Up In The Air: In Flight Part 15

He reached up and gripped the back of my neck lightly. His touch was light, but his eyes were hard and searching.

"What would I have to do to get you to open up to me?" he asked softly.

I didn't like this line of conversation. My mind worked furiously to try to get out of it.

"I would imagine you're as closed off as I am, Mr. Cavendish. So, you tell me. What would make you open up to someone?" I asked, thinking the tactic should work well.

I imagined that James's answer would be the same as mine. Nothing.

"For you, I'd take an exchange of information. You share something, I'll do the same. Sound fair?"

I eyed him uneasily. Unwillingly, I was tempted. Within reason.

"Do I get to choose the information I give?" I asked him cautiously.

He shrugged. "I'll take it if that's all I can get. I'll do the same. I'll start. My parents died when I was thirteen. I was left with an older cousin as a guardian. I detested him. He died a year and a half later, and it was one of the best days of my life. I disliked my next guardian, my Aunt Mildred, but she was a saint compared to the first one."

My eyes opened wide in shock. It was a random and strangely personal revelation, giving me some insight into James. I sincerely hoped that he didn't expect the same thing from me. I thought hard of something to tell him that I could bear to reveal. I sighed heavily when I realized the best way to distract him.

"I started painting a picture of you. It's in the backyard. It's embarra.s.sing, but I couldn't seem to stop myself," I told him. It was a lesser evil by far, of all of the things that had popped into my head.

He grinned, and it was a heart-stopping grin. "So you do think about me, at least a little, when I'm not pursuing you relentlessly." He headed to my bedroom, where there was a sliding gla.s.s door into the backyard.

"One second. I need to punch in the code," I called, quickly doing so.

"Have I mentioned that I like your security?" James told me as I joined him in my bedroom.

He was opening the barred door that went over my sliding gla.s.s. It was an eyesore, but one that made me feel secure, and the bars had become popular in Vegas due to excessive break-ins, so it was fairly commonplace to see them. It didn't even make my house stand out. I had the thick bars mounted on my bedroom's sliding gla.s.s door, and covering all of my windows.

"Happy to please you," I told him, and he sent me a hot look.

"You have no idea, Bianca," he repeated my earlier words back at me. I stifled the urge to respond that I would like to have an idea.

He moved directly to the easel without asking. I just followed him. It was really a small price to pay for the knowledge he had given me. He was an orphan like me, and he'd had a rough time of it. Not homeless, but perhaps more alone. He hadn't been blessed to find a Stephan, like I had.

He studied the painting like he did most everything. Intently. It was only a rough outline of him so far, just his face and part of his torso, wearing a V-neck as he sometimes did. He hummed low in his throat.

"It's very good. Were you going to give it to me when you finished?"

I shook my head. "I was going to hang it in my bedroom to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e to," I told him, only half-joking.

His reaction was gratifying. He sent me a look that was pure heat and appreciation.

"You ever want me to pose for you, you let me know."

I brightened at the offer. "Yes, I do. I get much better results when I paint with my subject at hand."

I gestured at the view of the mountains behind my house. "It's why I have so many paintings of those." I tried to get the courage to ask him to pose nude, but couldn't quite do it.

"You have an extra bedroom you haven't shown me. Show it to me."

I wrinkled my nose at him. He was relentless, it seemed to me, about exploring every detail of my life.

He touched my nose with a finger. "It's so cute when you do that."

My nose wrinkled more, but then I tried to smooth it out. Being called cute by him just didn't do it for me. In fact, it kind of annoyed me.

How many cute girls does he go through in a week? As many as he wants, I supposed.

"My guest bedroom is tiny, and just storage at the moment. It basically holds all the paintings that I don't have room to hang."

He started moving instantly at that. "I'd love to see them."

I let out a frustrated noise, but the man always did what he wanted.

I leaned in the doorway while he rudely rifled through my guest room. There was a small guest bed, but even that was covered by some boxes and paintings. The room embarra.s.sed me. I really needed to get it organized.

James made a sound of pleasure and pulled a canvas out from one of the many stacks of paintings leaning against the wall.

That was yet another reason I usually did watercolors. They took up very little s.p.a.ce when finished. Just a piece of paper unless I framed them, whereas my numerous acrylics and few oils were on canvases that had taken over this room, my far more numerous watercolors occupied one small chest in the corner.

