Page 75 of Painting Celia

“You will,” he breathed against her.

•••

The daybed could barely hold them both. León tried to keep his weight off her and, amid caresses and amused wriggling, they found a comfortable spot, entwined closely face to face. It suited him perfectly.

Her face, palely outlined by the watery light, lay inches from his. It was enough, bumping at her gently with his nose, kissing her sweet lips whenever he wanted. Fingers tracing any skin they could reach, they exchanged little nothings that sounded like everythings. His vision wasn’t needed here. Her voice could be silent. The whole dusky world was touch and response, wanting and granting.

“What is the word you called me?” she whispered as he teased at her hair with his free hand. “It sounded like my name, but not.”

“Mi cielo,” he murmured back. “It means ‘my sky’ or ‘my heaven.’ Celia, mi cielo. It fits.”

They exchanged their hundredth smiles. Just to feel her move quietly next to him was his heaven.

“Encantadora musa,” he said softly. When her brows lifted in question, he translated again. “You’re my charming muse.”

Her sigh was blissful. “Talk to me more,” she breathed. “In Spanish.” She ran her hand down his back to trace his hip, lovely eyes half closed and content.

She hadn’t pushed back. She really was his.

Fourteen

Celia heard León knock on her back door at dawn.

She’d gone to her own bed very late, alone, floating up the lawn in a euphoric haze. She couldn’t have told even León what she was feeling, her world a feast of jumbled indulgences.

She must have slept in the few hours before he knocked but couldn’t have sworn to it.

“You can just come in,” she said as she opened the door, feeling strangely shy.

His smile was intimate. “I didn’t want to presume.”

He then presumed, sliding arms around her waist and pulling her tight for a long kiss. Oh lord.

“The thing is,” he said quietly between kisses, “I want to get to work.”

She would do anything he wanted.

“I wondered, what if we use your craft room? It has the skylight, but you won’t be in direct sun.”

“Oh.” She dropped her eyes. “Yes, but…well, look.” She led him to the door, opening it so he could see the wild paint spatters for himself.

His froze, eyebrows raised. “What happened?”

“I got mad,” she said. “I need to clean it up, I guess.”

He laughed heartily. “Spontaneous expression in its rawest form. Good for you.”

The admiration that softened his voice surprised her. When he reached out to touch his fingertips to hers, she flushed at the gesture.

What a silly mess, Celia Rose.

“What?” León asked.

She blinked. Had she said that out loud? Oh no.

“Uh,” she stammered. “Well. My mother called me Celia Rose when I…got in trouble.” It was too early to overshare.

León put his arms around her waist, unconcerned. “Celia Rose,” he murmured, tilting his head to consider her. “That’s way too pretty to scold a girl with.”

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