“Pretty sure Will isn’t antiquing,” Hunter said with equal amounts worry and exasperation.
“Have some faith, son.” Alec meant for his words to sound jokey, but all he heard was an overserious preacher. Hunter rolled his eyes and climbed out of the truck.
Alec pushed the front door open, jangling the bells. Henry Wilson emerged from the back, his limp and cough becoming more pronounced each season. “Coach Grayson! And, Hunter Galloway. Well, I’ll be. Wonderful game last night. What can I do you for?”
“Actually, we were hoping to catch Whitey,” Alec said.
“Jeremy’s out back, unloading some knickknacks.” Henry thumbed toward the double metal doors. He shuffled behind a high desk and riffled through some papers, but his knowing gaze stayed fixed on them until they passed out of sight. The man was wily and wise and no doubt suspected why they were there.
Jeremy was slapping the dust off his pants when they stepped outside, the setting sun casting everything in an orangey glow. “Sorry, customers aren’t—”
He cut himself off. Shaking his head and with his thin lips pulled in a frown, he stacked chairs and moved them into what appeared to be a holding area before the pieces were tagged to sell.
“Jeremy, I’m—”
“I know who you are, Coach Grayson. Know your quarterback there too. Let me guess. You’re here for information about Will. ’Cuz you think I still run in that crowd or have connections to that crowd. Whatever.” Jeremy was young—only a few years older than Hunter—but he seemed older even than Alec in that moment.
He couldn’t deny that was exactly why they were standing in front of him. “I’m not accusing you of anything. According to Logan, people talk and you keep an ear out. Will’s gone missing. Do you know anything? Anything at all?”
“Fuck me,” he muttered while running a hand over sleek blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail. “Heard he owes some gangbangers money. Lots of it.”
A prepubescent crack cut Hunter’s voice. “Is he dead?”
“I haven’t heard. And I would have heard if they’d found him. He’s probably gone underground until he can raise the cash.”
“How much does he owe?” Alec asked.
“No clue. I’m not his banker,” Jeremy said with dripping sarcasm, but the longer he stared at Hunter, the softer his mouth became. “Look, your brother has to take care of his business. And, you need to take care of yours. Win state, earn a scholarship, and get the fuck out of here.”
Although Alec might have put it a little differently, there was no arguing the wisdom. Jeremy didn’t hang around, disappearing through a simple wooden side door.
Back in the truck, Alec turned to Hunter before starting the engine. “What do you want to do?”
Alec hoped Hunter would involve the police, but wasn’t surprised when he said, “I’ll go home and wait. He might show up tonight.”
Distrust had festered between Mill Town and the police for years. Between the poverty and racial profiling, the residents of Mill Town often felt persecuted by the same people hired to protect them. In turn, drugs and violence followed poverty like mice to the Pied Piper and made Mill Town the police department’s nightmare.
Alec and Hunter drove back to Hancock House in silence. He parked and grabbed Hunter’s arm before he could hop out. “Why don’t you stay a while? We can throw some sandwiches together, order pizza or something.”
Hunter found his first smile of the evening. “Nah. I interrupted your date already, didn’t I? I’ll be fine.”
“You text me if Will comes home, and we’ll figure something out.”
Hunter nodded but looked away. Alec watched until his car made the turn off the oak-lined street.
Lilliana met him at the door with a hug. Alec folded himself around her, wanting nothing more than to stand there in her arms the rest of the night. His stomach rumbled. She poked his belly, setting off his laughter like a tripwire.
“I have sandwich fixings and tea already out.”
“Sounds perfect.” He filled her in on what he’d learned while they ate. “Am I doing the right thing by letting sleeping dogs lie? Or should I go to the police?”
She tucked hair still damp from a shower behind an ear. “My guess is the police know about as much as your buddy Jeremy. I wouldn’t think it would help, and it would only hurt your relationship with Hunter. He would never trust you again.”
