Submersed (17 page)

             
We walked in together, side by side. It seemed fitting to hold his hand as he saw my sanctuary for the first time. To me, it looked like home, like emotion and breath and life.
And heartache.
It looked like visions and ideas and desires.
Possibilities and hope.

             
This was the place I could escape to from disorder and paint myself into a different time and place full of beautiful and bold colors. It was also where I could immerse myself into the pain and grief with bleak colors of gray and black.

             
I drew in a breath and relished the smell of the room. It smelled of turpentine and oils and dust. Next to the smell of Tahitian gardenias, it was my favorite smell in the world.

             
It was a large studio, roughly the same size as the other rooms in the suite combined. Although it was crowded with art supplies and furniture, there was still adequate room to move around.

             
Deliberately, I looked around the room, trying to imagine how it looked through Dillon’s eyes.

             
A sturdy butcher-block table splattered with dried-on paint took up most of the room. In the middle of the table sat a jumble of pots and colorful tubes of paint.

             
Beside the table to the left was a counter lined with jars filled with brushes of all types and sizes, pens and charcoal and colored pencils. The counter was also cluttered full of cans of turpentine and solvent, linseed oil, which I used as an oil medium, wooden and glass palettes, palette knives and discarded rags. Next to it, an oversized stainless steel industrial sink was nestled in the corner by the windows.

             
Leaning against the wall of windows were a variety of different sized blank canvases already stretched and primed. On the far wall across from us was a large mahogany bookcase stuffed with art, photography and nature books. I knew the matching armoire next to it was filled with miscellaneous sized sketchbooks and textured paper. Next to that was an oversized slouchy sofa covered with a worn navy blue slipcover.

             
In the far corner, dozens of finished canvases were turned, facing the wall, covered dejectedly with a sheet. They wouldn’t be seeing the light of day anytime soon.

             
We stood next to the table in the middle of the room and I could hear Dillon’s steady breathing and feel his warmth encompassing my hand.

             
I put my free hand on the butcher block and ran an affectionate hand over the warn wood. Dillon reached out and brought that hand to his lips, kissing softly between my knuckles.

             
“It’s beautiful.”

             
I didn’t have to tell him how monumental this moment was. He was well aware of how private I was about my work. “I’ve never brought anyone in here before.”

             
“Thank you for sharing it with me,
Livi
.”

             
To my surprise, he didn’t prowl around the room and paw at my things, but turned me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. Dillon’s kisses were always thrilling, but the fact that we were in my studio made it even more electrifying. It was a special kiss meant to show appreciation and contentment with a little encouragement mixed in.

             
It worked like a charm and I was ready to start painting.

             
I had Dillon stand by the windows, where his form was brought out clearly by the light. It was a little strange seeing him standing there, in the place where I’d gazed forlornly down at the city countless times before. Since I’d moved in, no one but me had ever been inside this room, but Dillon didn’t seem out of place.
He just sort of fit.
Then again, he was a chameleon that way. He could fit in anywhere and blend seamlessly no matter the surroundings.

             
He had worked the ballroom at a charity dinner with the finesse and looks of James Bond. He had rescued me from the masses like a white knight dressed in a Hugo Boss shirt and Michael
Kors
tie. He had wolfed down a turkey sandwich, and then danced a sexy tango in my living room wearing jeans and a tee shirt.

             
Dillon could make himself at home anywhere and my studio was no different.

             
I had already prepared a canvas, so all I had to do was adjust my easel and start sketching.

             
When I looked up from the canvas, Dillon pulled his shirt off over his head. Taut muscles stretched across his broad shoulders. His nipples were brown and I wondered if they tasted anything like his lips. His chest was so perfectly sculpted I couldn’t have painted him better myself. But I was going to attempt to anyway.

             
“You don’t have to take your shirt off,” I told him.

             
He shrugged and tossed his shirt on the sofa. “Just in case you get carried away and decide to paint more.”

             
I held my bottom lip between my teeth. Now how was I supposed to focus on his eyes when his bulging chest muscles were staring me in the face?

             
I wanted to run my hands over his shoulders and down his smooth chest. I wanted to scrape my fingernail over those nipples and feel them harden. I wanted to skim over his six-pack with my lips and down to…

             
Dillon looked at me with a sort of half frown half smirk. “What is
that
look?”

             
“I…I was just thinking about something,” I stammered. Dammit, he was too perceptive for his own good.

             
“You spend too much time in your head,
Livi
.”

             
I sighed and pushed my hair over my shoulder. “Yeah, well there’s a lot going on in there.”

             
“You can touch me if you want to.”

             
What was he a mind reader now, too? “How…?” I held a hand up against my pounding heart. Gulping in air, I looked at the walls to make sure they weren’t closing in.

