by M. S. Parker
Even so, it was the late morning heat more than anything that had me walking over to the side door and knocking.
"Is Mr. Randall expecting you?"
I turned to see a middle-aged woman standing at the corner of the house. She possessed the stern sort of look that told me she'd know if I lied.
"Not exactly," I admitted. "I was here earlier this week and mentioned that I'd be coming back. I tried calling ahead, but he didn't answer."
"And you are...?"
"Savannah Birch." I smiled, but made sure it wasn't too wide. I didn't want her to think I was trying to charm her. "I'm an art critic who's doing a piece on Mr. Randall's new show."
She came toward me, a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't look old enough to be an art critic."
"Thank you."
That finally got a partial smile out of her. "You're not going to do anything to hurt Mr. Randall, are you?"
What a strange question. I shook my head. "Not at all."
No matter how confusing the connection between the two of us, there was nothing negative about it. Besides, I couldn't imagine anyone hurting someone as amazing as Jace.
"All right then," she said, giving me a hard look. "I believe you."
She reached past me, tapped in a few numbers to the keypad by the door, and then opened it. "He's been in the studio almost non-stop since yesterday morning. See if you can get him to stop for some food. He forgets to eat when he gets like this."
I thanked her and headed inside. I'd worn soft-soled flats today, so I didn't make any noise as I moved into the studio. His back was to me, giving me the opportunity to watch him work how he did when no one else was around.
Which apparently meant wearing only a pair of worn jeans. No shoes. No shirt.
Damn.
I knew he had a nice build, but even my imagination hadn't pictured just how broad his shoulders were, how defined the muscles of his back.
I could see his arms moving, but not what he was doing. It didn't quite look like he was painting; the movements were too close for that. Curiosity overcame my desire to continue being able to watch from the shadows.
"Jace?" I took a few steps toward him.
As he turned, I saw that he wasn't painting. His hands were smeared with what I realized was reddish-brown clay. I couldn't see what he was making, but it wasn't a picture.
But that faded into the background of my thoughts as I took in his six – no, that was an eight-pack. His muscled forearms. Toned chest covered with intricate tattoos that my fingers itched to trace...
Wait.
I knew those tattoos.
Knew them intimately.
My knees almost buckled as it hit me. Jace Randall was my masked lover.
Oh shit.
Eleven
Jace
For the second time in two days, I'd been so wrapped up in what I was doing that I hadn't heard someone come in until a woman spoke. Except, this time, it wasn't my housekeeper, or my ex. For a moment, as I was turning, I thought my mystery woman had found me, but then I remembered that she didn't know my identity.
Still, I was surprisingly pleased to see that it was Savannah.
"Hey." I smiled, then felt the expression falter as I realized something was off.
She looked...flustered. Considering she hadn't been flustered during our first meeting/misunderstanding, something really had to have thrown her. I took a step toward her, then finally caught on. She was staring at me...because I wasn't wearing a shirt.
Well, that was damn unprofessional of me.
"Sorry." I grinned as I looked around for my shirt. "I didn't know you were coming."
She licked her lips and managed a smile, but the expression looked forced as hell. "Yeah, I called, but you must not have gotten my message." The smile grew wider, but something about her expression was still a little tight. Of course, that could've been me projecting.
I frowned and grabbed my shirt from where it had fallen off the table, possibly because I'd thrown it without really looking. My phone, however, had been carefully set on the table...and then completely forgotten.
"I was in the zone." I picked it up and saw that she'd called twice and left a voicemail. I also saw a rambling text from Alix that he'd clearly sent when he was drunk, which meant he wasn't expecting a reply. "Did you forget to ask me something the other day?"
"No," she said quickly, licking her lips again. My cock pulsed, and I stuffed my arms into my shirt as a distraction from how she affected me. "I mean, sort of. I wanted to talk to you about your process. For the article. But if you're busy..." She looked toward the door.
"Not at all," I said before I could think better of it. "I should probably take a break for lunch anyway."
"Is that something new?" She gestured behind me.
I reached up to scratch the back of my head, then remembered I had clay on my hands. I went to the sink and started to wash up. "Yeah, it's something I just started the other day."
"Is it for the show?"
Her voice sounded strange, and as I looked over, I saw her staring down at my half-completed sculpture. I felt heat flood my cheeks. I hadn't really been thinking about the show when I started working. I'd simply been focused on getting my vision out.
"I haven't decided," I answered honestly.
"I've never seen you work with clay before," she said without looking at me. She seemed almost mesmerized by it as she walked around the table for different angles. "What made you decide to change things with such a short amount of time before your show?"
I opened my mouth to give her some sort of random, vague answer. I could say that my inspiration couldn't be conveyed through painting, because that was true...but it wasn't really the truth.
Maybe it was time to tell it.
"How about we talk about it over coffee?"
