Stain (19 page)

Chapter 21

Aylee

Later, we’re in his apartment. Leaving the library had been one of the most embarrassing things I’d ever had to do. The instant Maddox and I came down from the stacks, I immediately knew that everyone below had heard my scream of pleasure. While Maddox waited for me outside the library, I hastily packed my things and with an extremely red face, said goodbye to my study group. Just before we left school, Maddox asked if I was able to paint anywhere. With the simplest reply that I could muster, he helped me lug my supplies to his truck and drove us to his apartment. We’ve been working on the painting for the last two and a half hours. We’re taking a small break before getting back to it.

While I wait for him to come back from the bathroom, I sit on a chair in front of my easel, staring at his likeness emblazoned across the canvas. It’s not nearly as close to the real thing, and I’m starting to realize it never will be. Maddox Moore is too much of a force to be captured in a medium. But what I have is turning out to be one of the best renditions of him I’ve ever done. He’s in there in slashing brush strokes. Crimson red and white, and then there’s the negative space in the shadows that creates the illusion of destruction. He’s a god in my painting.

Ares
.

Fearsome. Insatiable. Dangerous.

“Magnificent,” I murmur in a daze as he walks within my line of sight. My mouth goes dry as I stupidly stare at him.
He should be modeling
, I think inanely. Underwear, jeans, skin maybe? It doesn’t matter so long as the option of much clothing is denied to him.

Only Maddox can turn a walk into a statement of sexual rebellion. Barefoot, and with a bare chest, he struts around his apartment with dark-rinsed blue jeans that hang low on his hips. Too low. He has his hair up in a ponytail, making his high cheekbones more pronounce, his stare more intense. I flush and duck my head when we lock eyes. The way he looks at me with such unrepentant thoroughness has me going up in flames. The scene in the library crashes on me like a monsoon. God, all the ways I let his glorious mouth and tongue feast on me. Thinking of it even now, hours later, and my body still tingles. It felt amazing because I wanted his touch. I still do.

“Say something?”

I hear his throaty chuckle. Shaking my head, I mutter, “No.”

“You hungry?”

He heads to the kitchen and I hear pots banging. Raising one knee up on the chair, I nod before setting my chin on it. “You cook?” I ask with a smile.

He grins wryly. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

“A little, yes.”

“I’m no culinary chef, but I’ve learned to make some pretty good stuff.” He gathers ingredients from the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer while he’s at it. “My mom…she was a great cook.”

Intrigued by the chance to learn even more about him, I ask, “Did she teach you?” I pray the question doesn’t cause him to retreat.

He takes a long swig from the bottle and then, “When she could.” He shrugs, setting his beer down on the counter to grab a butcher knife from the drawer beside where he’s standing. “It was one of the only things that made her really happy. She wasn’t happy a lot of the time. But when she was cooking…yeah, she came alive for a little bit.” There’s so much emotion in his voice, so much pain when he talks about her, even from here I can feel it.

I’m on my feet and at his side in seconds. I say nothing because sometimes silence is so much more profound than words. I simply rise on my toes to gently kiss his cheek before setting my head on his arm. And he lets me. We stay this way for a span of a small eternity. I stand as his crutch, letting him know I’m here for him, to give him whatever it is he may need. My reward, the only indication that he accepts my silent support and comfort is when he swings his arm around my shoulder. He gathers me close where I fit up against him so perfectly it astonishes me. Guiding my head to his chest, his one arm still firmly wrapping around my shoulders, he encircles my waist with the other and places the sweetest kiss on my head. My eyes fall shut and I sigh softly.
Nothing and no one can take away this bliss from me.

We fall into a rhythm. He cooks while I chop and dice the ingredients he needs. It’s so natural the way we move around each other, so much so that it feels like we’ve been doing this for ages. He takes every opportunity to touch me, to kiss me. I feel wanted. And the happiest I’ve ever been. He stands behind me now, nuzzling my neck, rotating his hips so that I feel the thickness of his bulge between the crease of my buttocks. I moan, instinctively thrusting my hips back as I nearly chop my finger off.

