Ohhh.
Clay grabs my hips with one hand and sinks inside.
My body stretches to fit him, the feel of it making me gasp.
We’re reflected in a mirror on the other side of the room, his incredible ass flexing as he sinks into me with a relentless rhythm.
We move together, me gripping the windowsill with one hand and him with the other. There’s a good chance I’m about to fall into the garden.
It’d be worth it.
“I’m close,” I whisper.
His face is pressed close, his dark eyes bright with hunger and need.
“You’re so sexy when you come,” he rasps against my mouth. “So fucking hot, the way you trust me.”
Does he mean physically?
I don’t think so.
At least, not only.
I squeeze and I’m lost.
Pleasure crashes into me like a riot of colors and textures playing together in unexpected and gorgeous ways.
Clay groans as he stiffens inside me. In the mirror, every muscle in his back and ass and legs clenches as he comes. He’s art, a damned renaissance sculpture, only he’s filthy and real.
When we come down, I realize we’ve made it to the floor. He’s under me, protecting me from the wood.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair.
I don’t think he means for the blowjob.
His fingers thread into my hair, brushing it away from my sweaty face. There’s so much tenderness on his expression.
“Think the house is sturdy enough?” I ask.
“Might do the trick.”
His slow grin makes my heart skip.
“I haven’t even told you about the daisies.”
The next two weeks pass in a blur.
The house came furnished, but I’ve been setting up our belongings and ordering things we need.
Clay had most of his things shipped from Denver.
I buy some new art supplies using my money from the mural and arrange the ones he got me in the room we decided would be my studio.
Plus, I paint the entire house. He said we could hire someone, but having a roller or brush in my hand makes me feel more myself.
At Clay’s first home game in LA, I’m introduced to a couple of other wives and girlfriends. They’re nice, but they remind me of the Kodashians back in Denver—only more tanned with sleek waist-length hair, body-skimming outfits, and heels so high I’d need an insurance policy to wear them.
The team gets a win, but there’s not the same excitement within the team as when Denver wins. It feels more like an expectation coming to reality.
Or maybe the chemistry isn’t there with LA.
Yet.
It’s not there yet.
The next afternoon, I take a break from painting to turn on the TV. I’ve just watched a few minutes of Denver playing Boston out East when Clay comes in the front door.
“The place looks good,” he comments, crossing to the couch and dropping a kiss on my head.
“Yeah? I was thinking I should work on the gardens next. They need more color. Which reminds me. I need to get my hair done.” I found a few places to freshen up my pink strands.
Clay reaches for his gym bag and pulls out an envelope.
“What’s that?” I ask as he passes it over. I rip it open to find a black credit card with my name on it.
“I have a credit card.”
“Yeah, but this is on my account. Don’t argue,” he starts before I can.
“You might regret this. When was the last time you gave a woman access to your bank account?” I tease.
“Never.” The seriousness on his face makes my chest squeeze.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “I’ll try to resist pulling a Julia Roberts and buying up Rodeo Drive.”
“If it makes you smile, I want you to.”
Gahhhh.
He glances toward the TV and does a double take. “Why’re you watching that?”
“I wanted to see how our friends are doing,” I say as he sits next to me, making the massive couch sink under his weight.
On the screen, Denver is scrapping intently. Jay and Rookie, Miles and Atlas, plus a new guy who came as part of the trade with LA.
“Rookie’s gotten to the free throw line three times since I turned the TV on, and he made all of them.”
“Oh yeah?” I hear the humor in Clay’s voice as his lips brush my ear.
I smile too. “Mhmm. And Miles has been good from three. Jay’s still trying to figure out schemes with the new guy.”
“I see.” Clay reaches an arm around my waist absently. “You think you know everything about basketball?”
“Some things,” I agree, and he chuckles. “It feels weird, watching them from a distance. When was the last time you talked to the guys?”
“The gala.”
My mouth falls open. “You haven’t talked to any of them? Even by text?”
He shakes his head and heads toward our room. “At the end of the day, it’s business.”
He’s away on the East Coast for two games when I call Mari.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m still craving cheese. I blame it on the baby.”
I laugh.
“I have sono pics. Want to see?”
My mouth falls open. “Of course!”
It takes a minute for my phone to buzz, and I hurry to click into the black-and-white image.
“Oh my God. The baby is perfect.”
She snorts. “It’s a bean. You can’t see anything yet.”
“No, I totally can. It’s got a huge brain. And an even bigger heart,” I insist as she laughs. “And everyone will love them so much.”
Mar’s quiet for a minute but finally sighs. “I hope so. How are things for you and Clay?”
“We’re figuring it out. I’d never say it to Clay, but I miss Denver.”
At night after the games, Clay calls and we talk for an hour. I ask him about each game, but he steers the conversation to what I’m doing, or the city he’s in, or how the house is. We end up having phone sex, and I fall asleep in the California king bed, my body humming from the long-distance orgasm and ocean of space beside me.
During the days, I’ve been painting in my growing studio. I got so used to painting the mural every day that it feels strange not to have that be my focus.
The money from the commission is sitting in my account, but there’s been limited interest since the gala. If I want to make a career at this, I need to keep working.
On a morning walk, a billboard for a modern dance performance stopped me in my tracks. I went to see it by myself that afternoon and was swept up in the artistry of it.
Over the next three days, I paint the dancer. I pull from my memory and from supplemental images I find online. As the sunlight streams into my studio, I draw and paint, and my heart feels full in a way it hasn’t since coming to LA.
Brooke comes to visit for a weekend while Clay is on the road, and we go for dinner and shopping and to Huntington Beach and to see a show.
As we head out of the theater, I say, “Can I ask you about your brother?”
“Miss Denver enough you want to date him instead?” she replies dryly.
I laugh. “No, I mean about what happened when Clay left. I didn’t expect it to cause such a rift. Clay says it’s only business, but I don’t believe that.”