasy that gripped him and refused to let go. The silky wetness spilled over his balls to his ass, lubricating Caleb’s passage even more.
The rapture of Mason’s climax seemed to take Caleb by surprise. He hugged Mason closer and rocked with him. The guttural sounds he made as he shook with need filled Mason’s ears, and he knew he would remember this night forever. The night they finally let go and accepted the craving. He clutched the back of Caleb’s neck and held on for dear life as Caleb rode his body to completion.
Gradually, they rocked slower. Gradually, they found a way to stop. Caleb eased out of Mason’s embrace and fell onto the bed beside him. They were both sweaty and covered in the aroma of sex. He smiled drowsily at the thought. “Would you like to shower with me?” he whispered. Mason nodded weakly.
They moved like men learning how to walk. Drunk with pleasure. Caleb took his hand and led him to the bathroom, then Mason leaned against the wall and watched him from beneath hooded eyes while Caleb turned on the shower. He stepped beneath the warm spray of water.
Mason soaped a sponge and began to wash himself. His eyes shyly skittered away from Caleb’s, but Caleb stared at him unabashedly. He knew this simple business arrangement would be the death of him. Days and days alone together. If they kept the door open to avoid suspicion, the proximity without fulfillment would kill him. By now, Mason should have been out of his system. So why did he want him as badly now as he had when the twenty-one-year-old had barged into his apartment an hour ago?
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Mason whispered.
Caleb tensed, stared into his eyes, and said nothing.
Chapter 9
The door to the attic apartment remained open, but the sexual chemistry was threatening to win out. The only thing keeping Caleb in check was his personal resolution not to touch Mason. He had managed to stay true to that goal for two months now, even though Mason’s feelings about that were obvious. The Saturday afternoon sittings were usually tense with his displeasure at being kept at arm’s length.
Caleb smiled tightly as Mr. Sinclair strolled past for the eleventh time and peered into the room. “How’s everything coming along?” Mason’s father asked.
“It’s going well, thank you, Mr. Sinclair. Do you, uh, need Mason for something? I’m about to break off.”
Mason peered over the back of the sofa at his father with embarrassment. Mr. Sinclair shook his head and hurried along, and Mason reclined again. “So, is it qualifying as high art yet?”
“High art isn’t the goal. I’m after accurate art that expresses emotion,” Caleb murmured as he added a touch of color to the shadows of Mason’s cheek. He peered at the painting and at his subject. He did not often work from live models, other than to draw initial sketches. Keeping Mason on his sofa for hours had more to do with wanting to see his face.
“Okay,” Mason said quietly, meeting his gaze. “What emotions are you trying to express?”
Caleb studiously turned his attention to his palette. “Is Riesling coming over today?”
“Probably.”
“You know she’s in love with you, right?”
Mason rolled his eyes. “She has a boyfriend,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “So, how long will this expressive series be?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re only on painting number three. What—are you tired of sitting for me already? We’ve only been at it for two months,” Caleb teased. Two months had passed since their night together and the start of the Saturday evening sittings. Everything had changed between them. Caleb kept a professional distance. “I’ll send some stills to Gregoire and see what he thinks. He’s on pins and needles.”
“What if he doesn’t like your work?”
Caleb shrugged. He had considered that possibility all too frequently. He would move on with his life after he was done here, sooner rather than later. Autumn had drifted into hard winter. A glance through the attic window revealed snow covering the backyard. The longer Caleb stayed, the harder it would be to leave.
And he had to leave. Mason was in love with him.
Caleb sighed as he continued painting. “Have you ever met her boyfriend?”
“Who?”
“Riesling’s boyfriend.”
Mason shifted on the sofa. “She showed me a picture. Why does it matter?”
“Like I said, she’s in love with you. In another four months, you’ll have to do something about that. She’s not going to want you to leave…You could take her with you.”
Mason sat back and stared at the ceiling. “Or, I could take yo
u with me.”
