Marriage Lessons

by Katie Allen

  Covering her mouth didn’t stop the giggles that wanted to escape. “Am I a terrible person that I find this situation hilarious?”

  “No. You just know Max.”

  She scrunched her nose as she thought back to all those times that he was a dick to her. “True. I actually don’t feel bad for him at all.” Shoving all thoughts of Max from her mind, she moved on to more practical things. “When are we opening again?”

  “When all your concussion symptoms are gone.”

  “So...today?”

  He gave her a flat stare. “No, since your head is still hurting. I can tell because you get this little line right here.” So lightly that she hardly felt it, he traced his finger between her eyebrows. “When that’s gone, I’ll know you’re better.”

  “It hardly hurts anymore.” Although she argued, she felt a warm glow that he’d noticed something so small about her. “Plus, I don’t feel dizzy or nauseated or anything like that.”

  “Nope.” He leaned in and kissed the spot he’d just touched. “Until this is gone, the gallery stays closed.” Standing up, he collected their empty plates and brought them to the sink.

  “What about Becca? She could open the gallery.” It bothered her that they’d be closed for over a week if Louis had his way, especially since Bozeman was still hopping with tourists. Soon it would get cold and snowy, and the crowds would thin. Although there were enough local customers to keep them open all year, winter was their slowest season.

  Louis shook his head. “I don’t want her to have to fend off Max if he tries coming in.”

  “Good point.” She jumped off her stool, the motion sending a throb of pain through her skull. Although she tried to keep a poker face, she could tell that Louis had noticed by the I-told-you-so look he fired her way.

  Knowing that he was looking for any excuse to bundle her back to bed, she gave him her best wide-eyed clueless expression and tried to be grateful that he’d grudgingly allowed her to clean the gallery. The thought made her give a rueful smile.

  “What?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up as if he was already prepared to laugh at whatever she was going to say.

  “Just thinking about how pathetic I’ve become. I never thought I’d be grateful to clean the gallery.”

  The beginning of a smile turned down into a scowl. “Against my better judgment,” he muttered. She was suddenly struck by how lucky she was that he cared so much. Sure, his nurse/dictator/mom persona was aggravating, but it was much better than if he’d sent her a get-well card and then demanded when she’d be back to work.

  Going up onto her tiptoes, she reached up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  Either her thanks or the kiss must’ve taken him off guard, because he actually blushed. “You’re welcome, Annabelle Shay.”

  * * *

  When she didn’t keel over cleaning the gallery or walking on the treadmill at the gym, Louis didn’t put up much of a fuss about her working the next day, although he was adamant that she stay away from her laptop or anything that might involve concentration. After a day of cleaning up the black fingerprint powder that seemed to have gotten onto every surface and worked its way into the slightest crevice, she wasn’t thrilled about spending more time scrubbing things, so they ended up in a face-off in the studio, both stubbornly trying to stare each other down.

  Throwing her hands into the air, Annabelle gave up her attempt at winning the battle of wills. She’d never met anyone as mulish as Louis. The problem was that she couldn’t be angry at him, not when he was only trying to protect her in his own special ornery, bullheaded, aggravating way. Looking around the gallery, she hunted for a task that wouldn’t require her to use a computer or stare at rows of numbers, but would offer a little more mental stimulation than cleaning. Her gaze settled on the upside-down box that still took center stage on the worktable.

  “How about I mat and frame some of your paintings?” she suggested.

  His eyebrows drew together as he considered that before he shook his head. “Too detailed, with the measuring and all.”

  “I’ll help you, and I promise I won’t do anything that requires concentration.” She was close to begging, but she was desperate for something to relieve her boredom. “I’ll just assist with the grunt work.”

  He let out a long, audible exhale, as if compromising was physically painful. Narrowing her eyes at him, she bit back the sarcastic words that wanted to escape. If she started an argument now, he’d never agree to letting her help, and she’d had enough bathroom scrubbing the day before to last her a month. “Fine, but there will be no concentrating on your part. There will be no exploding concussed brains on my watch.”

  “Exploding?” She blinked at him. “Have you been watching zombie movies again?”

  Waving a hand as if sweeping away what he’d just said, he strode over to the worktable. “Brains exploding or rolling out of your skull. Either way, you’re safe with me.”

  Unsure whether to laugh or rock in a corner, she followed Louis, watching as he lifted the box off the painting. Once again, she was struck by the beauty and sheer joy of the painting. Just looking at it made happiness bubble up, filling her until she reached over and pinched Louis’s arm.

  “Ow!” He clutched his arm as if she’d whacked him with a hatchet. “What was that for?”

  “Just look at it.” She waved at the painting, not able to take her eyes off it. “It’s so good.”

  His hand dropped away from the spot she’d pinched as a pleased smile covered his face. “It sort of is, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no ‘sort of’ about this. It’s beautiful, incredible, amazing... It’s all the superlatives.”

