"By talk you mean-" she started, suggestively.
"I hope so," I giggled.
She laughed. "Go get him, mama. I'll watch Roberto."
"I'll be back in a little bit, mijo," I called to Rob. "Just a little bit more."
"Uh-huh," he muttered, his nose back in the book. Clearly he was my kid, lost in his reading.
I knocked on Jake's door, feeling tentative, because I'd never been inside his place. The door opened. He stood there, hot, still in his perfect suit.
"Come on in, Lucy."
He opened the door the whole way and I stepped inside, looking around. His place was basically the same layout as mine, except reversed. As I expected, there wasn't much in the way of furnishings, just a table and chairs in the dining area, a couch and a coffee table in front of the television, and not much else. Clean and orderly. Nothing on the walls. This made it seem light and airy, though, rather than depressing. Minimalist to the utmost degree.
But this was his space. Even temporary, it was him. More so than his depressingly stark den of an office. He stood in the room and shrugged.
"Looks the same as yours, no? I only moved what I needed here and put the rest in storage."
"Tour, guapo. I want to see it."
He grinned. "Well, this is the living room."
I nodded. "Duh."
He took my hand, holding it lightly, his hand bigger than mine. I pulled his hand up to my lips and kissed it, noticing how long his fingers were, how sensuous his artist's hands were. Nails well kept, prominent veins. God I wanted them on me again.
"I sleep in here," he said, pointing to the master, "and paint in here."
We stepped into the second bedroom.
Two large tables, one bare but paint-splattered, the other stacked neatly with large pads of paper, jars with paintbrushes sticking out, paint tubes, colored pencils, charcoal, markers, and other art supplies made it clear that yeah, he did paint.
This was more than just another room to him. He made a place for his art here.
He walked me past canvases stacked against the walls and an easel, to the table with the art supplies. Pausing for a moment, he fingered the cover of a large pad of paper on top.
"These are my drawings of you."
Then he handed it to me, his eyes piercingly blue.
For a moment, I just stood there, grasping it with both hands, looking down at it, wanting to open it and unwilling to breach his privacy.
I knew how it felt as a writer to show someone something you create. Would they judge? Would they shame me for thinking this way? Would they make fun of it? Of me?
It took trust to show someone else your art. Trust that someone would connect with it and not rip it apart. And when you stood there, next to the person who created the art and looked at their eyes and saw the breath escape their lips as they had that delicious pain of being seen? Well, that was intimacy.
Letting someone know you, all the parts of you, not just the parts that you want them to see. He was giving me a piece of himself that he didn't even know that he had to give. I wanted to accept it, to allow him in. I gently set the tablet on the empty table, perched on a stool, and opened up the cover. Then I reacted viscerally.
The first picture depicted my face. Just my face. With very few lines, he'd captured the curves of my jaw, the angle of my nose, the line of my brow. My hair was suggested with just a few quick strokes. I looked calm, reposed.
And beautiful.
I turned the page.
The second picture illustrated just my lips. My full bottom lip, slightly pouting. My upper one separated from the bottom. The hint of my teeth beneath.
Page flip. My eye. Just one, at half-mast, alluring, upturned, with full cat eye makeup.
Page flip, my face again. More detail this time, and from different perspectives-in profile, looking to the right, straight on.
Page flip. The first one of my body-my back, head, neck, and arms while seated. My waist flared in from my hips. He'd taken the time to draw my spine in intricate detail. I could probably count the vertebrae.
Page flip, just my hips, from the side, my hip bone jutting out, and showing the tops of my thighs and the curve of my waist.
Another picture, my arms.
Another, my hands, different poses.
I turned the page again. This one was my whole body, nipples on display, my curvy thighs, my shoulders covered by my hair.
Another one, my ass.
And another page of my ass.
And yet another page of my ass. I stifled a giggle.
The sketches were all utterly realistic, but also better than realism. Because while it was me, clearly, he had made me look better. Like there was a light emanating from me.
This was how he saw me.
