by Xavier Neal
On a pleased and grateful sigh I say, “That feels really good.”
“Yeah?” Her heated voice questions. “You want me to keep going?”
“Yeah...” I pant from the increase in speed. “I....I...I need this...”
June's jerking tightens.
“I need...” My hips lift into her clutch. “You.”
She slightly whimpers while the steady yet relentless speed forces me to grip the handle for leverage. Pre cum slips from the tip of my cock and she uses it like her own personal assistant in the pursuit to make me come. Another groan leaves as her fingers brush against my balls in the pitiless pumping. I do my best to hold back, wanting her greedy grip to never break, but am defeated when she releases her own moan of content for the situation. My dick swells to the point of pleasurable pain and cum finally surges in scalding waves. The gasp out of June lifts my heavy eyelids expecting to see regret but am relieved when it's excitement.
As she takes the access road, she merely raises her hand to her full lips to lick away the released frustrations in such a tantalizing manner my cock doesn't bother completely softening. Once she's cleaned, she grips the wheel with two hands again, and deviously smirks. “I told you. I'm here to serve you, Tucker....”
The playful implication gets a light chortle out of me.
How the hell could this woman ever think I would forget something as mind blowing as her? How the hell does everyone else?
June
Tucker: We're going on an art field trip in two hours. Wear a tight dress.
Excitement and apprehension collide from the message.
It's been almost a week since the dinner episode and my possibly misguided attempt to help him relax. We've texted tremendously, the conversations fun and all over the place, but I haven't seen him in person since. He's been hiding or maybe I've been hiding or hell maybe we've both been hiding, but I highly doubt for the same reasons. You don't have to lecture me on how out of line it is for me to fool around with my boss' nephew. Believe me. I'm lecturing myself like a small child who can't stop drawing on her bedroom wall because she thinks she’s Harold from Harold and The Purple Crayon. I keep telling myself this is not the lesson my sisters need to learn. They need to see the example of a steady relationship or if I can't provide them with that, then the steadiness of being a strong single female. Being this smitten over someone I just met won't teach them the right things. And before you go on some weird tangent about how they're old enough to think for themselves now, let me just say, when you’re the big sister, no matter how old you get, the little ones still turn an eye to you. Especially if you raised them. Especially if you helped them through their first period, first kiss, and first heartbreak. They may look to you less for actual advice, but they see the example you continuously set. I want my sisters to see the importance of being responsible...But....there's this undeniable impulse I can't resist when I'm around Tucker. As much as I wanna pin it all on the lack of sex in my life, there's something so much more there. I see when it looks at me. It's as if I painted the moon and stars by hand every night. I hear it when he calls me June Bug. When we connect, the rest of the world seems to vanish and I'm all that truly matters. Is that crazy? It sounds crazy. That's gotta be crazy....I've gotta be crazy.
I shut my lap top and reply.
Me: And where exactly are we going?
Tucker: Part of the beauty is in the surprise.
I roll my eyes and helplessly smile.
He's too charming for his own good. That is unless you are his mother and then he treats you like you're a shepherd for the devil.
After quickly showering, shaving, and changing, I drive across town to the condo. Once I'm inside I politely call out his name repeatedly though it becomes more faint each time. Unable to stop myself from admiring the art work laid out to dry, I begin an uninvited tour of paintings and sculptures unlike anything I've ever seen before.
Don't touch anything. No. Not even that one. It's a 3D painting and I know it makes you want to touch it, but we have to be respectful.
I lean in closer to admire the contrasting colors in the abstract painting that's resting on a bar stool when Tucker warmly says, “You like it?”
The realization I'm no longer alone shakes me off balance and the minor heels on my feet betray me as I bump into the very stool showcasing it. My instant reflex is to catch the art yet Tucker's arm flies to me instead.
“Whoa there, June bug. Didn't mean to scare you.”
“Naturally skittish,” I confess. “Blame it on having a father who thinks it's funny to jump out from around corners to scare his children. I've got many scars to prove it's not.”
Tucker lightly chuckles.
“Sorry though. Like so so so sorry...” I quickly reach down and place the painting back where it was being showcased. “I didn't mean to damage your work.”
“You didn't,” he reassures me, a hand lightly touching my hip. “And even if you had, it's more important that you are alright than it.”
The words cause me to nervously swallow. “Why's that?”
“While neither of you are replaceable, I can always recreate a painting. There's only one June Bailey.”
His finger softly strokes the area it has latched itself onto and I struggle to remember how to breathe.
Something with the lungs...and the ears? Or the nose?