Caleb chuckled. “I’ll be gone before then.” Mason’s expression smoothed, and Caleb knew he owed him an explanation or apology or something to salve the wounds he was unintentionally inflicting. “This shit is so complicated,” he whispered.
Mason continued staring at the ceiling from his position sprawled on the sofa. Caleb worked on his almond-shaped eyes in the painting, pretending the hurt look he had captured had nothing to do with him.
“Did I ever tell you about why I went to Venice?” Caleb asked. Mason shook his head. Not even talk of travel could raise a smile. Caleb scowled at the canvas. “Well, when I was twenty-four I went to Venice to find out more about my family.
“I had a private investigator dig into the old family tree. We found out my father was from Boston. He died in a car accident, before I was born. My mother—Gianna di Stefano—was harder to track down. She was here on a visa, and there was never any official American death certificate for her. We figured she had returned to Italy at some point.
“Funny, but the only thing I remember about my mother is her hair. It was long, curly and dark brown like mine. When I see her in my mind’s eye, her back is always to me, and I can never see her face. Anyway, I went to Venice to try to find out more about her. Some small part of me imagined she was alive, and all I had to do was find her to be complete.”
“Did you find her?” Mason whispered.
Caleb smiled ruefully as he cleaned his brush. “No. But I did discover the Italian masters and a desire to paint the world more realistically. My critics say I lost my edge because I tried to perfect something that did not need to be perfected. They were wrong.
“The world is a very unfeeling place. It has to be, for a woman to abandon her child for no earthly reason. I could never get over the fact that in all my memories, her back is to me. Did she hate me?” Caleb sighed. “The point is, I learned that the only honest art is without the beauty or ugliness of interpretation. I started painting that way to overcome the sense of unfairness. Life is neither fair nor unfair. It simply happens to us.”
“I think if you explained that perspective, your critics would understand your work,” said Mason.
“Of course not. They’d take one look at my art and try to assign meaning to the meaningless. ‘Ah, yes! This painting lacks emotion, it is sterile and barren,’” Caleb chuckled. “At the risk of going off on a tangent, I don’t think meaning can be assigned to anything until well after the fact. Time allows for perspective.”
Mrs. Sinclair tapped on the open door and peered into the apartment with an apologetic smile. “Mason, you have a guest.”
“Thanks, Mom. Tell her I’ll be down shortly.”
Caleb set aside his brush, refusing to let Riesling’s arrival irritate him. He sighed and worked the kinks out of his neck with a wave goodbye to Mrs. Sinclair as she darted away.
Mason asked him, “What will be different about your artwork now if you still view the world the same?” Caleb tilted his head, unable to answer. Mason rose from the sofa and came around to examine the painting. “You’ve captured me very realistically…coldly, but realistically.”
“Coldly?” Caleb rejoined defensively.
Mason walked toward the door, hesitating before walking out. He looked over his shoulder. “You paint what you see, but you’re a blind man. Until you open your eyes and engage your emotions you will only ever be half an artist at best.”
“You are way overthinking this, besides what business of yours is it anyway?” Caleb muttered.
Mason quirked a brow and showed rare anger. “A subtle reminder of the place of the muse?”
“You’re not my muse! I’m paying you to sit for me. This is a business arrangement!”
“Right,” Mason growled. “A business arrangement. I think your critics pegged you correctly. You’ve lost something, and if you think you can paint without it, then your future really is behind you.”
Caleb marched across the room and slammed the door before Mason could leave. “What are you trying to say? Because we can rip up the stupid contract you had me to sign right now, if you want to. I’ll pay you for your two months of service, and you can go back to eking out a living as a fucking hack-for-hire!”
Mason grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him into a hard kiss. Caleb clutched Mason’s face and kissed him back, diving his tongue into his mouth and groaning at the weakness. His body instantly flared with fires he feared would never be tamed with this man. They had not touched in two months—two months of staring at Mason, painting him, wanting him more than anything in the world and having to hide that desire.
“Fuck you!” Caleb swore, tearing away from him.
Mason grabbed his wrists and pulled him close. “Now, paint without emotion.”
