We begin the new run and remain quiet while we quickly establish our rhythm. We finish about a dozen prints before I realize he’s not moving. I look up and catch the hooded dark look in his eyes. Color immediately burns across his face.
“What?” I ask tipping my head to the side.
“You,” he whispers just loud enough to hear.
I stop printing and set the squeegee down.
“You’re working on my art—you’re part of it. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t realize how this would affect me.”
He’s breathing hard and his eyes are wide; it stirs me up. I want to reassure him that I understand that this experience makes me feel even more connected to his art.
“Ava,” he says with urgency and holds onto the press as if he’s trying to tether his emotions to something solid.
I’m moved by his show of emotion. “I know, Max. It means a lot to me to be working with you, too.”
“But it’s more than that.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to describe . . .”
I wait for him to find the right words or simply surrender to what he wants to say.
He runs his fingers across his chin and down his throat as he gazes at me. “It’s unbelievably erotic.”
Now it’s my turn to blush and my heart starts to pound. Did I hear him right? Is my entire world suddenly upside down, every straight line now jagged?
There’s a long silent pause as his stare burns with intensity.
I feel like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“I’ve really tried, Ava. God only knows how hard I’ve tried. But I can’t fight it anymore.”
I grip the screen’s frame. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t deny how I feel another day . . . I can’t stay away from you anymore.”
Stay away from me?
My mind tumbles, trying to consider what those loaded words mean. The opposite of staying away is everything, an open sky that holds us together above our fears. I instinctively respond with an unrestrained heart.
“Then come closer.”
He takes a sharp breath and closes his eyes as the softest smile works its way across his face. Is this an agreement, the ticket to ride with him on a speeding train?
“Will you show me how you do this, Ava?” He waves to the press. “I want us to experience it together.”
I nod and gesture him toward me. “Come here—I’ll show you.”
He walks to my side of the press, and I can feel the energy surging off of him. As a result, every emotion’s passing through me, and I worry that my knees are going to give out.
“Okay, take this and stand here,” I say as my trembling fingers try to hand him the squeegee and step to the side.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I want to do it with you.”
Oh my God . . . I’m going to combust. How can I do this? The rules have suddenly changed. How can I work so close to this gorgeous man and not lose all control?
“Okay,” I say unsteadily. “We start with the ink.” I take his right hand and place it over mine, take the stick and gently stir the paint in the can. The violet swirls, and I lift the wet stick and drip it across the screen.
I try to focus but his touch and the heat from his body permeates my senses.
Next, I pick up the squeegee, and we complete the motion, but it’s awkward with his hand on only one side of the squeegee. As I lift the screen, he steps around and removes the print and reloads silently.
When he returns, he steps directly behind me, and since he’s taller and larger than me, he curls around me and reaches everything easily. He slides both of his hands on top of mine.
I can hardly breathe I’m so electrified. Swirl, lift, stroke . . . His breath is hot against my neck.
We grip the squeegee, slide, pause, drag back with more force, lift. I close my eyes so I can focus on his scent and the feeling of his arms wrapped around me.
He pauses before he steps away to switch the paper.
When he returns, he steps even closer so that when we extend ourselves across the print, he presses against me.
I gasp. All I can focus on is his arousal pressing against me. I’ve never wanted anyone this much.
By the third pass, I’m trembling, and when he thrusts forward, I press my ass back into him, imagining him inside of me.
“Ava,” he moans.
As much as I want to turn around and face him, I don’t want to stop. I don’t want this moment to end.
“Again,” he groans.
This time, as I slide the squeegee up, he lets go, slides his hands up my arms and trails them down my sides. All the while, his lower body is firmly pressed against me. I could cry it feels so good to have him touch me in ways I never thought he would. I slowly grind my ass against him. His hands move down to my hips, and his fingers grasp my curves, pulling me closer.
I’m surprised he has the focus to change the paper, but he doesn’t reach around to help me with the screen this time. Instead, his hands return to my hips as our bodies press together, and he run his hands down the sides of my thighs and back up. He slips his hands under my tank, moving up my sides, across my ribs, and just skimming the edge of my bra. My nipples harden, aching for his touch, and my breaths are quick and short.
I drop my head and moan, “Max.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he whispers, pressing his lips in my hair at the nape of my neck. He steps away again and replaces the paper quickly.
“Again, Ava, for me.” He brushes his cheek softly above my ear and presses into me a little harder.
I try to concentrate on the trail of violet left from my stroke, but as I push up, his hands part. One slides down over my jeans, between my legs, and presses firmly against my sex. I drop the squeegee and grab the edge of the table, just as his other hand snakes under my shirt and pulls my bra down to cup my naked breast.
My breath catches in my throat as I revel in every sensation.
His fingers gently tease my nipple, and he kisses the side of my neck up to my ear.
I moan as the room spins, and I try to make sense of what’s happening as I come undone. The room is hazy with the softest highlights and shadows. I wonder if this is a dream. There’s only one way to know for sure. I take a deep breath, take a step to the side, straighten my shirt and slowly turn to face him.