Alec ran a hand over his face. The irony was astounding. She was right, though. She put everything back into the fridge. Her too-big T-shirt was knotted at her hips. Skinny jeans encased her legs, and her feet were bare, the toenails painted a glittery purple. She touched her side a couple of times.
“Can I see your tattoo now?”
She nodded, and he picked her up and set her on the counter, ignoring her squeal of laughter. He unknotted her shirt and lifted.
The tattoo was smaller than he’d expected and shiny with a protective gel to help it heal. Only about four inches long and two inches wide, it sat below her bra strap on her side. It took him a moment to identify the circles and lines. “It’s a constellation.”
“Orion. The Hunter. But I had the stars done in blue and yellow as an homage to van Gogh’s Starry Night. It was the first painting I remember seeing in a book, and later stumbling across it in a museum in real life. I wanted to step inside of it.”
The tattoo was as beautiful and unique as the woman herself.
“Do you like it?” she asked in a hesitant voice.
“I love … it.” Again, his heart had nearly stolen control of his tongue. The thought of putting himself out there, saying it first, made him sick to his stomach.
Afraid she’d see straight through him, he pulled away and half-turned toward the door. What was his play? And did he really need to formulate a defense? “You mind if I shower?”
Completely unaware of his inner turmoil, she hopped down, her voice casual. “’Course not. You know where everything is.”
While the water heated, he picked up a bottle of her lotion and sniffed. It smelled good, but not as good as it smelled on her soft skin.
He shed his clothes and stepped into the steamy shower. A fancy pink razor, a blue scrub, and several bottles filled the caddy. He smelled each bottle of shampoo until he hit on the sweet magnolia scent. Rinsing the suds out, he closed his eyes and let his senses take over. Jesus, he was a goner.
Treading close to disgust with himself, he turned the water off, dried with the fluffiest towel he’d ever touched, and dressed in shorts and a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt. Popping his head into the hall, he was drawn to her studio by the light shining into the hallway and her humming.
He knocked on the doorjamb. “I don’t want to interrupt if you had plans to work tonight.”
“Nope, just organizing. Although, now that you mention it, there is something I want to sketch, although I wouldn’t consider it work.”
“What’s that?”
She set a sketchbook on the easel and flipped it open. “You. I want to sketch you. Go sit on the couch.”
“Me? Like the caricature you did of Hunter?” He sat on the edge of the cushion, his back ramrod straight and his hands clutching his knees.
“Something like that.” With a pencil clamped between her teeth, she twisted her hair up and stuck the pencil through the messy bun, uncaptured tendrils trailing over her shoulders. She picked up another pencil and waved it around like a wand. “Take your shirt off.”
“Is this going to be a nude caricature?”
A smile lit her face and made her eyes shine like polished obsidian. “I was thinking you could leave your shorts on, but now that you mention it…” She waggled her eyebrows.
Was she serious? The thought of lounging fully naked for her viewing pleasure was unbearably arousing.
“Don’t look so shocked. I did an entire class depicting the human form, but with you, I’m more interested in your tattoos.”
“Why?”
She adjusted
the easel, so he couldn’t see her work. “Because they’re a work of art in and of themselves.”
Her words ricocheted through him. He didn’t object to body art in general, it was what the tattoos had come to symbolize for him. The pain and shame of his fall.
True, he’d been hurt by everyone’s defection and his parent’s betrayal, but a big chunk of the blame landed squarely with him. He’d bought into his own hype, surrounding himself with people who didn’t care about him, only what they could get out of him. The lesson had been tattooed on his heart. But Lilliana was leaving her own indelible mark on him.
He peeled off his T-shirt and settled back into the corner of the couch. The scratch of pencil replaced conversation. Her skin took on a rosy blush.
He studied her while she worked. The cute crinkle between her eyes, the way she would unexpectedly smile at her drawing, the way she bit her bottom lip. Even in her baggy T-shirt and jeans, she was a million times sexier than any woman he’d ever met. He surreptitiously adjusted his semi-erection.
