Out of Control (17 page)

Yeah, she had a lot on her plate, but the play of prismed light was irresistible.

The first thing she did once she moved, even before starting coffee, was to hang a large framed photograph of a view of Cayuga Lake across the room from her stained glass window, creating an artistic “lake view” in two directions and a partial one in a third. Next, she decorated her shabby dresser with a large vase. The dresser was a plywood curbside reject, ugly enough that even undergraduates had been put off. But painted a clear, soft yellow, it set off the green vase beautifully. She placed one of Sean’s pieces in the living room—she didn’t love it, but she loved Sean—and hung an abstract painting, all beautiful shades that reminded her of autumn hills and the fierce blue of the lake on a clear fall day, on the living room wall.

Then she sighed with pleasure. She had a lot more to unpack, including her clothes and household supplies, but with a few pieces of art in place, she felt comfortable in her new home. Now she could get on with her day.

She couldn’t help wondering if Drake would like the artwork, if he’d appreciate the visual joke of the mirrored pictures or if he’d find it redundant. Since she wasn’t decorating his side of the house, she supposed it hardly mattered. But she liked to think it would mean something to him.

Still naked, Jen padded into the kitchen. As coffee perked, adding its warm reddish-brown smell to the colors actually in the kitchen, Jen ate last night’s cold pizza leaning against the kitchen counter. The now-muted flavors and fragrances triggered a shiver of remembered pleasure. Rope on her wrists. Drake licking sauce from her nipples as if that was his sole source of nourishment. Drake fucking her hard and fast, his careful control shattered at last.

She remembered the way he tucked her in as well, tender and solicitous, but she didn’t let herself dwell on that. That shifted the memory to something sweeter and more pastel, instead of the hot, fierce hues of the bondage and the intense fuck.

Later, she would dwell on the tenderness, and on the gift of a dinner she hadn’t even known she needed. She wanted to process the message in those moments. She had a gut feeling that Drake expressed anything soft with a random act of kindness rather than words. But right now she wanted to focus on the bright lust that matched her rising need. God, remembering everything Drake had done to her made her weak with desire.

Or maybe it was strong with desire. Her knees felt wobbly and her abdomen quivered, but she could take on the world and win if it would get her more of Drake’s ropes and Drake’s deviant genius.

Jen made herself savor her breakfast pizza, letting each bite trigger more saturated, hot colors, more memories that danced across the surface of her skin and churned inside her pussy.

By the time she finished two slices, she couldn’t stand it anymore. Clutching the counter with one hand for balance, she found her clit with the other. She was drenched, and she could smell Drake on her skin, and the lingering pizza smell now reminded her of him, and even the coffee added something to the mix since she’d shared coffee with him.

She closed her eyes and saw Drake naked before her as sharply as she’d seen the kitchen only seconds before. Felt his ropes as keenly as she felt the cool countertop beneath one hand and the hot, slick flesh beneath the other.

Came, shuddering.

The release cleared her mind, brought her back to focus, to the bright kitchen with its ’50s colors and the day ahead of her. She shook her head to clear it, gave her hands a quick rinse.

High time to finish her coffee and get on with her day.

After making a batch of hummus and packing some to snack on during the day, she boxed up her Etsy sales and set out for the post office, packages carefully balanced in the panniers on her bike and hummus and carrot sticks in her backpack. She threw in the remains of her last loaf of bread and figured she was good to go until dinnertime at least.

She was just on time to catch the post office as it opened. From there, it was a, relatively quick trip to the public library. Taking advantage of unseasonably fine weather and the library’s Wi-Fi, Jen set herself up on a bench outside to research pagan imagery, taking frantic notes in both a Word file with copied pictures and her battered notebook. One image to another and then to another, forcing her to jot down still more ideas for future pieces, perhaps a whole series drawn from Celtic mythology, using the brilliant colors of the Book of Kells? But how to evoke the feeling of knotwork? It wouldn’t work in glass. Or would it?

That led her inside to do more research, using actual books this time, wishing more of what she needed was available as audiobooks but thankful that the books she was using contained many pictures.

Well after what most people would consider lunchtime, she surfaced, replete with information. She itched to head to the studio to conduct a few experiments to see if she could do some small-scale glass knotwork. Unfortunately, most of today’s studio time wouldn’t be dedicated to experiment. She needed to make some simple vases and paperweights to build her stock for the Solstice Craft Show. Batch production wasn’t as intriguing as any of the larger pieces floating around in her mind, but it was still making art, playing with color and form.

Damn, she was lucky. The world would be a better place if everyone loved his or her work as much as she loved hers. Though if everyone followed their passions, she supposed no one would ever collect the garbage.

Color combinations and images and ideas swirled in her head as she pedaled to the studio on the Cayuga Inlet waterfront. They mixed awkwardly with the numbers she was juggling in her head, the panic she couldn’t quite avert at the possibility that the Solstice Show might be rained out like it had been three years ago. Drake wasn’t a typical student-ghetto landlord who had to be strictly business, though. Maybe if she had a terrible show, she could take over the yard work for Drake in exchange for patience with the rent, or run errands for him, or cook.

Unfortunately, that brought her to images of candlelit dinners with her wearing nothing but an apron and rope.

The bicycle swerved, but she got it back under control with only a few honking horns. Luckily, Ithaca drivers were used to absentminded people on bicycles. It was part and parcel of life in a college town.

Speaking of Drake, she’d promised to call him and say if she was going to be late. But what constituted late in his eyes? She’d probably be home between nine and ten tonight, which didn’t seem late to her…but might to Professor Hot-Stuff.

Now all the images in her mind turned to Drake’s face, Drake’s body, Drake’s cock. It took all her will not to head back to the house as fast as her legs could propel her in hopes he was home.

But she had vases to make.