             
“It’s written all over your face.”

             
“Am I that transparent?” I asked with a t
w
inge of panic in my voice. Great, now I was going to have to start wearing a ski mask around him.

             
“No,” he reassured me. “I’m just learning to read you.”

             
I set my pencil down. It was impossible to hold it steady now that he
’
d broken into my deepest thoughts. “And you think I’m thinking about touching you?” My voice cracked on the last two words and I cleared my throat.

             
“I
know
you
’
re thinking about touching me.”

             
Goose bumps prickled down my arms. I crossed them over my chest.

             
Dillon reached a hand out. “Come here,” he urged softly.

             
I was a frightened animal and he spoke gently so as not to risk scaring me away.

             
“Come here,” he pleaded.

             
Oh no. I wasn’t going anywhere. My feet were firmly planted…Wait. Why were my feet moving towards him? Damn it. How was I supposed to remain in control when my body constantly kept deceiving me?

             
My arms fell to my sides and I stepped around my easel and moved forward just close enough to take his hand.

             
His eyes searched my face and he asked, “What do you want to touch?”

             
Anything.
Everything
, my head screamed.

             
“There.” I pointed to his abs, careful not to accidentally touch him with my finger. “I wonder how it feels where it’s all bumpy.”

             
He smiled at my innocent description of the abs he’d worked hours defining in the gym. “Go ahead,
Livi
. Touch me.” He said the last two words on a breath, anticipating my slender fingers grazing his skin.

             
After a deep breath, I reached out and traced his six-pack with my fingers. His muscles were firm underneath his soft skin. Warmth radiated from him and when I dropped my hand back to my side I felt cold again.

             
“Anything else?” he asked when he could find his voice.

             
I swallowed. “
Here.
” This time, I pointed to his cut line, the v-shaped area between his abs and thighs.

             
His smile told me it was okay to proceed. A deep moan came from him as I slid my fingers over the sensitive area.

             
When I pulled my hand away, I noticed the bulge in his jeans had grown. Sheepishly, I met his eyes, cheeks flushed.

             
“See what you do to me?”

             
“
I
did that?” My voice was hoarse.

             
“You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit,
Livi
.”

             
“But I didn’t
do
anything.”

             
“You don’t have to. Just standing there looking me over is enough.”

             
He looked down at my hand and my stomach hic-upped into my throat. Gently, he brought my hand to his groin. I cupped my fingers over him and could feel him straining hot against the zipper.

             
I yanked my hand away and squeezed my eyes shut. “We can’t,” I told him. “
I
can’t.”

             
“There are other things we can do besides
that
,” he said quietly.

             
What other things was he talking about? Playing gin rummy, watching re-runs of M*A*S*H or,
gulp
, was he talking about
other
other
things? Like…
l
ike I couldn’t even think about them without my cheeks turning flame red.

             
He led me over to the couch and pulled me down next to him. We sat there holding hands and he looked over at me with darkening eyes. When he reached out to push a lock of my hair behind my ear, my tongue darted out to lick my lips. I had no idea what he had in mind. Kissing was about as much as I could handle up to this point. There were certain things
I wouldn’t, no
couldn’t
do
. I wouldn’t risk the humiliation whether I was paying for the experience or not.

             
Dillon leaned over and kissed me ever so softly. His lips played with mine, teasing, tempting, before he urged my mouth open with his tongue. Gently, he caressed my tongue with his.

             
I loved how Dillon kissed me like he had all day to do just that one thing. I needed to know that he wouldn’t push me or rush me into doing more than I could. It was important that he was content to just make-out like teenagers in the back seat of a car.

             
For a while we sat there on the couch in my studio. Kissing, exploring each other’s mouths. I don’t know exactly how long because I lost track of time when Dillon’s hand began roving down my arm to my hip.

             
He shifted on the couch until we were lying next to each other and I wrapped my arms around his neck. His breath was hot and moist in my ear as he planted kisses there and down my neck.

             
As soon as he slid his hand under my shirt and up my back, I stiffened. Passion turned into fear. Fear turned into panic.

             
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured in my ear, ignoring my reaction.

             
I tried to relax, but now his other hand was sliding down my waist and over my hip and…

             
“Dillon, please,” I warned.

             
“Let me touch you.”

             
My eyes pleaded with his.
Don’t make me vulnerable
.

             
“Okay,” I said on a shaky breath. “But I’m not taking my clothes off.”

             
“I can work around them,” he breathed.

             
Underneath my shirt, his hand smoothed over my back, up to my shoulders and back down again. He slid up under the back of my bra and up to splay his fingers against my neck. Tenderly, he stroked my back, up and down.