He had no idea how long the sketch took. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour.
“All done. Want to see?” She pulled the sketchbook to her chest, standing and coming closer.
He nodded, and she flipped it around. He’d expected a funny caricature, but instead, he stared at a drawing of not only his body, but something intangible he tried to keep hidden from everyone. She’d drawn him midthrow on a football field in nothing but a pair of shorts. The crowd was fuzzy and indistinct, lending a lonely quality to the drawing.
She turned the book around so the sketch was hidden once more. “Obviously, it’s not a caricature, but that’s not what I wanted to draw. You don’t like it, do you?”
“No. I mean, yes, I like it. It’s amazing.” They engaged in a brief game of tug of war with the sketchbook before she let go. He stared even closer at the simple black lines that almost magically coalesced to depict him on the page. His heart thumped too fast and hard.
This was how she saw him. Serious. Closed-off. A loner. Yet a dynamic energy pulsed in the drawing, and she’d put his tattoos front and center, emphasizing them. She’d even included the scars along his busted knee.
The importance of the moment grew as the silence stretched. He felt vulnerable and raw, and when he caught her eyes, she looked the same.
He set the sketchbook at his hip and rose. “Where are your watercolors? It’s my turn to paint you.”
Chapter 21
Lilliana’s mouth opened and closed, still processing the unexpected. When she’d turned the book around for him to see, emotions crossed his face like lightning, so fast she couldn’t tell whether he was touched or pissed or freaked out.
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“There’s a lot of things you still need to learn about me.”
Hope made her stomach flip. Probably she shouldn’t read too much into anything he said when he was wearing next to nothing and all she could think about was tugging his shorts to his ankles.
He walked past her, the heat from his bare chest somehow burning her from the inside out. She flipped the sketchbook to a clean page and pulled out a set of watercolors and two brushes for him to use—one a medium straight-tip, the other a fan.
“Perfect.” In typical no-nonsense Alec fashion, he added briskly with little emotion, “Now strip to your underwear and sit on the couch.”
“I-I beg your pardon?” She found herself doing a non-ironic faux-pearl clutch.
“Equal opportunity painting. Go strip.” One side of his mouth lifted, crinkling his eyes.
Unable to resist one of his rare smiles, she shuffled to the couch and unfastened her pants. She stopped with her zipper halfway down. “You mind if I dim the lights?”
“I’ll do it. You continue.”
While he turned on a corner lamp and flipped the harsh overhead light off, she tried to embody the confidence of a stripper. She peeled her jeans off, wiggling her hips on their downward slide. He regained the stool, sitting with his elbows braced on wide-set knees, twirling the fan brush, his gaze fixed on her.
Her pretend confidence deserted her when she lost her balance trying to pull her jeans over her feet. She plopped onto the couch, her jeans still tangled around her ankles. She extricated herself and threw them aside. A quick check of the state of her underwear helped erase a portion of her embarrassment. Thank God she’d pulled out pink bikini-cut panties instead of an ancient pair with worn-out elastic. That would have been supersexy.
“Shirt too,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Not even attempting the grace of a stripper, she shucked her shirt and dropped it on top of his, scooting back into the couch, trying not to self-consciously cover herself, but definitely sucking her stomach in.
A long moment passed, no movement or noise from him. She glanced up to find his gaze roving her body. Granted, she’d taken several good long looks at him, but she’d at least masked her ogling as a character study.
“Are you going to get started?” she asked.
“Are you ready?”
“I’m in my underwear on the couch, so I’d say that’s a yes.”
Instead of turning to the easel, he gathered the paints and brushes and positioned himself on his knees on the floor at her legs. Without saying a word, he dipped the smaller brush into paint and scored a line of orange down her bare leg, the paint cool.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Painting you,” he whispered back, dropping his lips to the side of the orange streak. His warm lips in contrast with the cool paint turned her shudder into constant trembles.