  For another few moments, they both just looked at the painting, grinning like idiots. Then Louis clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the studio. “Let’s get framing.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, after that piece and a couple of others were protected behind glass, Annabelle stretched, reaching toward the ceiling with both hands. Even though he’d limited what she could help with, not allowing her to touch anything that might take a hint of concentration, helping with framing was still a thousand times better than cleaning would’ve been. They’d passed the time by discussing possible burglary suspects, including poor Vincent Grayson, although none of their potential scenarios seemed realistic. They were still as stumped as they’d been right after it happened.

  Exhaustion pulled at Annabelle, but she ignored it and swallowed a yawn, not wanting to be swiftly ushered back to bed if Louis had any inkling that she was in the least bit tired. She was sick of bed, though, and sick of her body needing rest after barely half a day’s work.

  “I’m so glad that’s framed.” She nodded toward her favorite painting. “Now you can actually put something else on the table, since the box has finally been moved.”

  “Hmm.” His gaze locked on her, his eyes narrowed with thought.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I know that look, and it means you’re plotting.” She didn’t mention that most of his wild plans never ended well. He had a lot of bad ideas that he couldn’t be convinced weren’t good. Whenever he told her “it’ll be fun,” she knew by now to run in the other direction. Sometimes it was fun, but other times, Louis’s ideas ended in embarrassment and tears.

  “Nothing bad.”

  Uh-huh. I’ve heard that before. She eyed him cautiously, waiting to hear what his most recent idea was. At least she knew it wouldn’t be anything strenuous, either mentally or physically, since he was still in full-on nurse mode with her.

  “I promise.” His smile was full of devilment. Despite knowing what crazy ideas might lurk behind that grin, she couldn’t keep herself from returning it. Louis was Louis, and he was insanely charismatic.

  When he didn�
��t share, she had to ask. “So...what are you thinking?”

  “I want to paint you.”

  “Paint me?” Caught off guard, she could only parrot the words back to him. “But you never use live models.”

  “The way you say that makes it sound like I use corpse models.” Before she could answer, he swept her over to the cleared worktable. “Which I don’t. No corpse models for me, not after the incident.”

  She sighed. “The incident? Was this in another zombie movie?”

  He just grinned at her before pulling out the puppy-dog look. Immediately, she knew she was doomed to do whatever he wanted. There was no fighting Louis’s appeal when he turned on the charm.

  “Am I going to be naked?” Even as a thrill ran through her at the thought of being naked with Louis again, she glanced at the large windows lining the front wall of the studio. “Because, if I’m going to be naked, we’re going to have to close those solar shades.”

  His eyes heated, as if the same images appearing in her brain were coming to life in his. “You definitely need to be naked for this. I’m on it.” Moving over to the windows, he pulled down the opaque shades, allowing light inside but hiding the studio from any passerby’s curious gaze. “How’s that?”

  “Good.” Her voice was higher-pitched than normal, thanks to a whole thundering herd of stomach butterflies that were currently stampeding through her belly. It was one thing to get naked in his mostly dark bedroom at night, but this was the middle of the day, and he’d be fully clothed while every imperfection of hers would be illuminated by unforgiving sunlight. She suddenly had a rush of sympathy for his hesitation in showing her his body. Even though she was relatively scar-free, she was still hugely self-conscious.

  She fingered the bottom hem of her blouse, trying to get up the nerve to yank it over her head, when Louis stepped in front of her. Catching her hands in his, he eased them upward, never breaking eye contact. It was easier, somehow, to let him control the movement of her hands, so he was the one removing her shirt. Cool air made her shiver as her belly and then the bottom of her rib cage was exposed, and her nipples tightened into sharp points as goose bumps tiptoed up her spine.

  The backs of his fingers grazed over her skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, a shocking contrast to the rest of her bared torso. He gently raised her arms above her head, bringing the shirt along with it, until the fabric brushed over her face and drifted to the floor behind them.

  Neither of them glanced at it when it fell, too caught up in the spell of their locked gazes. He lowered her hands to her sides, squeezing them gently before releasing them. Before she could worry about the next step, he reached behind her and unhooked her bra, tracing circles on her shoulder blades with his fingertips before making his way over her shoulders and down her arms, drawing the straps over her elbows and wrists and then past her hands. She resisted the urge to close her fingers, to catch the bra before it fell, but she managed to let it drop, leaving her upper half exposed to the cool air of the studio and his smoldering eyes.

  His gaze flicked downward and his breath caught. The slight sound seemed loud in the silent space, and she squeezed her thighs together. Having his full focus on her as he undressed her was heating her blood and melting her insides. The chilly air felt good now, cooling her overheated skin even as his hungry gaze and careful hands built the spark inside her into an inferno.

  When his fingers slid under the waistband of her jeans, it was her turn to suck in a sharp breath. He was moving so slowly and so silently, completely unlike the chatty, quicksilver Louis that she was used to. With his thumb he slid the button through the hole, and the feel of the slight give sent a jolt of need through her.

  Her zipper was next, lowering tooth by tooth in an agonizingly slow slide, and she resisted the urge to shift. Although nothing had been said, it felt to her like he’d given a silent command to be still as he undressed her piece by piece. It could’ve just been her wish, too. Not moving a muscle as he stripped her bare, like she was a doll for him to dress or undress as he pleased, pushed some kind of kink button she hadn’t even known she’d had. Whatever the reason, the entire process was ramping up her desire. By the time he drew her jeans and panties down her legs to her ankles, she was almost quivering with need.