“You look beautiful,” he compliments, his hold sadly dropping. After his eyes travel down the form fitting black dress, Tucker tips his head towards me. “And you put your hair up. Good choice. It's gonna get hot.”
The new information shoots my eyebrows up. “What do you mean hot?”
He simply smirks wider and winks.
Ugh. As sexy as all that is, I don't do heat well. I melt like some sort of barely frozen ice cream treat. I'm already regretting this choice and we haven't left the condo yet.
“I'll drive,” Tucker says holding his hand out for the keys. When my face scrunches he adds, “I swear, I'm not gonna run away. All my stuff’s here.”
“Your aunt warned me how that doesn't matter to you.”
“Typically it doesn't.”
“Why does it this time?”
“Because you're with me. I may have no problem leaving everything behind but kidnapping isn't something I'm quite comfortable with.”
I giggle a bit and pull the keys out of my purse. “Doubt anyone would pay a ransom fee for me anyway.”
He doesn't hesitate to argue. “I would.”
“But you would be the kidnapper.”
“I meant under different circumstances.”
“Under different circumstances I wouldn't be available for kidnapping. Seems like the only way for a nobody like me to get in that type of trouble is by being around a traveling world famous artist like Tucker Frost.”
A bit of his grin vanishes. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call yourself a nobody.”
I shrug. “Because I basically am.”
His expression tightens.
“Look, I'm just a personal assistant. Brandi is the face and name and reputation people respect. My name means nothing to people in the industry without hers attached. And then I'm just the big sister. My mom is the face and name and last word they ultimately listen to or want to hear from. Even when it comes to dating, I used to just be the friend you took out in case you needed someone to occupy the best friend.” Unconsciously my face falls. “I'm virtually invisible. I live in the shadows of people much greater than me. I don't call myself a no body for a woe is me sympathy hug. I say it because it's true. When it matters most, I am no one. My voice is unheard. I don't matter.”
And I'm fine with that. Some people are leaders, some people are followers and some of us hug the shadows. Light probably burns anyway.
Tucker's hand tilts my face back up. “Everyone is someone, June Bug. Everyone matters. My father taught me that. The sooner you understand and believe it, the sooner
you'll be free from others' opinions and the sooner you'll find the happiness you're denying yourself.”
Wish I could see myself the way he does.
I try to smile and hand him the keys. “So, where are we going that's so hot?”
The subject shift causes him to smirk again. “You'll like it. Trust me....”
And I do, which just makes me even crazier than I thought I was before.
Tucker drives the two of us to the right, slightly further away from downtown. Once we're off the highway, he takes several turns through older, slightly run down neighborhoods, most likely forgotten once the high dollar condos in front of them were built. Just as the sun is beginning to set, we arrive in a small strip center with a packed parking lot. There's loud music blaring from somewhere, yet I assume it's what we're probably here for by Tucker's wild smile. To my surprise he manages to find a space in the front where he immediately parks, unbuckles, and rushes out of the car.
A little more reluctant, I follow his actions, and say after shutting my door, “Tell me we're not going dancing.”
He tries to hide his grin as he slides his hands in his black pants pockets. “Dancing is a valid form of art.”
“Of performance art,” I retort and fold my arms across my chest. “I got the impression we were here to see a piece of non-moving art.”
“All art moves,” he says with a bit of arrogance. “It moves across the canvas or structure. It moves through us as it's created. It moves moods and sometimes lives. Now....” Tucker extends a hand. “Are you ready to see the piece or not?”
Remind me to have better arguments lined up in the future. Feels like I'm debating with an artistic philosophy graduate or a cross bred decedent of Plato and Da Vinci.
I drop my hand into his. “Lead the way.”
Tucker guides us past a few closed businesses to the restaurant wedged in the corner where the music seems to be leaking from. While he directs us to the hostess my attention drifts to the gorgeous, bright décor on the brick walls. Each is home to a mural that depicts a different story, but every one radiates a distinct amount of passion and dedication. The hostess seats the two of us at one of the tables closer to the bar area and away from the dance floor.
After Tucker helps me into my chair, he spins his around beside me and flops down. Over the music he says, “What do you think?”
“The artwork is remarkable.” I lean over closer so he can hear me. “Every mural on the wall seems to tell a story.” He nods and I continue, “They're all unique yet seem to have been done by the same artist. The one at the entrance while colorful, could easily be confused as just a mesh of shape, but is actually a very large family engulfed in some sort of event. Then the one over there by the patio doors, it seems to tell a story of a struggle for freedom while the one across from it, the struggle for peace.”
Tucker beams again. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“That you can pick up on all those things after just a short look.”
