Page 77 of Painting Celia

“Don’t you need purple light to paint this?” she asked. She couldn’t watch him covertly in this position, but it wouldn’t stop her from trying to learn.

“No, this one’s more abstract. I need your lines but can supply the colors myself.”

She could hear the tinkling sound of him cleaning his brush.

“Although,” he said, “it’s a little hard from memory.”

The tinkling stopped.

“Celia.” León cleared his throat, so she looked over, breaking the pose. “I said it’s a little hard from memory.”

He glanced down, his loose pants doing nothing to hide a clear outline. She snorted, body shaking with suppressed laughter.

When she looked up next, León stood next to her, smug and delighted.

“Definitely time for a break,” he said. “Are you sore?”

She nodded, rising to stretch and flex to relieve her joints. He moved behind her to rub her shoulders. She closed her eyes, savoring the new feel of his hands on her skin. As he placed a kiss on the back of her neck, she forgot about the soreness. She’d put up with pain if this was the reward.

“I can work alone for a bit,” he said. “Do you want to go cook? Swim? Just relax?”

Well. His consideration for her was sweet. She’d follow his lead.

“I could cook if you really don’t need me.”

“Go on,” he said, planting another gentle kiss on her shoulder. She turned to meet his eyes, loathe to go, but their friends were coming. She’d have to serve something.

She made a fresh corn salad, put yesterday’s roast back in the oven to come to temperature before shredding, and started dried chilis and onion on a low boil to make a spicy sauce. It was all simple scratch cooking, only unique because she put in the time. Time was the one thing she had to offer.

Looking at the clock on the stove, though, she realized it was already late afternoon. Hours had flown by today, beyond her notice. Now, that was novel!

When she brought León more tea, he jumped at her entrance. “You walk so quietly!”

It had been a long time since someone had noticed that.

He sniffed at the open door. “What heaven did you make?” he asked, astonished. It was beyond gratifying.

“Pork and chilis.”

“When?” He set down his tea untouched, then covered his paints. “Here, I’ll wrap up and we can go to the kitchen.” He stepped aside so she could see the painting. “What do you think?”

It was in the same style as the blue painting, with angles and shapes created by layering colors on top of each other. A figure stretched out like a leaping greyhound, attenuated, shadowy. Untouchable, like a ghost. It felt…sad, but not.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I was just turning off a lamp, but this is so graceful.”

“It’s all you, Celia. The part of you I can’t touch yet.” He covered his brushes, reached for her, and brought her in for another kiss. “I like the parts of you I can touch. When are they coming?” His hands roamed over her back, igniting that slow fire again.

“Soon. It’s after five. They’re probably already on their way.”

“Where did the time go?” He began kissing her neck, and she trembled at the intimate touches of his lips.

The loose shift dress she’d put on to cook in did nothing to keep his hands from roaming every curve. They started at her hips, then roved around to her backside, pulling her to him. She could just catch the words he growled against her neck.

“Mi cielo, come here.”

She was more than ready for him, reaching to tickle her fingers up into his hair. It was pulled back into a bun she’d been dying all day to see loosened. She felt him shiver as she pulled the tie free, and his teeth grazed sharply at her neck where it met her shoulder. Before she knew it, he was moving at her, walking her backward, pushing her softly up against the wall.

One of his hands grabbed her wrist, pulling it down from his hair and kissing her fingers. His other lifted to her breast, cupping it roughly through the fabric. “Mi musa,” he growled, his eyes on hers for just a moment before he bent to her neck again. She felt a deep thrill at his demanding tone. It felt good to be wanted so insistently.

---