Private Internship

by Kitsy Clare

  Once inside, Caz takes my hand and guides me through the twisting halls. It reminds me of the way he masterfully found our way back to his office during the blackout. His hand was my safety. Now it’s the focal point of my need.

  Up in his room, he guides me to his bed, the same one I slept in so chastely with him not more than twenty-four hours ago. This time, it won’t be so chaste. I’m licking my lips at the thought, while he gently undoes my boots, buckle by buckle. I pull him close, too, and help lift his shirt over his brawny shoulders.

  “Wait.” He shifts off the bed to light some candles. Ha—the storm candles. When he turns off the overhead light, the room again takes on that flickering dare-you glow we achieved on Halloween. “Trick or treat,” he says, with a devilish wink.

  “Treat,” I murmur back, and lure him close to me. I need to feel his hard chest against my breasts, his narrow hips against my flared ones.

  My turn to unfasten his belt buckle and help him out of his jeans, in triumph that his husky breathing is getting faster. I’ve got him. Where he’s vulnerable, where he lives, and knowing that makes me hot as hell.

  He’s got boxers on tonight—no commando at attention for me to easily see. I’ll have to cop a feel I think, chuckling to myself.

  “What’s so funny, Sienna?” he croons.

  “I’m going in for the hard evidence,” I say, running my hand down the fabric of his boxers—and oh, it is hard indeed.

  Caz lets out a low growl and responds in kind, sliding his hands all over me like I’m his favorite installation and he needs to make sure every screw and bell curve is in place.

  As he caresses me, he gazes at me in an immorally frisky way. “I’ve met my match with you, Sienna.”

  “How so?” I shoot him fiery darts with my eyes.

  “You’re the first one who’s ever called me on my naughty tests. That day you threatened to walk off the job, you turned me on so bad. All I could do was follow that beautiful butt because it belonged to the smartest woman I know. The only one who dares give me hell—”

  “When you deserve it,” I say, and give him a firm kiss.

  “Do I deserve it today?”

  “Oh, yes. You need punishment. You’ve been a very bad boy, playing Mr. Anonymous at that auction.”

  “Oh, lord,” he gasps. “What’s my punishment?”

  In answer, I bite him on the adorable bowtie curve of his upper lip. He groans and nips me back on the part of my neck where my pulse beats.

  In the warm glow of candlelight, we move together under his covers, his bodybuilder’s abs and pecs rippling over my belly, my breasts, inspiring a sweaty sheen of lust. We rock to our own musical beat, which gets faster and faster, until I ache for him to enter my heat. And then he stops.

  “Should I get protection?” he whispers.

  “Here, I have something,” I say impatiently. Reaching inside my bag on the bedside table, I pull out a pink tin filled with condoms. “I come prepared.”

  He rolls onto his back and stares over at me questioningly. “You certainly do. Are you with someone?”

  “No, I’m free.” I help him inch the pink rubber down his swollen length. I’m glad I broke it off with Erik. To wait any longer for this rare spice would be torture. I straddle Caz, and, running my hands through his coppery hair, I pull him toward me. Kiss him in a way that makes it clear I’m his if he wants me.

  “You want it?” he murmurs.

  “Yeah, give it to me.”

  With renewed passion Caz flips me over so he’s on top again. Cupping my butt with his sturdy hands, he lifts up my hips and presses me against him. I gasp when I feel his thick tip teasing at my entrance. With a strongman’s thrust, he slides into me and fills me up with his impossibly hot, thick cock. He thrusts again and again, each thrust taking my breath away. I match his moves and pump with my own ferocity.

  This is insane. I’ve never felt so much intensity while lovemaking. It’s like we’re the sculptures and we’re shaping each other with each thrust. I’m lost and found and remade all over again.

  As we ride each other faster, I’m on the verge of peaking. It’s building in the colors behind my lids, in my throbbing heart, in the hidden place where my soft, wet flesh pulses against him. I’m about to show Caz that I’m all his, all his, all his.

  “Baby, go for it. Let it go.” Caz’s words tease out my peak, entice it right out of my soul. He grabs my hips and lifts them toward his. I climax in waves and scream into his thick, wavy hair.

