Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family)(35)

Maybe it's that I have a direct view of him nuzzling my clit with his  nose while his tongue probes me on the inside, or maybe the vulnerable  moment we shared before he opened me up intimately, but I feel my orgasm  building inside me faster than ever before.

"I can't...I'll fall...I'm...Oh God, Blake." I know I'm not making much sense, but I have to warn him. "I'll fall."

"Hold on to me."

I grasp his shoulders, but the leg I'm standing on wobbles. "I am,  but"-I breathe in sharply-"don't let me go," I rasp, and I'm not talking  just about this very moment.

"I won't. Trust me. I won't let you go, Clara. Promise."

I come apart in his arms, and Blake keeps his promise, holding me until I'm steady on my feet.

Rising to his feet, he cradles my face, his thumbs pressing at the  corners of my mouth, the rest of his fingers splayed on my cheeks and  neck. I feel adored, safe, and treasured. I have no idea how he can do  that with a simple touch, but he does.

I want to reciprocate-he might not need the kind of reassurance I do,  but he does need it in other ways, like knowing with absolute certainty  that I will not betray him or his family.

"I didn't know it would feel like this," he says, catching me off guard.  "Sharing every day and night with someone. Wanting to share my life."

"I didn't know either," I whisper, too stunned to come up with a better  reply. Slowly I gather my wits around me, fueled by his admission. "It  feels right."

"It feels perfect." He kisses my cheek, my temple. "Fucking perfect. This is more real than anything I've had."

"Blake," I reply softly, pressing my hands over his, then bringing one  of his palms to my lips, kissing it. The air charges between us, and a  strange energy strums through me. I can tell Blake feels it too, because  his eyes widen. This, right here, is more raw and intimate than  anything we've experienced before. I'm falling for this man.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Clara





Free time does not agree with me. After working straight out of school  for more than a decade, you'd think I could use a breather. But two  weeks into my unemployment, I feel restless and guilty. I must have sent  about eighty applications for various organizational and operational  jobs, and I'm still waiting to hear from most. In the evenings, I help  Blake at the bar, and I fill my mornings by working on my illustrations.  The one I'm working on right now is giving me headaches, but I have  nothing but time to figure it out. Too much time.                       
       
           


///
       

I startle when my phone rings and leap to my feet, glancing around. It's  ringing somewhere around me, but I can't find it for the life of me,  and this is not a good time for me not to be reachable. It could be a  call for an interview. Finally, I find the darned thing under the  couch-ask me how it got there.

Glancing at the screen, I see it's Blake, who is currently down at the  bar, going through the inventory before opening in a few hours.

"What's wrong?" I ask, phone pegged to my ear as I rise to my feet.

"Can you come down for a few minutes?"

"Sure."

On that cryptic note, he clicks off. Huh, what's all that about? I'd better go check on him.

I step inside the bar, expecting to find Blake alone, but instead he's  at one of the high tables with a man in a suit. He's dark-haired and  looks like he's in his early fifties.

"Clara, you're here," Blake exclaims upon seeing me. "Great. I want to introduce you to someone."

I join the two of them and shake hands with the man, exchanging names.

"Charlie here publishes children's books," Blake says, and I feel like I just downed a glass of cold water.

"Our largest imprint specializes in illustration books. Blake tells me  you have a large portfolio," Charlie continues. The back of my neck  prickles. "I could look at it, if you want some feedback."

I don't dare look at Blake. He set me up.

"Great idea," Blake exclaims. I'm still not looking at him. Instead I try my best to keep a polite smile.

I clear my throat. "I don't think my portfolio is quite ready to be seen."

Charlie waves my words away. "Nonsense. It's never too early to get feedback."

Biting the inside of my cheek, I nod, because I don't see how I can get  out of this without offending Charlie, or Blake. On second thought,  Blake can shove all his hurt feelings up his ass. He deserves it for  putting me on the spot like this.

"I'll be right back," I tell Charlie. Whirling on my heels, I strut out  of the bar, and then I break into a run as I round the corner of the  building, climb the stairs, and enter my apartment. I barely have time  to take a few deep breaths, let alone process all this, when I hear  footsteps behind me.

"Clara."

"Don't even talk to me right now."

"You're angry."

At least he has the good sense not to put a question mark at the end of  that sentence. I whirl around, facing him, holding my chin high, my  shoulders straight.

"Yes. So angry that if I had a pointy object now, I'd poke you with it repeatedly."

"Machete or knife?"

"What?"

"The pointy object, would it be a machete or knife? I need to know how bad this is."

"This is not a joke, Blake," I say, deflated.

"You started with the pointy object," he points out. He's so calm, so collected, whereas I'm simmering with anger.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "Why are you doing this? Putting me on the spot? Pushing me?"

"Because you need to be pushed."

"Wrong answer. This is not your call to make. I am not ready."

"Bullshit. You've been working on this for more than ten years. The best things happen when you get out of your comfort zone."

"Gah." The nerve of him! "You say that because you always had a cushion to fall on."

Jesus, I didn't mean to raise my voice.

"I know that. Don't think I ever take my privilege for granted."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to attack you. I just...I'm not ready," I repeat.

Blake closes the distance between us. Brave of him, since my anger is still alive and simmering-coming close to a boil.

"You don't see what I see." He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes.

"Enlighten me. What do you see?" I challenge.

"A strong, hardworking woman who is afraid to put herself out there. You  think your dream is safe as long as you keep it to yourself. You're  afraid that you'll lose your safe haven if you get criticized."

Wow. Wow. I couldn't have put this into words any better.

"So, if you know all this, why push me?"

"Because you want to make this step, you're just afraid. What's the  worst that can happen? Charlie says you still need to sharpen your  skills. Your confidence will take a hit, maybe you'll even stop  illustrating for a while. But then eventually you're going to start it  again. If you don't, I'm going to nag you until you start again just to  shut me up."                       
       
           


///
       

Poof, there's my anger. Vanished into thin air. My current predicament  revolves around having a knot in my throat, and if I try to form words  in spite of it, they might come out mushy and emotional. Blake moves his  hands from my shoulders to hold my face.

"You have no idea how amazing you are, Clara. But I do." He presses his  thumbs gently against my temple, the rest of his fingers splayed wide at  the sides of my head. "If you really don't want to show him your work,  I'll go down alone and make up an excuse."

"Look at you, all democratic. Giving me a choice."

He smiles, kissing my forehead.

"I'll show it to him. I feel particularly brave. Will you stick around  while he's looking over them? Just in case my bravery deserts me and I  try to make a run for it?"

"I'll be there. Told you I have your back. I believe in you."

***

A few minutes later, the show is on. I shove what I think is the  collection of my best works under Charlie's nose, and he's inspecting  every page, hmming and aaaahing. I can't tell if they're good or bad  sounds, but if he doesn't form actual words soon, the tension rising  inside me will choke me.

"Charlie, how about voicing some of that feedback?" Blake asks  eventually. The two of us are standing around one of the small round  tables, and Charlie is the only one sitting. Kind of wish I'd perched up  on a seat too because my knees feel like they're about to give away,  and not in a good way. As if sensing this, Blake brings his hand at the  small of my back, moving it in small, soothing circles, as if saying,  I'm here for you, and I'll be here no matter what Charlie says. I'll  have your back, always.