It was a self-portrait, I saw, as he admired it. I cringed slightly. Self-portraits weren't my favorite. I usually only did them when I lacked for inspiration. I had painted this one a few years ago.

I'd used a picture Stephan had taken when I wasn't looking. I was wearing my cool, composed face, and it had interested me to paint myself that way, so enigmatic. I tried to behave that way, knew people viewed me as inscrutable, but I rarely felt it. It had pleased me that other people perceived me that way, and so I had painted it.

In the painting I was leaning against a counter, the one from our old apartment. My arms rested on the counter, my head tilted up and slightly away. But my eyes were a clear, pale blue.

We'd been having a party in our small apartment, I recalled. The picture had been Stephan's way of trying to draw me into the fun. I hadn't even noticed him until he'd taken several shots of me. I'd used the first picture to make the painting.

"I want this," James said softly. "Can I buy it from you?"

I gave him a very level stare. "Thats ludicrous. You can have it, if you want it. I never hang self-portraits. I can't imagine why you would want that, though. Where would you hang a thing like that?"

He just grinned. "Plural. As in, you have more?"

I rolled my eyes. "I do. They're in here, somewhere. As you can see, I don't have it organized. I have no idea where any specific painting is."

James just started rifling through my things with more focus.

I sighed, resigned to indulging his strange mood to dig into every part of my house.

"I'm going to make breakfast. You can have any pictures you want, but please don't take them if you're just trying to flatter me." I left before he could comment.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Mr. Accommodating I made ham and eggs. I needed to go to the grocery store, so it was the only thing in my fridge. I had to keep a very clean kitchen, buying only things that I could use immediately or things that lasted for weeks before they went bad. It was one of the necessities of my job.

I made a huge portion for James, and a more reasonable plate for myself. I knew from my long experience with Stephan that a man James's size, no matter how fit, would put away a lot of food. I was pleased to find a small block of extra sharp cheddar to top it with. Simple fare, but good.

I brought the plates and some bottles of cold water into the spare room.

James was digging through the mess with as much concentration as ever.

I saw that he had found four more pictures to add to his collection. The one on top was an oil picture of a lilly. I thought it an odd choice for him, but I just set his plate on the bed above where he crouched, digging.

I tried not to stare at him as I sat down on another cleared spot on the bed to eat, my plate balanced on my lap. He still only wore his boxer-briefs. It was beyond distracting.

"I made ham and eggs," I finally said, when he just kept digging. "It's nothing fancy, but it's getting cold."

He turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor and grabbing his plate. He grinned at me almost boyishly.

"It's like Christmas for me in here. It's not often that I find something I want that I don't have."

I can well believe that, I thought. Though what I couldn't imagine was why he would want my paintings. I still just wanted to think that he was trying to flatter me to get into my pants. Which was obviously unnecessary at this point. That, I supposed, was why it confused me so much.

He cleared his plate in short order. I still wasn't half done with my own when he took his last bite.

"That was fantastic. Thank you," he said, then got back to work.

I finished eating, then looked at the pictures he'd selected so far. Three of my self-portraits, and the lilly. As I was studying them, he found my chest of watercolors. He flung it open as though he had every right in the world. For some reason, I didn't even attempt stop him.

He added two more pictures to his selection almost immediately. More self-portraits, I saw.

I started to get antsy as he searched the chest. I was recalling a rather embarra.s.sing self-portrait that I'd buried at the bottom. To hide it.

"I need to go run errands soon. I have absolutely no food for lunch, sooo..."

"Mmmk," he mumbled, but just kept digging. He singled out two more of my larger watercolor paintings, setting them on his pile. They were landscapes of the Vegas mountains, much like the ones I had in my living room. I actually liked them better than the ones that had ended up above my mantle, but they'd been too big for the mosaic.

I knew when he found the painting I was worrying about. He pulled out a smaller painting, and stilled, sucking in a sharp breath. He looked at it for so long that I walked to him, checking to see if my suspicions were correct. They were, of course.

It was on a not quite printer-sized piece of watercolor paper. My only fully nude self-portrait. Looking at it, I wasn't quite as embarra.s.sed as I'd thought I would be. At least it was a better picture than I had remembered.

I had sat on a chair in my bedroom, in front of my full length mirror. I was sitting up very straight, and had even painted the paintbrush in my hand and the easel and board I was working on. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s were fully revealed, though my legs were closed modestly. Modestly for a nude. Just the barest hint of what lay between was revealed. My gaze was steady, though wide. My free hand lay on my thigh, clenched. My bare feet were arched, my toes pink. My hair had hung loose, though it didn't cover a thing.

