I whimper but smile as he pins me up against my wall, fisting my breast as he thrusts inside of me and pumps me hard and fast, his grunts and growls hot on my neck.
I moan, everything hot and alive under my skin. I’ve loved in Jake the same things I’ve loved not seeing in Noah, but… I may have had it wrong.
Jake’s not in control, either.
Tiernan
I tear off the sheet and crumple it up in my fist, tossing it onto the table. I hate sketching. I’ve been at this for two hours and every design comes out looking ten times worse than whatever’s in my head. I can’t draw.
I pick up a freshly sharpened pencil and start again, remembering the lines and curves of the chest out in the shop as “Blue Blood” by LAUREL plays on my phone on the table. Using light strokes, I fill in the feathers and filigree, not really worried about the bones of the design, just the colors. Every scheme I use seems childish, but I want to have an idea of what to do before I use any paint on it.
I lay my head down on my arm, picking up the gold pencil and brushing the highest points of the feathers as the snow falls out the window. I like this time of day. The sun just before it rises, the house is quiet, except for my soft music, and everything is asleep. My mug of coffee sits close, steam rising into the air, and I’m awake before anyone else but rested. Not like at night where I’m crashing into my pillow at ten p.m. because I’m exhausted.
My fingers work, peeking out of my long sweater, but a shadow falls over the paper as someone stops behind me. I pause.
But only for a moment.
I take a breath and continue, glossing up the trim of the chest as Kaleb walks to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. I knew it was him, because Jake and Noah would’ve said ‘good morning’。
He stands at the counter, and even though I’m tempted to look up to see if he’s watching me, I don’t. I switch out pencils, my hand hovering over the choices before I finally pick up the violet and light blue ones. Keeping my head nestled on my arm, I shade the left tip of the chest, working diagonally before switching to the blue to continue the design.
He comes over, standing behind me again.
What, Kaleb?
I dig in my brows, my body tense and bracing myself for whatever mean shit he’ll do now, but after a moment, I decide to ignore him.
I continue shading in some blue.
Unfortunately, the same thing happens, and I pause. I want the colors to blend, but the change from lavender to blue is too abrupt. I scribble harder, changing directions, trying to make the colors melt into each other, but he’s standing behind me, and I can’t concentrate. I lift my head, struggling to make it work as I switch from shading in lines to shading in circles.
Still, though…the transition is too sharp. I reach up to tear the sheet off and throw it away.
But his hand comes down on top of mine, stopping me. I’m about to throw him off, but he gently pulls the pencil out of my hand, sets his coffee down, and plants his other hand on the table, leaning over me. I watch as he holds the pencil between his fingers, pinching it all the way down at the tip, and shades in a circular motion along my line and then uses his thumb to rub the colors together, blending it just how I wanted.
He continues, the wind howling outside as a curtain of snow falls beyond the windows, and my shoulders relax a little as he picks up the violet again, bringing streams and drops into the blue, almost like a…
Like a watercolor. I want to smile. It’s exactly what I was seeing in my head.
I pick up the green pencil and start on the final section, shading in circles like he does. He follows, blending in his blue with my sea green, and our hands brush as we rub the colors with our fingers.
Does he draw a lot? I move my head, wanting to look up at him, but I catch myself in time.
I finish the legs and add some fancy handles to the drawers, only faltering for a moment when I see him uncrumple some of my previous drawings. He lays one down on the table, smoothing it out and hands it to me.
I swallow. It’s the teal and black design.
“I liked that one,” I murmur.
But it looks too…I don’t know…Beetlejuice? I thought it was childish.
I stare at the amateur sketch and pick up my pencil and ruler, adding more stripes to the drawers.
“I used to do so many drawings when I was little,” I tell him. “My house with trees and a rainbow. I’d put it on the refrigerator for my parents to see. Display it really pretty and nice and high, so they’d notice it when they got home.”
His hand remains planted on the table at my side, and I pick up the black pencil, shading stripes.