Twelve
Savannah
I knew he'd asked me to coffee as one professional to another, a way for him to get something to eat while he put up with my questions. I knew he only saw me as the reporter he'd talked to a couple days ago. And I knew the moment he said my name that he didn't have a clue that we'd had slightly kinky sex at a BDSM club the other night.
But that didn't stop me from hoping that he might want something more from me. Like maybe another couple hours of insanely hot fucking.
I considered myself a confident woman, but I hadn't been arrogant enough to think that one night with me had inspired an artist like Jace. Until I saw what he'd been sculpting.
Me.
Or, more specifically, what he would have seen of me while I was bent over the bed as he spanked the hell out of me.
My hips, back, and ass. I hadn't exactly spent much time looking at myself from that angle, but there was only so much I could credit to coincidence.
Now I needed to figure out what I was going to do about it. He didn't know my face, and I didn't have any identifying tattoos, so he could include that sculpture in his show and no one would be the wiser. But could I consider myself an unbiased critic if I'd slept with the artist? If he used me as a model, however unknowingly?
And what did it mean that he sculpted me.
"Chestnut Praline Latte," Jace said as he set my order down in front of me. "And a turkey on rye."
I lifted the cup to my nose and inhaled. "Thanks."
He waited until we'd both taken the edge off our hunger to start talking. "When I was six, my mom and I didn't have any money for Christmas presents, so we went to this mission. Someone – I never could find out who – had donated this amazing art kit, and I started experimenting with everything in it. Paints. Charcoals. All kinds of things. It became how I expressed myself, how I dealt with the world around me."
There wasn't much out there about Jace's life before he came to live with his father at the age of ten. Enough had gotten out about his mother that it was generally assumed that she'd been a stripper, possibly even a prostitute, but Benjamin Gooding had been well-liked and well-conn
ected, so most people didn't bother trying to dig too deep. Now, I wondered if Jace's father had worked to keep things quiet for his son's sake.
He shifted in his seat, some of the ease leaving him. "The thing I loved the most was this little container of sculpting clay. I made all sorts of little things for my mom, for our apartment. One day, I made a special one for her birthday, and when I surprised her with it, the guy she was seeing got upset and smashed it. Every single thing I made was destroyed and thrown away."
My gut told me there was more to the story than he was telling, and the shadow in his eyes said it wasn't good. My heart ached for the little boy he'd been, and I knew I couldn't ask him for any more than that. Not without hurting him more, and I wouldn't have done it even before we slept together.
"That's awful." I reached across the table and put my hand over his. To my surprise, he didn't pull away.
"Thanks." The smile he gave me held a little less darkness in its depths.
The moment gave me the courage I needed to ask one of the questions bouncing around in my head. "Can I ask who the model is?"
His eyebrows shot up. "The model?"
"For the sculpture." I pulled my hand back and tried to pass it off as me wanting a drink. I could feel the flush creeping up my cheeks as I tried to sound nonchalant. "None of your other work had people in it, so I was wondering who not only got you to break away from your usual subject, but brought you back to your favorite medium."
He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, then up over his head, making a mess of his hair. To my surprise, his ears were turning red. "I met someone who...inspired me."
I tried not to let the hope flickering inside me grow. I didn't want to read too much into his statement. Inspiration didn't mean that he wanted another night with me, especially if he found out my identity.
But it didn't mean I'd be able to just let it go either.
Dammit. I needed to talk to someone about this, which meant I was going to have to confess to someone about everything.
Dammit.
Everett was never going to let me live it down.
When I was a student at NYU, I hadn't spent much time in the physics department unless I was looking for Everett, so nothing much had changed except for the fact that instead of coming from the Art and English departments, I came from home or work.
Everett had classes today and wasn't working tonight, so I went to the building that held his last class of the day and waited in the hallway. As I leaned against the wall, I tried to run through the outline I held in my head for my article, but every time I came to some conclusion, something else about Jace would draw my attention. I'd either find myself thinking about the heat I'd seen in his eyes at the club, or the way it had felt to dance with him, or how easy it was to talk to him.
"You're late," I snapped as Everett came out of the classroom. "Everyone else left five minutes ago."
Everett raised an eyebrow. "Damn. Someone either needs to get laid or deal with whatever PMS issues you have going on right now."
I sighed. "Shit. I'm sorry." I pushed my hair back from my face. "How about I buy dinner and tell you what's got me biting your head off?"
He scrubbed his palms together. "I get to choose the place."
I glared at him. "Seriously? You're going to negotiate an apologetic gesture?"
He gave me that easy grin that I loved. "Of course."
I rolled my eyes and let myself fall into the ease of being with my best friend. I could have called Lei or Lorde and talked to them, but even as much as I loved them, Everett was the only one I could completely confide in about this. I didn't blurt it out while we were walking though. No, this called for dinner...and alcohol.
Lots of alcohol.
By the time we were both buzzed enough to have the conversation, the diner Everett had chosen was full and noisy, which was good because that meant the chances of anyone overhearing what I was about to say were slim.
"Remember me telling you that I was going to see Jace Randall on Monday?"