The need to say something to break the building tension drove her nervous rambling. “Orange, huh? What does that symbolize?”
“Your joy.” Next, he mixed orange and yellow and trailed the brush over her inner thigh. “Yellow for your laughter. You mind if I get your panties dirty?”
All she managed was a negative hum. He painted a streak between her legs. Her hips bucked, scooting her closer to the edge.
“Blue for your sexiness.” With blue paint, he circled her belly button and painted up between her ab muscles to the edge of her bra. Her nipples poked at the white lace.
“Let’s not get this pretty thing all messy.” He snaked his hand around her back. Her bra loosened, and he drew it off her arms. His gaze fell from her face to her breasts, and she automatically closed her eyes and raised a hand to her chest.
He caught her wrist and held her hand away. “Stop it. You’ve got a gorgeous body, but you’re also smart and funny and talented.”
Her arm relaxed, and he let go. She grabbed a handful of the canvas drop cloth at her hip. “I’ve been fooled by men who I thought actually liked me, but only wanted sex.”
“That’s why you always wear the baggy shirts?”
She hesitated a moment before nodding. “My boobs turn normally intelligent men into Neanderthals.”
“Idiots.” His face softened, and she vowed once more never to tell him he’d once been one of those idiots. He pulled away and messed with the paints.
With the fan brush, he painted a red circle around her left nipple. The tickling sensation shot tingles from her already peaked nipple to between her legs. With his free hand, he cupped her breast, his thumb smearing the paint, and dropped to lick her nipple.
The brush tortured her other breast next, blue mixing with the red already on the brush to form purple swirls. He gave that breast the same attention with tongue and mouth, his hands streaking paint down her sides, making sure to avoid the sensitive skin of her tattoo.
Her back arched and her knees spread wider. The brush skimmed down her panty-covered core. She inhaled, her hand dropping the cloth and reaching for his skin. Her fingers dug into his biceps as he played the brush over her, an orgasm hovering close, even through the barrier of her underwear.
He pulled back and gathered more paint on the brush. He painted her collarbones red like a bird in flight. More
paint on her neck, paying special attention to her pulse point. It was sweet and fabulous, but she wanted him back between her legs.
“Alec, please.”
“Please, what?” The playful tease in his voice was new and unexpected, and she was struck mute.
No one had looked at her like Alec. No one had expected her to put voice to her passion. Quite the opposite in fact. Her sexual experiences had consisted mostly of quiet fumbling in the dark, trying not to wake her roommates or her boyfriend-at-the-time’s roommates.
“Please touch me.”
“I am touching you.” He smiled a heavy-lidded sensuous smile and glided his thumbs along her collarbones, his fingers spreading red lines along each shoulder.
“My … my breasts.” He finger-painted his way down, the colors becoming a muted swirl over her torso, until he covered her breasts and squeezed. The sensation shot to between her legs. She wiggled closer to the edge and hooked her feet around his thighs. She needed to feel his erection against her, inside of her.
She knocked his arms away and pushed up, pressing her breasts into his chest. His hands skimmed down her back. He caught the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, shifting to get them off her legs.
Instead of tearing his shorts off and driving into her, he dropped to his knees once more and spread her legs. The first touch of his tongue drove her hand into his hair.
Watching a man go down on her was a new experience and one she hoped to repeat—but only with Alec. He didn’t close his eyes, but kept his gaze fixed on her face. He seemed to gauge what she liked best by her whimpers, the clutch of her hand, her squirms against his mouth.
The connection between them strengthened with every nip and lick. Every protective layer of her psyche splayed open when she orgasmed. She forced her eyes to stay locked with his and wondered what he saw in the depths of her.
Eventually, he stood, still between her spread legs. He shucked his shorts and underwear and kicked them aside. Later, maybe she would be embarrassed at the way she lay naked and open, greedily taking in his body with her eyes. But, in the aftermath of her orgasm, she welcomed the intensity of what was yet to come.
Melting Into You Page 21