Dozens of emotions cross his face—everything from vulnerability to command, with passion the most pronounced. He hesitates and then extends his hand.
“Ava?”
“I’m scared,” I whisper, my heart still wildly pounding. Admitting my fear leaves me raw and vulnerable, and I pray he treads carefully.
He gazes at me tenderly. “I’m scared too,” he whispers as he moves his hands slowly up my arms. “Ava, you don’t know how dark things are in my mind. What I am inside . . . what I can be like. I wanted to protect you from all of that.”
“You’ve been protecting me?” My mind can’t make sense of the very thought of it.
He nods, his jaw twitching as he watches me intently.
Needing some space, I take several steps back until I’m under the arch to the hallway. I put my hands up to my face and back up until I’m against the wall. The coolness of the stucco is startling against my burning body.
I’m confused and under his spell. In the shadow of the hallway, the darkness becomes the sheerest veil between us, and I’ve lost all sense of what I should do.
Across the open space between us, my body and my heart call out to him. Max watches me for several counts before he approaches, and I realize he doesn’t have it in him to stop either.
I close my eyes and wait until I can feel his presence in front of me. When I open my eyes, he has an arm positioned on either side of me, jammed against the wall and caging me. He lowers his head and presses his forehead against mine.
“Ava, I can’t fight this anymore,” he whispers, his stormy blue eyes a swirl of want. “I’ve got to have you.” His moan is raw wi
th desire.
I didn’t know time could move that slowly . . . that I could live my entire life between the single frames that flash as his head tilts and his lips part. He moves lower and lower until there’s just a sliver of light between us.
When our lips meet, seeming to spark as they press together, my world opens and time speeds up so fast that I have to hold on to him to keep from being pulled into the upper atmosphere.
If he had been too rough or too rigid, I would’ve had it in me to slow down. But he’s perfect in every way. I swoon from the way he cradles me in his arms and the way his mouth presses against mine with gentle soft fullness, sucking and lightly biting as his fingertips slide down my neck . . . his touch silky smooth and reverent. He gives way to the building fire—flames licking my mouth, teeth scraping my chin, hands sliding into my jeans to cup my ass and pull me firmly against all that I desire.
“Ava, I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” He bends his knees and thrusts his hardness right into me.
Fire and wetness mingle dangerously between my legs.
We’re a wall of passion, and all the longing and unfulfilled desire now burns brightly between us. It’s overwhelming and stronger than I could’ve imagined.
He pulls the neckline of my tank down below my bra, leaving my breast naked. He takes my nipple in his mouth, flicking the tip with his tongue.
My head drops back against the wall as I watch him. Is this really happening?
He devours me as he yanks down the remaining fabric, preparing my other breast for his touch.
I stroke the front of his jeans where his cock strains and we both moan loudly.
From this moment on, I’ll never trust my instincts because I completely underestimated this man’s attraction to me. I’ve never felt so desirable, so beautiful . . . so completely wanted in a man’s eyes.
He moves to my other breast, and I take ragged breaths. I want more and my back arches, coaxing the soft fullness of my breasts towards him.
He responds with sensuous caresses and ravenous kisses, teasing and working me into a frenzy. Our groans of pleasure echo through the room.
I slip my hand under the edge of his shirt and rake my fingers across his stomach and up his defined chest.
With his sexy smile and wide eyes, his pleasure’s palpable, and he lifts his shirt, encouraging me. I shower kisses across his chest, finally biting his nipple lightly, while tightening my grip on his cock.
He pushes his fingers through my hair and tilts my face up to meet his demanding kiss, while pressing our naked chests together. But this is no longer mere kissing, he’s making love to my mouth. We moan, grind, grab and pull as the passion overtakes us. I become a wild animal. I bite his shoulder to keep from crying out when his teeth scrape my neck, and I slip my hands inside the back of his jeans to dig my nails into his ass. I writhe hungrily against him, and every one of his movements becomes more intense and powerful.
I need to tame this animal because what I really want is to make love all night on his big bed in Malibu. I imagine the ocean crashing just beyond us, and the velvet curtains waving in rhythm with our movements as we tangle together. I want him to paint my portrait across the sheets as he strokes every part of me. Our passion will be color, light and texture combined.
But it’s difficult to rein in the raw lust when it’s simmered for so long. Max is too far gone.
“Ava,” he says in a ragged, desperate voice, “I need to have you. I swear I’m going to take you here in this studio.” He starts working on his belt buckle.
Despite my raw lust, my mind clears enough to see a flaw in the plan. I still his hand. “No,” I say as I try to catch my breath. “Sean.” I have no sense how much time has passed, but he could enter the studio with the new screen at any minute.
“Fuck Sean, he can watch. I don’t care about anything but fucking you right now.” His eyes burn.
The music that’s been surging, moving toward a crescendo hits a sour note, and I freeze.
Fucking you right now . . . up against a wall . . . in a fucking hallway . . . in front of Sean.
Fucking art slut.
Reverence shifts on a dime to tawdriness. Making love morphs into a quick fuck. We’re slipping down a slope and can’t seem to stop.