  It’s his turn. I want to get him off as completely as he did me. He rises in a handsome arc while he grinds, the whole time gazing at me with his dark, mournful eyes. “You’re so amazing, Sienna. How did you find me?” He’s clenching his jaw, ever so slightly, and I wonder why. Is it hard for him to cum? Is that it?

  “I remember the first time you walked toward me in your studio,” I say. “You were different. I’m so glad you’re opening up to me.”

  He slows his movements and lifts one arm from the bed to brush my hair back. “How was I then?” He frowns slightly.

  “I don’t know, Caz, kind of remote, but you’re not really that way anymore.”

  “Not really?”

  Oh, lord, what did I say? I’m spoiling things. I don’t want to ruin it for him. He’s almost all the way open. But he’s still hiding just a part of him. I feel it in the way he’s holding back his climax. In the way his jaw is clenched. I gaze deeply into his earthy brown eyes. “Open up, Caz. Please let me in.”

  Are my words affecting him? I think so, because he lowers his head and kisses me. His expression glazes over when he starts to move again, pumping harder and harder until he charges in for the final burst and rockets into me. Even through the condom, I feel his ejaculate filling me—hot, creamy, luxurious.

  We fall into each other, spent.

  For a while, we hold hands while we catch our breaths and gaze out the large windows at the sky, now clear and cottony with buoyant clouds. Then Caz pulls the covers up to my chin so tenderly it brings tears to my eyes. “Be back in a minute,” he says softly.

  “Promise?” I watch him walk out, enjoying every movement of sleek muscle on his naked body. When he’s out of the room, I let my eyes close and drift into a blissful dream state. He’s no longer the great and horrible Caz. He’s my Caz.

  He returns with two cut-glass goblets and sits on the bed. “Up, Sienna. Time for a treat.” He grins madly. “You said that you wanted a treat.”

  Sliding up, I lean against a couple of his pillows. “Wow, what’s this?”

  “My latest recipe.” He loads a spoon with chocolate pudding and brings it to my lips. “Open up,” he says like a clownish nanny. Except he’s looking more like The Naked Chef.

  Oh my god. The confection bursts in my mouth. “Chocolate and currants and cherries?” He nods. “Caz, this pudding is fantastic. Give me another bite. More treats, quick!”

  We finish up both goblets, feeding each other one heaping spoonful after the other. When he licks some spilled chocolate off one of my nipples, I get turned on enough for another lovemaking session.

  Instead, he kisses me sweetly, leaps to his feet, and shrugs into his pants and shirt. “I feel so good, I’m ready to tackle a sculpture. You?” Once dressed, he sits back down and wraps an arm around my exposed hip. I snuggle close.

  “I know what you mean. I do feel energized. Like revved up to do some new sketches. And, Caz?”

  “Mm?” he purrs contentedly while he strokes my hair.

  “I did some really cool work yesterday—a slightly new approach. I applied some of the things you said about the work I brought in.”

  “That’s good, Sienna.” He beams down at me. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Sure, when it’s done.” I nudge him. “Hey, what about you? Did you give what I said any thought?”

  “What was it exactly?” Caz looks out the window with an absent expression. Has he already forgotten? “Um, something about making serio
us art? Less stunts?”

  “That’s it.” I can’t lie; relief floods through me that my words meant enough to be memorable, that the advice isn’t totally one-sided. “Do you think what I said makes sense?”

  Caz sidesteps the question. “Um, well, babe, you can work in my office. I’ll turn you on to some good drawing paper.”

  “No intern work today?” I tease. “What will we do about that internship anyway? Haven’t we created a conflict of interest?”

  He grins, one of his super-sizzling ones, where his bad-boy aura pulses with mischief. “We’ve created a real conundrum,” he says. “Be my studio-mate tonight, and we’ll figure out the internship at a later date. Sound good?”

  “Perfect.”

  We kiss one more time, me naked and standing pressed up against him, feeling his arousal under his pants. In turn, he glides his hand over the small of my back and then down, to rest lightly on my butt.

  It’s hard to refocus, but we do. I wash up and dress in his bathroom overlooking the rickety bridge walkway where he sets up his spun-sugar windows. By the time I walk into his office, Caz is already laying out sheets of paper and expensive drawing pencils for me. I thank him and take a seat at his wide desk, feeling like an art princess.