  Before she could worry about how he’d crouch low enough to remove her jeans and shoes, something that was difficult when he was wearing his prosthesis, he grasped either side of her waist and lifted her onto the table. She let out a small yelp of surprise at the feel of smooth, cold wood under her bare ass, and one corner of his lips tilted up in just the barest tease of a smile.

  That tiny sign that her Louis was still there inside this silent, commanding doppelganger of him reassured her without cooling any of the desire that raged inside her. He ran his hands under her knees and calves, gently extending them out in front of her, and pulled off her shoes, socks, jeans, and panties in one smooth motion.

  For some strange reason, the sight of her naked toenails—painted dark red with tiny roses on her big toes—jolted her back to reality, making her self-conscious. She was completely naked and perched on Louis’s worktable, while he hadn’t even pulled off his shirt. Ducking her head a little, she started to lift her arms, intending to cross them over her chest and try to at least partially cover her nudity.

  Stepping forward so that they were almost close enough for her knees to press against his thighs, he wrapped his fingers around her wrists, keeping them at her sides. “Don’t hide.” Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss right at the corner of her jaw, the spot that seemed to have a direct impact on the fizziness in her belly. Warmth spread from his lips and down her neck, making her gasp, startled that such a slight touch could have such a huge impact on her body’s reactions. “You’re so beautiful.”

  The words weren’t original. She’d heard them in movies and songs and even in person a few times, but to hear them coming from Louis, a man who created such stunning paintings, who spent his life surrounded by the most incredibly gorgeous pieces of art, made her heart squeeze. It was almost too much, too intense, and she forced out an almost silent, breathless laugh.

  “How are you going to paint me if I’m on your table?” she asked, needing to break the tension before she burst into tears or begged him to fuck her, because both of those things were very, very likely.

  “That’s just it.” His wicked grin grew wider, and she could barely suppress a needy groan at the sight of it. Quiet, patient Louis had made her hungry and wet as he undressed her, with his slight touches and gentle care, but only her Louis—mouthy, devilish Louis—could get her wild enough to explode. “I’m painting you.”

  “What?” She wasn’t sure if the bonfire of lust currently overtaking her was stealing her ability to comprehend basic English or if he just wasn’t making sense.

  “Lie down on your front.” He guided her gently, helping her ease down onto the table. Her nipples, so hard they were almost painful, touched the cool wood. Biting back a groan at the sensation, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to lift up or press down more firmly.

  She still had no idea what Louis’s plan was, but she trusted him. Despite that wicked sense of humor, he would never do anything to hurt her. She knew that as an undebatable fact, just like she knew that she needed air to live. Folding her arms beneath her, she turned her head and rested her cheek on them, watching as he gathered his supplies, tubes of paint and mink-hair brushes, several small containers of water and his plastic palette he used for mixing colors.

  As he lined up what he needed in his usual pre-painting ritual, Annabelle smiled. “I love watching you paint.”

  He flicked her a look from under his thick eyelashes, all teasing and bashful at once. “I love watching you do anything.”

  Now she was the one who was ducking her head and blushing. Resting her forehead on her arms, she stared at the light brown surface of the table as
she regained her composure. She felt him loosening her braid, giving small tugs that forced her to bite her lower lip in order not to squirm with need. When her hair was free and spread like a cape over her upper back, he swept it to the side, leaving her bare, exposed to him from her neck to her heels.

  She still didn’t know what he was planning to do. Before she could ask or even turn back to watch Louis again, his warm hand flattened against the small of her back. “Hold still.”

  It wasn’t until she felt the cool, wet touch of a brush against the back of her left shoulder that she realized what was happening. “Ah,” she said, her breath leaving condensation on the smooth table beneath her face. “You’re painting me. I get it now.”

  His low chuckle made her want to moan and press her hips against the wood beneath her, but she had to stay still. This time she was his paper, her skin the surface for his art, and she could ruin it if she wiggled the way she wanted to or even squeezed her thighs together.

  The passion that rushed through her, the desire that had built as he’d slowly undressed her and laid her on the table, still simmered, but she forced herself to be immobile. The small, wet licks of his brushstrokes added fuel to the fire already burning inside her. He started at her shoulders and worked his way down, painting along her spine and out across her ribs. She couldn’t tell if there was a pattern or what the subject was by his strokes, so she gave up trying to figure out what the painting looked like. Instead, she allowed the sensations to lull her into a calm, almost meditative state.

  Her hunger for him still buzzed through her like liquid bees, but she was able to separate the rest of her mind from that hunger. She drifted, allowing her thoughts to come and go, focused on the touch of the brush against her skin and the slight sounds of Louis’s breathing and the tiny splashes as he rinsed the paint from his brush and an occasional soft thump or click as he shifted his palette or a small tube of paint.

  Even as he worked his way to the base of her spine and then over the cheeks of her ass, she lay relaxed and still. She didn’t have any sense of time; hours could have passed or just minutes as he covered her back and ass and thighs and calves and even her ankles and the bottoms of her feet in swirls and dabs and streaks of paint.