“Careful, Aylee,” he tsks, taking the knife from my hands and setting it far away from me. “I like these fingers.” He breathes against my ear, and taking my hand, he brings my fingers to his lips and takes my index finger into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it and I quiver.

God, the things he does to me.

Releasing my finger, he takes my chin and turns my head up to gain access to my mouth. I taste the beer he just had. I taste the dark potency of his desire.
I taste him
. It’s a heady flavor that lingers on my tongue and coats my taste buds. He pulls away and leaves me breathless. Twitchy. In desperate need of something I can’t quite name. But it’s there, I know it, it’s just simply out of my reach. Like an itch you can’t scratch.

The food, stir-fry chicken with vegetables and a side of white rice, though delicious does very little to satisfy the itch. I’m on edge and I don’t know why, but with every breath-stealing kiss from his lips, I grow anxious.

“So how do you want me?” he asks when we’re done eating.

Naked and on top of me.

Heat explodes in my cheeks and I blink at him, mortified that I might’ve just said that out loud. Relief washes over me when he simply stares back with a slight lift of his right brow. “Um…just how you were sitting on the futon.”

The unexpected chime of my phone has me running to my backpack. I’m so grateful for the save. I find it in the outside pocket and stare down at the screen. It’s the alarm reminder showing me I have group therapy in ten minutes.

Honestly, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just thinking I won’t go. Not only do I need to finish the painting, but everything in me is fighting the idea of losing my time with Maddox. God, I’m not nearly ready for this day to end. I’m willing to do just about anything to prolong it.

Rising from my kneeling position on the floor, I turn to him. “I need to make a phone call.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You good?”

I nod, running a hand through my hair. “I just need to let my mom know where I am.”

“You need me to drop you off?”

“No!” It comes out too quick, a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of leaving him. “No, I won’t be long. Just need some privacy.”

He stares narrowly as me for a few long seconds before pointing to one of the rooms behind me. “There’s not much space for privacy, but you can use my room. Second door on the left.”

“Thank you.” And I walk away in a rush before I say anything more to embarrass myself.

When I enter his bedroom, I mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to do. I chew nervously on my lower lip as I bring my phone to my ear.

Three rings and then, “Hi, sweetheart, I’ll be there to pick you up—”

“Actually, Mom, Mallory’s going to pick me up. She’s been having a really tough time at home so she asked if I could spend the night.”

I’m holding my breath throughout the long, pregnant pause that follows. Anxiety has my heart racing and my palms sweating. I’m sure she knows I’m lying. “I don’t know, Aylee…your father…”

“Please, Mom? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. She just really needs me right now.” It’s astonishing how externally calm I am. There’s not even the slightest quiver in my voice to give me away.

But I’m crossing everything. Fingers, toes, and my eyes, for good measure.

A long, heavy sigh and then, “All right, I understand, and you’re a good friend for wanting to help that girl.” I notice how she says
that
girl. There’s an edge to it. It’s nothing new however, considering she’s never been overly fond of Mallory. Not a lot of people are. “Aylee, this has to be the last time in a long while, okay? We don’t want to make your father too angry.” No. We wouldn’t want that. The thought produces a bitter sludge of anger in my throat.

“Just tonight.”

The lies are easy to believe because to her I never lie. I’m good girl Aylee. Reserved, spineless, and so easily malleable.

“Okay, I love you. Be good.” Like I know how to be anything else. But then I’m learning, aren’t I? If this is what being bad feels like then I gladly relinquish my good girl badge right here and now and claim my bad girl crown.

I send a quick text to Mallory so she’ll cover for me, and instantlyreceive a message saying
:
That’s fine. But I hope you know what you’re doing
.
I don’t bother to reply. I’m not so bold as to invite myself to spend the night with Maddox, and have every intention of asking him to drop me off at Mallory’s, just…later. Much later.