And he had piles and piles of sketchbooks, canvases, and papers.
I looked up from the drawings and he stood near me, uncertainty radiating from his striking face.
"They are just sketches," he began, "I drew them quickly, you know, they are just to get the idea down."
"Stop."
He looked perplexed. "What?"
"Don't minimize them. You have unbelievable talent. You are an artist. You create loveliness. They are amazing. I love them."
He still looked uncertain.
"What do I have to do to convince you that you're an artist?"
"I don't know," he said heatedly, "but I'm going to let you do that. You can look at all of them if you want. Whenever you want. Right now, though? I can't wait anymore to have you naked."
"Okay," I whispered, and walked to the door, looking back at him over my shoulder. "You coming with me?"
In two loping steps, Jake bounded across the room and grabbed me by my waist, picking me up. I squealed and he carried me across the hall into his bedroom. Before I could look around the room to check out my surroundings, I was on my back, on a Craftsman-style bed with a dark blue comforter, and he was on top of me, between my legs, still wearing his suit jacket, tie, shoes, and everything else.
"You're going to get your suit rumpled," I exhaled, in between kisses.
"Don't care," he muttered against my lips.
"Yay," I whispered. "My businessman is starting to loosen up."
He pulled back from me and smiled his white toothpaste smile. "But I can't fuck you wearing all this, so I'd better take it off." He got up off of me, and I scooted back on my elbows to watch the show. I snuck a glance around the bedroom, though. Monastic, like the living room. Just a bed, chair, and dresser. Nothing else. No pictures.
Really, the other bedroom was the sanctuary.
But Jake undressing was way more interesting than this room. He took off his jacket and set it on the wooden chair, his polished dark shoes next, hitting the floor. Then he pulled on the knot of his tie, loosening it, and taking it off over his head. He gave me a look while holding the tie and said, "Ever use these in your books?" I giggled and nodded as he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt.
Now it was time for the good part.
Fuck yeah Jake striptease.
Looking at me with a mischievous look on his face, he started unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, one button at a time, exposing his trim physique.
"Is this weird? Do you like this?" God I loved that he was willing and brave enough to ask questions like that. I could never write a book boyfriend like him because he wasn't all Alpha perfect. That said, was he serious?
"Um, yeah," I answered immediately. "Keep going. And a little slower."
He bit his lip. Then he grinned a shy, sexy half-grin, and looked down, unbuttoning his shirt all the way.
Then the shirt was on the floor and his upper body, all obliques and pecs, was on display. He leaned over to take off his socks. As he did that, I scooted off of the bed and came down to the floor on my knees.
"Let me help you," I whispered, and I undid his pants, easing them down his long legs. He stepped out of them. He was wearing classic boxers again, this time black.
Yeah, he was hard.
I nudged the elastic down and his cock sprung out. Looking up at him, eyes on mine, I opened my mouth, taking his cock in as far as it would go, enjoying the feel of him, enjoying the scent of him. I softened my lips around him and sucked, pulling back, and he made a noise, like a whine.
"Can you do that again?" he rasped.
I nodded, on my knees, totally submitting to him. I loved doing this, feeling like I was giving him something, pleasing him. He deserved a good blow job and I let him know it, stroking him with my tongue and my hand, my attention absorbed only by him.
I kept going and at one point, when I pulled back with a pop, he groused, "What are you doing still dressed? Clothes off."
So I stood up, backed away, and took off the gray dress that I'd worn to court, unzipping the side and stepping out of it. Again, I was standing in front of him in panties and high heels, this time cheeky turquoise panties with a matching lace bra, and sober, corporate black pumps.
His eyes raced up and down me, which didn't take that long, given my height.
"Tell me honey, what kind of love scenes do you write in your novels? What do you secretly think is hot?"
He stepped toward me and reached around behind me, unhooking my bra with ease. His fingers at first skimming lightly over my breasts, and then got more insistent. Then he bent down and started nibbling on my neck. "Tell me."