Page 85 of Painting Celia

“Male aggression,” she deadpanned. “Kissing her when she couldn’t stop you.”

His eyes got that roguish look again, and before she knew it, he had pulled his feet onto the couch and climbed toward her on all fours. Did he never run out of energy? In seconds he was straddling her, leaning close, pinning her under him. She took one quick shaky breath, looking up at him eagerly. He lowered himself until his lips were inches from hers.

“You like a little aggression, though, don’t you?” he asked, confident of her answer.

He wasn’t wrong. She did like it. She worried that she shouldn’t, but every time he got masterful, she felt a deep thrill.

He bent his head and kissed her hard, pressing her into the cushion, one hand coming up to roughly grasp her shoulder where it met her neck. She brought her hands up to his chest but was too confined to reach further.

“Celia,” he said against her cheek, breathing hard. “You’re mine.”

She froze. This again.

“Say it for me,” he growled low, running his hand up her neck.

She stayed silent too long. He withdrew a little to look at her. The moment stretched out, him waiting and her refusing to say the words. Finally, he closed his eyes.

“Celia, what do you want?” He shook his head. “I can’t just guess. You have to at least react.”

She looked down, her chest still rising and falling too fast. “I don’t want to react,” she finally said quietly.

He slowly sat back onto her thighs, creating space between them. Frustration was written across him. “You have to, though,” he said. “Honesty, remember?”

He presumed her wants mirrored his. How could she say he would never own her, that it was too far?

“I need to know if you like it,” he continued, apprehension growing on his face the longer she went without speaking. “Especially if I’m being a little rough, you have to respond. Tell me, touch me back.”

Comprehension struck. He just meant reacting when he touched her! Well. She could do better at that.

He swallowed roughly. “You could touch me first, even,” he said. “I’d like that. Do you…ever want to?”

Had she really never reached out to him first? She saw worry etching deeper into his face. Why—

Good lord! He was insecure! Arrogant, entitled León, always acting so sure of himself. He was uncertain, just like her.

Relief flooded her. She might not have León’s skills or talent, but this she could fix. Celia had spent her life making others feel important. Reassuring León would be easy now that she knew.

She reached for a fistful of his T-shirt, pulling. His eyebrows rose sharply.

“I do like this, León.”

She gazed up at him through her lashes, then leaned forward to kiss him. His face when she finished radiated satisfaction.

“I like you, León.”

He nearly purred as he melted down onto her.

•••

With two days to go until the exhibition, León was forced to make tough decisions about what was finished enough to show.

“There was no way I could get them all done,” he said, “but dammit, they’re done in my head. I wish there was more time.”

“There will be other shows.”

“I know. It’s just so exciting. I want everyone to see. I want to see everyone see.”

Celia hovered as he chose and re-chose which paintings to include. The deadline to deliver them was the next day. He finally settled on the purple, the yellow, and the blue. She helped him package them for transport using the supplies she’d ordered.

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