  “Dammit, I forgot,” he growls, heading to his studio. “My drill’s been eating up bit after bit since it…got bent,” he adds, apparently before he can stop himself.

  “Ack! It dented that day when I dropped it on the floor from the rafters. I’m sorry, Caz, I—”

  “No worries,” he reassures me. “Things happen. You’re all set up, so do you mind if I run to the hardware store and maybe do another quick errand? You’re okay being here alone? Tommy’s off for the weekend.”

  “No, I’m good.” Eek, I’m glad Tommy wasn’t around for our noisy love-fest.

  Caz reaches in the office closet for his coat. “Back soon then. Want anything from Williamsburg Hardware?”

  “Just your handy tool,” I jibe.

  He leans in for another steamy kiss. “Um, that’s already on, I mean in hand.”

  And, with that, he’s gone.

  I’ve been sketching one of my jewel-like geometrical patterns and shading in areas with my new, brushier style strokes for about twenty minutes when my eyes wander to the bowl with the red suede keychain in it. I could swear it wasn’t there earlier when I walked by after I washed up. Caz put it back on the desk again. Why? Its red hue shines so brightly that it might as well be a blinking neon sign.

  I stare at the key, and my mind sinks to negative places. Caz didn’t say much about my suggestion that he do work that was less gimmicky. He basically brushed it off. He also joked about how he’d put me through, as he put it, “his naughty tests.” He even admitted tests turned him on. My insides start lurching.

  Is this yet another test? Placing this key here before he gave me his desk to draw on while he went out? I hate thinking that, hate it. It hurts, especially after we made such tender, beautiful love. And when I’m on the edge of falling for Caz. Does he really love me? Can he love anyone?

  Or am I prone to picking men who hurt me the way they hurt my mom? Her first husband—my own dad—used the excuse she was a slob to cheat on her and lie about it. Okay, she is a slob, and more than that, practically a hoarder. She’s got stacks of clothes on chairs and tables, from this sale or that, piles of old magazines that she can’t part with, and she does leave the dishes in the sink way, way too long. It was always embarrassing to me when I brought friends over. But, hey, if you’re going to cheat on your wife and then cover it up, don’t use the crap excuse that your wife is too messy. Either hire a maid or leave her the honorable way: before you commit adultery.

  Her second hubby wasn’t much better. He hounded her to have an open marriage then ran off with her best friend. The third was a lazy loser who lived off her earnings. One day, he cleaned out one of their accounts and split.

  Man, I hate traveling down this tired old track. I’ve fought so hard to trust people. But hell, it’s hard to think it’s anything else but a test, leaving the flaming key in plain sight when Caz knows I’ve talked to Harper about her break-in incident.

  My mind reviews our lovemaking session, spinning it this time in less perfect ways. It wasn’t my imagination; Caz was holding back until I pointed it out to him and encouraged him to let his defenses down.

  What is he keeping inside? If we’re going to have any kind of real relationship, I need him to fully open up to me. My mind goes back to the time I Googled him on the Net and found nothing on his prior life. Nothing. How is that even possible, these days? Why hasn’t he told me anything about his past? Does it have to do with whatever’s in that infernal room? Harper thought so. What else is in there she didn’t have the time to see? Again, my eyes settle on the red suede keychain.

  Caz will be gone for a while because that hardware store is closer to Greenpoint than Williamsburg. Might even be a forty-minute walk, if he combines it with other errands. If I’m going to do this, I’ll need to take swift, bold action.

  My hand moves toward the key. Its flat metal is room temperature, yet it scorches my palm when I pick it up. I march with determined steps to the locked door I’ve passed on multiple occasions on the way to Caz’s bedroom.

  When I get there, I pause, my hand in mid-air. I’m trembling so hard I feel like I’m on drugs cut with some type of toxic garbage. Shit! What am I doing? Caz just made amazing, sexy love to me. Why can’t I give him time to open up to me instead of stealing into his room? Betraying his trust? I owe it to him to wait. At least a little while more. I’ll try to nudge out answers in a gentler way. Trudging back to his office, I’m dizzy, confused, and heartsick. I plunk the key back into its ceramic bowl at almost the same freaking moment he swings open the inside loft door.