"Yes," he said, leaning forward. He knew we were about to get to the good stuff. "I also remember you promising to call me and dish on all the dirty details, but that hadn't happened."
"You're really enjoying guilt tripping me here, aren't you?" I threw a french fry at him.
"I am." He popped the fry into his mouth.
"Well, I've got some great dirty details for you," I said wryly. "You just have to promise that this stays between us because it's a bit...well, you'll understand when I tell you."
"Now I'm intrigued." He leaned toward me ever farther. "My lips are sealed. Spill."
So, spill I did.
I told him about meeting Jace for the first time, and that I'd been attracted but had tried to stay professional. Then I told him about going to the club and watched his eyes grow wider until he finally let out a low whistle.
"So, you're torn between the artist who made you love art, and a mystery man who rocked your world?"
I'd paused to drain the last of my beer, and now I shook my head. "I'm in trouble because my mystery man is the artist."
"No fucking way." Everett's voice was low, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. "I thought you said you didn't exchange names and you didn't see his face."
"I didn't." I rubbed my temples as my head throbbed. "But I did see the tattoos on his chest and upper arms. Then today, when I went to see Jace to talk about the article, he had his shirt off, and–"
"And you saw the tattoos." Everett whistled again. "Does he know? That you and he–"
"No." I shook my head. "And that's not all. He was making a sculpture when I got there, and it was...me."
"Shit." Everett stared at me. "You really stepped in it, Sav. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Why the hell do you think I'm talking to you about it?"
Thirteen
Savannah
Why had I listened to Everett?
I asked myself the same question for the tenth time since I got home last night. It sounded like a great idea when we were at the diner talking about it, but when I was alone, I started questioning the wisdom of it, and I'd just gotten more uncertain throughout the day today.
But I was still walking toward the front door of the club, the mask I'd forgotten to return clutched in my hand. Part of me was hoping I'd run into Jace before I had the chance to put the mask on, and I wouldn't have to make any decisions about what to do when I saw him.
Because that was the one thing that neither Everett nor I had been able to agree on, partially because I couldn't decide if I wanted to come clean or not. I could leave things as they were between Jace and myself, keep our one night together as a special memory, and continue with my piece on Jace as if nothing had happened. That would be the smartest thing to do, both professionally and personally.
And yet here I was, wearing a sexy red dress that I found buried at the back of my closet, ready to put myself out there on the off chance that this thing I'd felt between us hadn't been a fluke.
I smoothed my hands over my dress, but it didn't really need it considering it fit like it'd been painted on. It had been an impulsive purchase during a shopping spree with Lei and Lorde during our last spring break, and I'd only worn it once. I was confident in my sexuality, but this was the sort of thing designed to attract attention, and I'd never really wanted that before tonight.
I was a bit worried that the man at the door would confiscate the mask, and maybe even kick me out since I'd accidentally absconded with it, but he didn't do anything other than nod at me as I walked past. As soon as I was inside, I saw that the masquerade night must have been for the whole week because everyone else was still wearing masks. I quickly put mine on and moved off to the side to watch and wait.
I'd been there only a few minutes when I sensed someone come up beside me. Before I could turn and look, I caught the unmistakable scent of spice and clay and man. Jace.
"I hoped I'd see you here tonig
ht."
"Likewise." My voice was surprisingly steady despite my nerves.
"Come with me."
He took my hand, his grip on my fingers loose enough that I could pull free if I wanted to. Instead of doing that, I let him pull me after him. As we made our way toward the back of the club, I tried to think of what I'd say to him when we were alone, but even as he closed the door behind us a few moments later, my mind was blank.
"You look incredibly beautiful," he said as he slid his hands up my arms.
Now that I knew who he was, I could tell he was using his hands to learn my body, just like he had before.
"Thank you," I said. "You do too."
He wore a fitted charcoal gray short-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans that hugged his firm thighs and ass. He had on the same mask as the other night, but even though his outfit was more casual, he managed to pull off this one as well as the other.
"So..." I took a deep breath to gather my courage. "I was wondering if, this time, we could take off the masks. See each other."
He went so still that I wondered for a moment if I'd said the wrong thing. Then he offered me a smile that seemed a bit tight. "How about this? We leave them on while we see if we really do have chemistry together, and if we still want to reveal our identities after, we can do it then."
I wanted to get this out of the way, to know for certain that Jace wanted me and not just masked mystery me. But I wanted to be with him one more time even more. Especially since I didn't know if I'd get the chance once he learned who I was.
I nodded. "All right. We'll do this your way."
His smile widened into the wicked sort of grin that tied my stomach in knots. "I thought we agreed last time that when we're in here, everything is my way."
Fuck.
All I could do was stand there as he lowered his head. His eyes blazed as his mouth came down on mine. The edge of my mask pressed into my face, but I didn't mind. If this was going to be the last time he kissed me, the last time I would know what it was like to be claimed by him, then I almost wished for something that would leave a lasting impression.