I shrug innocently. “It's what speaks to me. Art is interpreted by the receiver. I could be completely wrong.”
He leans closer as he asks, “And if I told you you were right?”
“I'd ask how you know.” When he doesn't answer, I scoot closer. “Are you telling me you painted this restaurant?”
Tucker simply winks and leans away.
He painted this place? This was him?! Holy shit! This is more than some doodle on a sketch pad or boredom buried on a canvas. This is an entire culture captured in a very raw, pure environment. This is what he does around the world, isn't it?
Our waitress comes over and prepares to greet us warmly when her eyes settle on Tucker. A sharp squeal escapes and she flings herself at him, “Tucker!”
“Maria,” he coos back hugging the extremely attractive dark haired female.
She pulls back and bites her bottom lip. “You look amazing. Finally tanned and less pale.” After he smirks at the comment she adds, “I've missed that smile too.”
There's a small hint of an accent though I'm not sure what it is.
Doesn't matter. Only seems to make her more attractive. She's sexy like a young Eva Mendes. Oh no...now that you mention it, Tucker does have a whole tad bit hotter than Ryan Gosling thing going on. Wanna bet they've played romantic co-stars somewhere in the past? See what I mean. I shall now be invisible.
“It's been a couple years...”
At least it wasn't too recent. Wait, I shouldn't care about this. We're not dating or even sleeping together...We're not anything more than...friends?
“What's kept you away from me, Papi?”
Oh look. Success. I am indeed invisible.
Tucker doesn't shy away from the term of endearment. “Same thing that always does.”
Her expression saddens a bit, but she doesn't bother pushing the subject. For the first time since she's come to the table she gives me a glance and then asks him something in Spanish.
Don't ask me! I don't speak Spanish. English is hard enough.
Tucker chuckles a little, shakes his head at her, and places an arm around my shoulder before responding in her native tongue.
Where is the balance to this much sexy? He's ripped. He's an artist. He's passionate. He's sweet and kind. And he speaks other languages? Remind me what he's doing with me? Right. I'm the over-paid babysitter.
She gives us a both a polite smile at the end of Tucker's sentence and walks away.
He turns to me and announces, “I ordered us two Cuban sandwiches. They make the best ones in the entire city.”
“Never had one before,” my voice does its best to drop the jealousy.
“Adolfo and I went to the same college Freshman year. Fate knocked us around. He ended up in the dorm room adjacent due to a typo. At the end of the year, he had to drop out to help his mother run this place when his father died. The summer I took off, he let me crash in the back while I decided where I wanted to go. They were struggling to get new business, struggling to keep old business pleased, so I made a couple suggestions like adding a dance floor and live music. Maybe a change in the furniture and some art on the walls. I knew he couldn't afford it, so I made him a deal. If he let me paint the walls until he could get something better, I'd toss him the money needed to help his business out. That was back before I vowed to spend only the money I made off of my art.”
My shoulders drop. “That's...incredible.”
“I needed the outlet. My mother was....” He shakes his head. “The only time I could find peace was when I was painting. Adolfo could sense and understand that having dealt with his own father's death just a year before mine. He'd tell me stories his father told him and I began to paint them. See the mural surrounding the bar?”
I move my attention to the painting of a sexily dressed woman in a red dress on one side with a man in a fedora shielding her.
“His parents.”
In awe, my elbow falls on the table and my head tilts towards him. “They're beautiful.”
“Maria is his baby sister.”
“And he was alright with the two of you together?”
“No,” Tucker denies. “Not at all. He knew I wasn't ever going to stay still again and he knew how much it would hurt her when I left.”
“Did you love her?”
He folds his hands together. “In a way. I love all women I sleep with to a certain degree. The same way I love all art I create. However, I don't find myself overly attached to either. Appreciation of beauty without obligation is best.”
A curious hum escapes me. “What about sharing that appreciation with someone special? What about obligation to your heart? To allowing yourself to connect on more passionate levels.”
“I've had plenty of passion, June Bug.”
“Which I'm not questioning, but the art of making love is described that way for a reason. And if you've never truly given that much of yourself to someone else, then that's one art form you've yet to explore.”
&
nbsp; He presses his lips together.
“And you'll know you've truly discovered it when you get ready to leave whatever expedition you're on and your instinct is to take that person with you to make the next adventure even greater because everything with them is so much better than without.”
To my surprise a sad, distant look creeps into his eyes.
Quickly, I shake my head. “I mean that's just my opinion, anyway. And who am I to tell anyone about that subject? Totally a nobody, even in that department. I mean I haven't dated anyone in three years or had sex in two, so you should probably just take my mumbo jumbo like a tiny grain of salt.”