Since Drake was so much on her mind, she remembered to call and say she’d be home around ten. He didn’t pick up, which she thought might be just as well. His voice mail recording was enough to tempt her to shuck responsibility and run home to him. His actual voice might have pushed her over the edge.

Waiting for the glass to heat gave her mind time to wander over memories of the night before and the surprising way pizza could be sexy. Once she began glassblowing, though, thoughts of Drake receded. They still popped into her head in quiet moments, but hot glass forced focus, even if she was working on simple pieces. Despite occasional distraction, she managed to get quite a bit done. Two blue-and-green-swirl paperweights and six similarly swirled vases were cooling on her bench—along with several rather mangled attempts at turning a bit of leftover blue-and-green glass into knotwork—by the time Jen headed home. She was humming to herself as she pedaled, glad it wasn’t too late.

Except maybe it was by Drake’s standards. His car was in the driveway, but the only light she saw was one she’d left on in her own living room. Damn! She knew he was a morning person, but she hadn’t thought it was all that late. Quiet as a moth, she flitted up the back stairs and into her apartment.

The back stairs led to the kitchen, where she dropped her pack on the counter and headed to the living room.

Where she jumped like a startled cat and stifled a scream.

Chapter Fourteen

Drake was draped across her velvet wing chair, clutching a cup of coffee and looking cranky but good enough to eat. He was still wearing the khaki pants and leather shoes he must have worn to the university, but he was shirtless, his sculpted torso a benediction. He managed to look perfectly groomed even this late, like he used precision engineering to trim his beard and mustache. Of course his hair was short enough it always looked neat. “You need a couch,” he said drily. “And a keeper.”

“How did you… Never mind, it’s your house. You must have a key.”

“You didn’t lock the doors. Ithaca may not be Manhattan, but that’s still not a good idea.” Drake shook his head. Jen considered a rude retort but was too distracted by watching him shift from his sprawl across the chair arm into an upright position. His coffee didn’t even waver.

Damn the man. She wanted to be mad at him for his insolence, barging into her apartment and lying in wait for her. She
was
mad at him, or at least annoyed. But watching the grace and strength he showed in an awkward shift of position defused her ability to work up a good head of wrath and pushed her in a more steamy direction.

“My hands were full with orders I needed to ship out. I couldn’t risk dropping the packages. And what business is it of yours anyway?” There, she was getting her mad on properly. She could manage it as long as she didn’t look at him.

And if she didn’t let herself consider that maybe he had a point.

“I could be all rational and mention that a burglar could also break in to the rest of the house once he just waltzed in here.” He leaned forward, set the coffee cup on the floor and clasped his hands together—as if, Jen thought, he was trying to avoid wringing her neck. “But that’s not the point. The point is some random criminal could have been waiting in your living room as easily as I was. I’d have heard a struggle and come to help, but in the time it took to get to you, you might have been hurt.”

“Point. I was hurrying and careless. And I never think about someone wanting to rob me. Most of my stuff isn’t worth stealing.”

He looked around the room at the bits of artwork Jen had had time to put out. “But I bet some of your artwork is unique.”

“True. I doubt most thieves would know, but it’s all irreplaceable, and some of it’s worth money to people who know contemporary art.” She gestured at the wall behind Drake’s head. “The artist painted it for me when she taught me in college. She has work at MassMOCA now.” She added at Drake’s puzzled look, “It’s an art museum in the Berkshires. It’s a big deal to have work there.”

“So it’s worth more than the house?”

“Nowhere near. But I’ve seen her work selling for several thousand dollars.”

“And I bet you don’t have renter’s insurance.”

“Yeah, right. If I had money to bet against myself, I’d get better health insurance first.”

“Bet against yourself?”

“That’s what my father calls insurance—betting against yourself.”

Drake looked like he had all sorts of things he wanted to say. Instead, he just sighed. He looked older and responsible and very, very serious.

But still hot as hell. Damn him.

“Okay, we’ve covered how you got in, and why it bugged you that you could. I even agree. Thanks for reminding me.” She was having trouble staying indignant. He was right about locking the door, and she couldn’t be mad at him for worrying. And after all, it was his house and they were sleeping together, which blurred the privacy issue in some weird ways. “Let’s get to why you’re here, other than to remind me to lock the door. I’s creepy to come home and find you in here like you were lying in wait for me.”

Drake smiled for the first time since she’d come home. “I
was
lying in wait for you. Or would have been if you had a couch. As it was, I was sitting in wait. Either way, I planned to pounce when you got here.” He wiggled his butt in the chair like a stalking cat, sprang from his seat and snatched her into his arms. “Gotcha!”

She chuckled at the pounce. While she chuckled, his lips met hers, and she melted.

Drake’s hands skimmed over her body, stirring up memories and fantasies. He cupped her breasts, brushed her nipples, traced her sides down to her butt and back up the front of her body, just grazing her crotch. Over and over again he did that, while he kissed her. But when she ventured to touch him, he sternly said, “Not until I tell you to.” Then he went back to the slow, sensual caressing, just as methodical as before and, Jen thought, even more tantalizing. Jen stifled an “Oh God,” half curse and half prayer, in Drake’s mouth and kept her hands in safe places—one on the small of Drake’s back, the other near his shoulder—by sheer force of will. He was driving her crazy with the deep kissing and the slow tease, fanning small, bright flames of need to life.

Not being able to touch him made it even worse. She couldn’t get enough of his body, but Drake was stingy about sharing it.

He’d proven the value of patience to her. Maybe he believed in it for himself as well.

The cool blue voice of reason didn’t do much to cool her down, not with the way his kisses were so deep she thought she could be lost in them forever. Not with the way her hands were restricted to innocent areas and every time she tried to move them someplace more intimate, he whispered a firm, “No,” and slowed his teasing even more.