  Damn, he’s a fast walker. He lopes over with a look of concern and feels my forehead. “You’re a little pasty and your forehead’s hot. Sienna, are you okay?”

  Before I can even answer, I have to stop hyperventilating. “Um, whoa. I guess I got carried away with my drawing.”

  13 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next couple of weeks float by in a dreamy haze of lovemaking and helping Caz catalog this year’s sculptures for various museums. Incredibly, he’s represented all over the world—in Berlin, Venice, Paris, Prague, you name it! I’ve been so caught up with Caz that I haven’t spoken much to Harper, or even spent much time at my humble East Village apartment except to sleep and haul my art supplies back and forth.

  He indulges me with more of his mouthwatering recipes, and I’m thrilled to be an official taste tester. One night he makes roast pork tagine, a Senegalese dish with a sauce of cream, lemongrass, and Berber spices. For a breakfast, he makes the lightest omelet ever, with bits of spinach, ricotta¸ black olives, and fresh tarragon. And his newest masterpiece is a delicate poppy-seed cake with homemade peach sherbet. Holy moly, if we weren’t making love so much, I would’ve gained ten pounds by now.

  Caz invites me to help cook, implores me even. I help by setting a nice table, but there’s no way I can assist him in the kitchen. I’ve never learned how, and I’m embarrassed to start so late. I’d surely make an ass of myself—spilling flour, burning oil, and overcooking the veggies. “I’ll leave it to the master chef,” I say. If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let it spoil his mood. But then, he’s still adept at stuffing his emotions, shutting that virtual store grating.

  Our lovemaking is fierce. Yet I still feel Caz is holding back, keeping something inside…and out of my reach. His truth? His deeper emotions? At times, his vibe feels strangely murky, like guilt, but why?

  No idea. All I know is each time we make love, I have to bring him out of himself, urge him to let go. I catch him clenching his teeth, slowing down at the worst moments—like when he’s reaching his peak—spacing out when he should be focused on me—on us.

  Whenever I ask Caz what’s wrong, he shrugs it off and then
chugs back into the action. But it’s not my imagination. I would take it personally…except when he gets past that mysterious, worrisome snag, he loves me all the way.

  Oh yeah. Until I’m quivery and can hardly get out of bed for a while. Until, when I lick my lips, they’re swollen like they’ve been stung by bees. Until my insides are pleasantly sore, my legs weak, my spirit soaring.

  We do fun stuff out of bed, too. We work out in his gym, shoot out more sugar windows on the ticky-tacky bridge, draw together, and explore the far reaches of the sugar factory. We unearth a basement room full of dusty, postcard-mounted photos of sugar vessels and the sailors who steered them into New York Harbor.

  Caz loves those! He pins them all over his bedroom walls like adventurer wallpaper. They provide a harsh, yet quixotic, fantasy of the old New York when cargo arrived from mysterious waters, when seamen and high society alike could easily perish in seafaring storms.

  I tease Caz by saying for his second career he should be a ship captain.

  “Aye matey,” he answers with an animated grin, “and you can be my pirate wench.” With that, he wraps his arms around me and spins me in an improvised jig.

  ***

  The next time I’m in Caz’s office, working on updating his online catalogs, I notice he’s taken the key from the bowl. Seems he’s changed his mind about testing me. Does this mean he trusts me, or that he doesn’t trust me? Does this mean he has something new, even worse, to hide? Or does it simply mean he used it to store a random object in there and hasn’t gotten around to putting the key back?

  I hate how this suspicious banter rattles incessantly through my mind: the mystery of the room, the key, Caz’s blank-slate past, how I swear he’s holding something in. It’s starting to make me hold back, too. And he notices that!

  “Sienna,” he says, that afternoon, when we’re in bed cuddling and kissing, “what are you thinking about in that private mind of yours?” He even shakes me lightly.

  I tear my focus away from tracking a bird in flight out the window and back to him. Shrug and kiss him on his nose. “Just wondering how it’d be to fly. You?” I challenge. “What are you thinking about?”