"Exquisite," James said, tracing a fingertip along the page. "I don't know where to hang it. I should burn it, so no one else can ever see it, but I just couldn't do that. It's too perfect."

His hand shot to my leg where I stood to his back and side. I jumped, startled.

"You're too perfect. I need to travel with this one personally. Do you have a folder I could carry it in?"

I reached into the chest. His hand remained on my thigh, gripping it firmly even when I took a step forward. I pulled out a navy folder. I had them everywhere. They were handy for storing watercolors.

"Here. But if you take that painting, it's only fair that I get to paint a nude of you."

"As you wish, b.u.t.tercup," he told me, turning to plant a hard kiss on my stomach before hiding the nude in the folder.

"Go shower. I'm going to arrange for these paintings to be transported and framed." He held up the folder. "Except for this one. This one I carry." He strode out of the room.

Unaccountably, I was a little bit shaky, but I headed to the shower without another word.

I was in the shower for a good ten minutes before James slipped in behind me. I had already washed, but he soaped me up again without asking, touching me everywhere. His rock-hard erection pressed against my back. I rubbed against it, and he pushed my hips away gently.

"Not until I check to see how raw you are," he said roughly. But he continued to touch me, rubbing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently for long minutes. My head fell back, and my mind went feverish.

"These must be sore, too, but I can't seem to keep my hands off. My self-control is apparently shot where you're concerned. I've never had this problem before." His voice was a rasp in my ear, as though he were telling me a dirty secret. It got me unbelievably hot. He shut the water off.

He toweled me off, quickly drying himself and wrapping the towel around his hips.

"Get on your back on the bed," he ordered me.

I moved to the bed, and felt his large presence behind me with every step. I sprawled on my back on the bed, my wet hair fanned out above my head.

He pulled my legs apart as he dragged my hips to the very edge of the bed. He was more masterful than rough as he handled me. He knelt between my legs, using a light touch to study me. I should have been embarra.s.sed, but I was beyond it.

"I don't care if it hurts," I told him. And I didn't, not right then, though I had been extremely sore at work the day before.

"Quiet," he told me, his voice harsh. "My control is hanging on by a thread, but you're just too chafed. I rode you too hard that first night, and that morning. f.u.c.k, I can't believe I did all of that to a virgin. I feel like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, looking at all of that injured pink flesh." His fingers were still gently touching my petals as he examined my s.e.x. "But I still want to f.u.c.k you so badly I can't see straight."

I wriggled against his fingers. "Just f.u.c.k me, then. Please."

He slapped the side of my b.u.t.t, hard.

"Don't." He looked at me with troubled, beautiful eyes. "I'm going to need to be more careful with you. I didn't realize you could take so much without protesting, so I just kept going. f.u.c.k. I shouldn't have taken you after that first time, but I'll remember that night for as long as I live. It was so perfect."

His words were bringing me to a fevered pitch. I stroked my b.r.e.a.s.t.s as he ranted. He gave me a hard look. Hard, but hot.

"Well, we'll have to do something about this." A wandering finger found my backside. I stiffened instinctively. He chuckled, withdrawing. "Not that."

Without another word, he buried his face between my legs with a purpose. He had me gasping out his name with an o.r.g.a.s.m in less than a minute. He crawled up my body to kiss me wetly. I ran my hands everywhere I could touch.

"I love your body. I never get to touch you enough. I want to," I murmured into his mouth as he pulled back.

He fell back into a sprawl almost instantly, accommodating my whim. He folded his tan muscular arms behind his head, smiling. He was definitely all tender lover this morning, only glimpses of the dominant in him showing.

"Have at it, Love."

I didn't hesitate, using both of my hands to stroke his chiseled abs. Those starkly ridged abs made Brad Pitt in his prime look sub-par.

I kissed his abs as my hands moved higher, licking. He sucked in a breath. I moved up to his chest. His small nipples drove me wild, a shade of brown darker than his perfect skin. I stroked and licked up to his neck. Everything about him was just so long. His arms, his legs, his torso.

My gaze traveled south, to his quivering arousal. It was long too, and so hard and thick. I wanted to taste it the most, but knew my exploration would be over if I so much as touched it.