Submersed

by Rachelle Vaughn

  “Yeah.”

  “So, was it satisfactory?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee. “The gym?”

  “Yeah. Probably one of the nicest I’ve seen. That’s how I want mine to be. Swanky locker room, sauna, spa. All that stuff.”

  “You’re opening your own gym?”

  “Someday.”

  He caught me looking at his chest and smiled. “Frank set me up with some workout duds. That guy is amazing. Is there anything he can’t get?”

  “Poisson Cru,” I answered, naming my favorite French Polynesian dish.

  Dillon gave me a puzzled look.

  “Well, he can have the ahi tuna shipped, but it isn’t as good when it’s imported,” I explained.

  Dillon shrugged, swallowed the last of his second piece of my toast and stood up. “Time for a shower.”

  “You could have showered at the gym,” I pointed out.

  “Eh,” he shrugged. “Yours is much more appealing to me.” He eyed me as hungrily as he’d eyed my toast just a few minutes earlier.

  I nervously smoothed my still wet hair. “I’ve already had mine.”

  “Too bad,” he said with a wink. “Could’ve been fun.” His grin was confident and his smile dangerous.

  I blushed and pushed my plate away. There was no way I could eat another bite as long as my stomach was doing cartwheels.

  Dillon took off his shirt and tossed it on the chair.

  I felt my eyes bulge out of my head at the sight of his bare chest. He was Adonis or Atlas or Zeus. He was chiseled and sculpted like a marble statue of Hercules. But he wasn’t cold stone or lifeless rock or a mythological being. He was tan flesh and warm-blooded man. Pure man. And he was leaning against the doorjamb watching me have my fill of him with my eyes.

  I blushed the color of the raspberry jam I’d put on my toast. Quickly, I gripped my hands together under the table for fear they’d try to reach out and touch him. My willpower was crumbling like feta cheese.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” he asked, tucking his thumbs under the elastic at his waist.

  “Maybe…maybe some other time,” I croaked, blinking rapidly.

  There. That should buy me some time.

  He winked at me and strode into the bathroom, his bare back eliciting a groan from my throat.

  Chapter Nine

  Later after Dillon had gone and I lay in bed alone, I pondered my thoughts about that morning. Secretly, I had really hoped Dillon would still be there lying next to me when I woke up. What difference did it make whether he was in my bed or not? It wasn’t like I would have done anything about it. Sure, several scenarios crossed my mind, but this was Olivia Sharpe I was talking about, not Raquel Welch or Jane Russell, or Ann freakin’ Margaret.

  My arms broke out in goose bumps at the thought of those scenarios. There were plenty of them and they all included me uninhibited and Dillon stark naked. In a moment of boldness, I forced myself to play out one of them in my mind. A little harmless fantasizing couldn’t hurt.

  I would wake feeling refreshed and find Dillon’s arm protectively draped over my waist. He would moan when he felt me stirring and he’d open those devastatingly blue eyes to meet mine. He would look rumpled from sleep and sexy as hell. We would exchange murmured greetings and he would kiss me good morning. It would be a lazy, sultry kiss and he would run his hands up under my shirt and stir up feelings deep within me that had lain dormant for so long.

  My body would awaken at his touch and I’d return the favor by sliding my hands over his warm chest and back. I would feel his erection hard and pulsing against my belly. In a husky voice, he would say my name. I would bury my fingers in his thick, silky hair and gently tug it when he slid into my moist heat. The sheets would bunch as I arched for him, giving myself to him. He would bring me to ecstasy before emptying himself into me with a shudder.

  My breath hitched and I found myself clenching my thighs together. A quivering sensation coiled between my legs. Gradually, I gave into the feeling. If I was ever going to be comfortable enough to have sex with Dillon, I was going to have to be comfortable enough to do it with myself.

  I curled my body against my pillow, wishing it were flesh and warm skin and could hold me back. I squeezed my legs around it, my panties bunched up and rubbed along my slit. I wished I wasn’t the only one in my bed, throbbing and yearning.

  I pictured Dillon’s eyes roving over my naked body. I saw his bare chest, the muscles rippling in his arms, shoulders and stomach. I imagined how his bare skin would taste, salty and warm on my tongue. I yearned to feel his nipples pebble under my fingertips and his cock harden in my hand.

  I lifted my tee shirt and my nipples puckered when the cool air from the A/C caressed them. I ran my hands over each breast and squeezed their hard peaks. Gently at first, then harder and tighter. I wished someone were there to suckle my heavy breasts and cool my burning nipples with their mouth and tease them with their tongue. I couldn’t do it myself. I couldn’t reach all the places by body needed me to. I needed him. I needed Dillon.

  Writhing against the sheets, my body screamed for release. I rubbed and stroked and probed but nothing came of it except for more frustration.

  I collapsed into my pillow, exhausted and still wound up as tight as before I started.

  If I couldn’t make it happen for myself, then what hope did I have of a man figuring it out?

  When I touched myself, it felt amazing, but I never experienced that wave of release or whatever it was that books and magazines claimed it to be. Maybe it wasn’t something I could do for myself. Like how a person couldn’t tickle themselves. Yeah, that was it. I was going to stick with that theory until something better came along.