“What about Adam’s office?” There’s an edge of desperation to his voice.
“Glass walls.” My voice is losing its tone and inflection.
“Isn’t there a storeroom with a door, a bathroom?” he asks frantically.
It’s as if a yellow-green fluorescent light has snapped on revealing this for what it is, and I push him off me and step away.
“The bathroom?” I ask, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.
“What? What!” he barks.
I don’t back down—instead I pull away even more as the passion falls away from me like a discarded cloak.
His anger rages hot enough to burn.
“Really? Now you’re going to be precious and self-righteous? I don’t get you! I can never tell what you want. Is this a game to you? Your whole body was begging to be fucked a minute ago!” He steps back and yanks his shirt down.
“You’re wrong . . . I didn’t want to fuck, I wa—”
His face burns to a hot red. “I didn’t want this to happen, either!”
“What do you mean you didn’t want this to happen?”
His fury builds. “I! Did! Not! Want! This!” he barks staccato, grimacing. “I knew it would ruin everything, and I was fucking right. Fuck it all!” He pivots and storms into the gallery, leaving me and my naked breasts in the darkened hallway.
“You didn’t want me?” I whisper, horrified as I push my breasts back into my bra and pull my shirt down.
“You didn’t want me.” I repeat to myself with a mix of anger and confusion. As I say it a third time, I realize how true it rings. It’s the only idea that’s made sense the whole evening.
He didn’t want me for anything but a fuck. And he’d never want me. Not the way I’ve wanted him to. The emotional tremors start in my hands and move across my body.
During an earthquake, it’d been recommended that you perch in a doorway or crawl under a table until the shaking stops. Later it was revised to say you should crouch next to the table, not under it, to create a little pocket to survive if the walls come down around you. But when the world is shaking, and one’s mind is not sound, there’s a natural instinct to run out the door . . . run to an open space so that when the glass explodes and your ceiling crumbles, you can sink to the earth with nothing but the sky and air holding you.
But there’s danger, even in the open air.
I discover this as I grab my bag, shoot out the back door of the studio and into the open air of the parking lot. For as I lean forward, my hands frantically gripping my knees while desperately trying to take air into my lungs, I realize there are no safe pockets for me.
As I fall into my car and tear out of the lot, the sinking realization hits me that the damage from fireworks and earthquakes is often too catastrophic to comprehend.
Chapter Twenty / Ain’t No Prince Charming
Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.
~John W. Gardner
I turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, hell-bent on getting home, when the traffic comes to a complete standstill. This isn’t unusual for this time of day in this part of the city, but in my current state of mind, it’s tantamount to having needles stuck in my eyes. I slam the steering wheel with my fists.
My phone rings, and even though I’m sitting with nothing but time on my hands, the president could call and I wouldn’t answer at this point.
I glance down—Sean. Fuck! He’s probably discovered the scene of the crime and is wondering why I abandoned him. The last thing I wanted to do was screw things up for him too. I resolve to call him after I get home and calm down enough to speak coherently.
Traffic barely inches forward as the light goes from red to green to yellow and
to red again. The blare of sirens confirms an accident ahead, which only makes the nasty traffic worse. My voice mail pings. I sigh and press the button to listen while I’m waiting. At least I won’t have to talk.
“Ava, it’s Sean.” He sounds pissed, his voice tight and his words clipped. “I just brought the screen up and you guys aren’t here. If you were going to go out, couldn’t you at least have left me a note or something? That’s messed up.”
There’s a pause.
“You didn’t print very much, and—What the fuck? . . . Why didn’t you wash off the screen before you left? This one’s probably trashed now too!” His long-suffering sigh is loud and clear. “Call me right back and let me know what’s going on.”
The damage is done. Calling him back now or later isn’t going to change that. At least Max was gone before Sean returned to the studio.
Max.
The thought of him makes my stomach sink. I’m still stunned by his blast of rage, and I feel completely raw. Part of me wishes I could turn the clock back and make sure our encounter never happened. We’d still be friends who could go bowling or get burgers at The Apple Pan. But the other part of me is steaming angry for how he treated me. Now there’s nothing but the ashy charred remains of a friendship that meant a lot to me.
To top it off, I’m not even sure what happened. How did everything go so horribly wrong? I went from such a high with the way I felt in his arms as he kissed me with an intensity I’ve only read about in romance novels to the lowest low where we yelled hateful things at each other like a couple going through a bitter divorce.
A wave of sorrow and frustration washes over me, and I angrily wipe the tears away from my face. I’m mad at myself for missing the asshole so much already. But I continue to cry and watch the lights change—green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red.
Life is cruel.
Sitting there in a traffic jam, I watch the beautiful boys saunter down the street, fresh from the gym, handsomely buff. They don’t call West Hollywood “Boys Town” for nothing.
I move forward about twenty feet. Green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red. I turn on the radio and flip through the channels, but everything agitates me, so I shut it off. After a few minutes of silence, my phone rings. Again, I let it go to voice mail and wait for the ping before I listen to the message.
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 22