As I look around, it suddenly dawns on me exactly where I am. I don’t know why it thrills me so much to be in his bedroom, but it does. A bed, dresser, and closet to the left sum up the things in the small space. But everything here is his. He’s touched it, worn it, rolled in it, and slept on it. Maddox is everywhere in this room. Taking a seat on his bed, I tentatively grab the sweater strewn on the edge. Bringing it to my face, I inhale deeply, soaking my senses in the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Like an addict overcome with her drug of choice, my eyes droop shut as I fall back on his bed in sweet, sweet delirium.

Eventually I make my way back to the living room. I’m a little lightheaded and giddy, as if I have alcohol swimming through my veins. But I’m only assuming this is what being drunk feels like, considering I’ve never had any alcoholic drinks before. I find him by the partially opened window near the kitchen; he’s on the phone, in motion, pacing back and forth in an unhurried gait. I
n
three–fourths profile, the sun dies beautifully behind him, and as though even
it
can’t resist Maddox, it stretches out brilliant rays of dimming sunlight just to touch the young god in a mortal body. He really is too beautiful for words. Rushing to my canvas, I pick up my brush and palette and jump into action with instant inspiration. It’s a moment that needs to be captured.

When he’s done with his call, he pockets his phone and heads my way. “Be right back, need to check something.”

With a frown, I ask, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. “Work.” It’s a terse response; he doesn’t see the need to elaborate further as he walks away. My eyes trail after him until he disappears in his bedroom.

With every minute he’s away, I grow tenser. Worrying the corner of my lip, I wonder if I’m overstaying my welcome. Am I making a mistake by inviting myself to stay here longer than he wants? I abruptly come to my feet. I head to his kitchen to clean my supplies. If he intends on kicking me out, I want to at least be prepared. Tucking my palette in the large inside pocket of my canvas bag, I grab my damp brushes from where I set them on the floor next to me and put them in as well. All this takes approximately five minutes and in that time frame I’m trying not to picture what he’ll say when he comes out of his bedroom. I don’t want to go. How big of a fool will I be if I blurt that out to him? Or worse, beg him to stay. Beg him to keep me here for as long as I want. Am I that shameless?

Reclaiming my seat on the fold-out chair in the middle of the living room, I cross my legs as it suddenly dawns on me that yes, I am that shameless. I would do all those things. Beg him to stay. Beg him to keep me for himself in this apartment. And that scares me more than anything. I scare myself when it comes to this guy. All the things I’m willing to do with him, for him, they’re limitless. He
makes
me feel limitless. With him I’m experiencing emotions I’ve never felt before and they’re all as exhilarating as they are frightening.

He moves so silently I barely hear him until it’s too late. From behind me, he cups my jaw and tilts my head back far enough that I have no choice but to look at his face. He wears his mask of impassiveness but in his fierce, gray eyes I see everything he cannot outwardly show. It’s rampant emotions head by barely bridling passion that instantly ignites a searing blaze inside me. He languidly traces his thumb across my bottom lip, a tender gesture I note he reserves just for me, tugging it gently down to expose my mouth. “Beautiful lips,” he remarks in a rough, throaty murmur.

He bends down, eclipsing everything. He’s all I see. All I
want
to see. There’s no gentle coaxing when he spears between my parted lips to invade my mouth with a warm tongue that entangles with mine. He kisses me long and he kisses me slow, each time dipping in for more, and my body’s temperature spikes to such a degree I can no longer ignore how damp my panties have become. “How far do you want me to take this?” He respires against my lips and tingles run freely throughout my entire body. He’s asking for my permission.

I want to respond to what he just said but how can I when he does things like this? The simple process of thought completely escapes me as I watch the slow trail of his tattooed hand slide down my chest. He’s wearing a watch, I note inanely, a large black-on-black skeleton watch that only seems to heighten the sensuality of what he’s doing. It’s a warm, rough palm gliding along fever-hot skin, and my breath hitches when he dips inside my shirt and cups a hand between my breasts. With his index finger near my right nipple, he slips beneath my bra and teasingly swipes over the hardened bud until I squirm. And my back bows as I thrust my chest into his hand. Wanting more of the friction.