  When I woke the next morning, the poor pillow I’d humped like a horny rabbit was slumped on the floor, discarded sometime in the middle of the night along with the rest of my hopes for satisfaction.

  I knew then what I had to do.

  Chapter Ten

  “Dillon, hi. This is Olivia Sharpe,” I told his voice mail. “I’m calling to set something up for this afternoon.” I left my number, hung up and spent the next half hour obsessing over the call in my head. Would he even want to see me again? He probably had way more interesting clients to choose from than me. Women who were comfortable in their own skin. Women who were comfortable enough to have sex in limos and give blowjobs after a massage.

  Twenty minutes later Dillon called me back.

  “Do you have time to come over today?” I asked with a voice of pure business.

  “Sure,” he answered without hesitation. “I’ll bring lunch.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I replied, my voice wavering.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Well, yeah…I…”

  “Then I’m bringing lunch. It’ll be my treat.”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. What choice did I have?

  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Great.”

  According to the website, I was responsible for paying all of Dillon’s expenses so I tucked another twenty into his envelope.

  An hour later, Dillon showed up bearing drinks and a bag of food.

  “This is for you,” I said, setting the envelope on the table in the foyer.

  “Thanks.” He set his keys on top of it and brought me in for a half-hug with his free arm. “And this is for us,” he announced, holding out the bag of food. With one arm around my shoulder, he led me to the table where he set down our lunch.

  I sat down next to him and took a sip from the soda he set in front of me. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “Eh,” he shrugged, pulling out two packages wrapped in gold foil and handed me one. “It’s no biggie. I figured you probably get tired of room service. I hope you like club sandwiches.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. It seemed like a win-win because if there’s anything on it you don’t like, you can always pick it off.”

  “
Wow, thank you. This looks good.” I unwrapped mine and found a delicious looking sandwich inside.

  Dillon was already taking a bite out of his sandwich when he eyed me suspiciously. “It’s from Earl of Sandwich. You’ve never been there before?”

  “No.” I took a dainty bite and my eyes widened at the burst of flavor. My mouth watered around the warm toasted artisan bread, thinly sliced roasted turkey, smoked bacon, Swiss cheese, lettuce and roma tomatoes. I wouldn’t be picking anything off the mouthwatering sandwich. “Oh, it’s delicious. Where are they located?”

  “At Planet Hollywood.”

  “Oh.”

  Dillon shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s the best sandwich on The Strip.”

  I swallowed another bite of heaven and chased it with a drink of cola. “I’d have to agree.”

  “I still can’t believe you’ve never had one of these.”

  “I don’t get out much,” I confessed.

  “How long have you lived in Vegas?”

  I looked away and pretended to focus on my chewing. “About five years,” I generalized, when in fact I knew the exact day that I’d arrived down to the hour. “And you?”

  “About four.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes and then Dillon asked, “So, I forgot to ask you the other night when we were looking at all those cars. What kind of car do you drive?”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  This surprised him and I was amused. What the hell did I need a car for?

  “Why not?” he asked suspiciously.

  I casually shook off the sensitive question. “I have a driver take me wherever I need to go.” Which was nowhere.

  “Don’t you ever just want to go drive out on the open road by yourself? Wind in your hair? Have that…that freedom to go wherever you want?”

  “I don’t really like to drive.” In fact, it was much too stressful. All those maniacs on the road, darting in and out. Looking at me. Laughing.

  “So, you don’t go out at all?”

  “I avoid it at all costs. Sometimes my father insists I go to his house for dinner, but other than that, no.”

  Dillon shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “Listen, Dillon, I wanted to talk to you about the other night.”

  “What about it?”

  “I wanted to thank you again for helping me out at the car show.”

  “No problem.”

  “And I wanted to thank you for what you did at the charity dinner, too.”

  “What, the dancing?”

  “No, that was nice too, but I meant at dinner. When you were talking about my painting. You really went above and beyond by actually going to the gallery. You didn’t have to do that.”

  He raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “I enjoyed it. I thought if our stories were going to match, I should at least check out the spot where we “met”. And I loved your painting by the way.”

  “I still can’t believe you saw the mermaid.” I had been marveling over that fact since our first “date” together.

  “Yeah, plain as day.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You have no idea how many times I’ve had to explain it to people and they just don’t see it.”

  “Sometimes people only see what they want to see. Art is supposed to be subjective, right?”

  “Well, yeah. But I painted her as a mermaid.”

  “How come you don’t let that lady show your work in L.A.?”

  I felt my spine stiffen. “I had a show once. In Paris.” God, it felt like a lifetime ago. It had been right before…right before my life had changed forever. “I swore I’d never do it again.”

  He looked at me sideways and smirked. “So it didn’t go over very well?”

  I playfully punched his arm and he didn’t even flinch. “Are you kidding? I received rave reviews. And just so you know, every piece in the collection sold. I’m even told there was a bit of a bidding war on a piece named Mon Reve.”