Mason heard Robert and Belinda in the living room with his parents. His thoughts were in turmoil from Caleb’s distancing act, and he did not want to socialize. Why had Riesling shown up without calling? Probably because she was practically part of the family now. Sighing, Mason tried to get by the living room without any of them noticing him. As he darted past the archway, Robert called out, “Your friend is in here, Mason.”
Mason paused in the hall to run a hand over his clothes and ensure the fiery kiss with Caleb had left no evidence. “What have I missed?”
Riesling reached for his hand. “You have to see the floral arrangements Belinda and your mother are considering.”
Mason settled next to her and glanced at the catalogue, unaware his brother was watching him closely as Riesling snuggled against him. “Nice,” Mason mumbled.
Riesling giggled. “That’s not the picture, silly. Here.” She handed him a three-ring binder open to a magazine clipping. “Belinda is so creative. She put this together. I’ll have to use her ideas when I get married.”
“Want to come up to my room, Ries?” he whispered. He noted his father’s subtle nod of encouragement. Riesling’s eyes lit up as Mason led her from the room, leaving behind the cheerful talk of weddings. Robert was obviously on cloud nine and Mason regretted he would likely never know that feeling.
“We never go up to your room. What’s this about?” Riesling asked breathlessly on the stairs. Her eyes sparkled with fun mischief, and Mason dug deep for a smile, determined not to drag her down with his bad mood.
“Wedding planning isn’t for me. It’s boring,” True as far as it went. “It’s too cold to go walking, but I wanted to get away from everyone.” He kept the door to his room open for propriety’s sake. Riesling plopped down on his bed, and he took the chair at his writing desk. One look at the typewriter stirred memories he preferred not to think about. Mason idly tapped a key.
“I heard the painting is going well,” Riesling drew his attention.
He nodded and looked her way. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
She shrugged. “Getting ready for winter break.”
“Will you spend some of the holiday season with your other boyfriend?”
She blushed and looked down at her rose-colored nails, shaking her head. “Do you and Caleb have any special plans for the most wonderful time of the year?”
“There is no me and Caleb. You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
“Mason,” she sighed.
“Tell me the truth, please.”
She threw up her arms. “I thought it would make it easier for you if you thought I had someone else on the side.”
“Riesling,” he groaned. “You didn’t have to do that!”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? Keep coming over here, seeing you pine after him while I—!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. Mason moved to the bed and took her hands. Her eyes were full of tears when she opened them, and he looked at the floor in disbelief.
“You care about me,” he whispered. Caleb was right. She was in love with him. Mason’s shoulders slumped at the implications. All these months of Riesling coming over to hang out while his attention was on
someone else. Mason had to seem like the worst kind of monster for not picking up on the signs.
She laughed and dashed a tear. “Sometimes you can be so thick. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I get it. You can lie all you want, pretend all you want, but the truth is written all over your face. He makes you glow, Mason Sinclair. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him.”
Mason muttered with regret, “I’ve broken your heart for a man who could never love me back.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. I think he cares a great deal about you, or he wouldn’t stick around here. I mean, what’s in New Hampshire for a guy like him?”
“The ridiculousness of it is embarrassing. He created this beautiful notion in my head, and I got caught up in the beauty and forgot the most important part. What he creates isn’t real…it’s art.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m not so thick that I can’t see this must hurt you. I think we should stop seeing each other.”
She squeezed his hand supportively. “No, don’t let my stupid tears make you pull away from me. We have to ride this out and keep up the charade, for your sake. Your father is watching you harder than ever, and, from a purely selfish perspective, how else will I see you every other day?”
He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “We’re both fools.”
“At least we have that much in common,” she quipped.
Mason pulled her into a hug. “Maybe the spark is overrated.” He had to give up the fantasy of being with Caleb. No matter how he imagined his future—whether traveling and writing or working in a cubicle—the artist would never comfortably fit into his life. It was a silly crush, and it was time to do away with it. “Maybe we can give this a real shot, Riesling.”
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