  “Then why don’t you do it again? People obviously love your paintings, Livi.”

  “Uh-uh. I can’t bear the thought of all those stuffy, pretentious people looking down their noses at my work.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “That must get kind of nerve-wracking. But it’s all a part of the process.”

  Thoughtfully, I chewed the last bite of my sandwich. “Speaking of my work, I have a…sort of a…proposition for you.”

  I could tell this intrigued him because he was looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Oh yeah? Is that why you called me today?”

  “It is.”

  “So what’s the proposition?”

  Jeez, I sure hated talking on the phone, but this was like torture talking to Dillon face to face with his eyes staring into mine. “I…I want to paint you.”

  “That sounds messy. I hope it’ll wash off,” he said with a smirk.

  I elbowed him in the ribs and laughed at how he could make light of any situation to make me feel comfortable. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. So, would you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “Sitting for me while I paint you,” I answered impatiently.

  He tilted his head from side to side, pretending to think it over. “You know you could have just called me to ask. I mean, not that I don’t like coming over to see you, but…”

  The mention of the phone had me swallowing back fear. “I don’t…I don’t really do well on the phone.”

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “I can understand that.”

  The suspense had my nerves standing on end. “So…?” I drew out the word in the form of a question.

  He leaned forward, took my hand in his and proceeded to make those lazy circles with his thumb. “I’ll do it,” he finally said.

  “Great.”

  “On one condition.”

  An invisible fist wrenched tight inside my throat and my hand jerked in his. “What’s that?”

  “You let me see the painting when it’s finished.”

  “I suppose I can make an exception.”

  As Dillon and I finished our sandwiches, I had an epiphany. We were having a date. Or at least that’s what it felt like under the circumstances.

  I was asking him questions, he was answering. He was telling me funny stories and making me laugh. We were getting to know each other. It was a much more relaxed experience than being thrust into social situations together with limited preparation. It was just the two of us and there was no one else around to make me feel uncomfortable but myself.

  Dillon crumpled up our food wrappers and tossed them in the trash. “So, what kind of music do you listen to?” he asked, taking a long pull from his soda.

  “Chopin, mostly,” I answered. “It haunts me.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Heavy.”

  I shrugged. “I like piano concertos.”

  His eyes widened in recognition and he nodded his head. “Oh, yeah, like classical music. Beethoven and stuff. Cool.”

  I laughed at how Dillon could so easily describe the most influential composers as “cool stuff”.

  Then, as if a light bulb switched on in his brain, he got up and wandered around the living room. When he found the stereo, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and plugged it in. A booming sound came from the speakers and he cranked up the volume. “Since you don’t like to go out, how ‘bout we make our own club?”

  Out of habit, I flinched at the noise. The sound was a little loud for my taste, but I had to admit it had an infectious beat. A guitar screeched and a gravelly voice started singing about porn star dancing.

  When I heard the lyrics, I blushed. I didn’t normally listen to music that had lyrics. Words were too distracting when layered over the other voices in my head. I had enough going on in there already.

  But the song was catchy and I felt the corner of my mouth tilt up in a smile.

  Dillon snapped his fingers and started dancing. I let out a nervous laugh, hoping he didn�
�t expect me to join him.

  “Have you ever heard this?” he asked over the music.

  “No,” I answered, still laughing. I had to practically yell to be heard over the ridiculous volume. “What is it?”

  “My Darkest Days.”

  “Its…high energy.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. I’d never heard Dillon laugh straight from his belly before and it was a wonderful sound. Normally, I would have cringed at that kind of full-bodied laughter, but this wasn’t a wicked or malicious laugh. It was wonderful. I couldn’t help but smile because I knew he wasn’t laughing at me but at my naiveté.

  “Come on, Livi,” he urged, pulling me to my feet.

  I stood awkwardly across from him and fiddled with the ends of my hair. “I’ve never danced like this. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Don’t overthink it. Just wiggle your ass a little.”

  I laughed at that and he pulled me to him. Despite the difference in our height, we fit together perfectly just like we had at the charity dinner. Thinking that if my neck could keep rhythm then maybe the rest of me would follow, I nodded to the beat.

  Little by little, I loosened up and danced.

  He held my hand with his thumb pressed at my wrist and I was afraid he’d feel my pulse rapidly throbbing. With his other hand, he gripped my hip. Sometimes it scared me how hands-on Dillon was. Without warning, he would just reach out and touch my hand or my hair. It was always with tenderness, though. Never possessive or rough. Although it made me jumpy, I felt myself secretly wishing he’d touch me more often and in more private places.

  Now he was touching me like we were at a nightclub together. Dillon’s hand moved down to my waist and we gyrated to the music. He danced like he knew exactly how to move to make a woman whimper.

  His eyes darkened until they were almost black. Was it desire or repulsion? If I didn’t know better I’d have thought it was desire. Repulsion didn’t keep a man clinging to you like he was glued to your front.

  He had to know what he could do to a woman with just one look of those devastating eyes. Once flash of that smile. Yes, he definitely knew. No one could be oblivious of such charms.