Beneath the Scars

At least that time, I’d done something good with my laptop.* * *His cheeks were red and cold when he came back. His eyes were calm and remorseful as he leaned in, touching his mouth to mine. He ran his finger over the blank journal in my hand. “Writing something?”

“No, I was looking at them. They’re so beautiful.”

“Not feeling inspired?”

“Not right now.”

“Some people use them to write out their feelings.” He looked down at the floor and hesitated before continuing. “Like if someone pisses them off or does something stupid, they write it out.”

“I’m not pissed with you.”

“You should be.”

“I’m…sad.”

“I made you sad?”

I was completely honest with him. “Yes, you did.”

“I’m sorry, Megan.”

“I know you are, but you need to stop and think sometimes.”

His shoulders bowed. “I know. I react to memories rather than what’s happening now.” He reached for my hand, his touch tentative. I wrapped both my hands around his, squeezing. “I’ll push you away one day, won’t I?”

“No. I won’t let you.”

He exhaled deeply, lifting our hands and kissing my fingers. “Promise?”

“Yes.”* * *It was warm in my little nest. The sun high in the sky, and the studio filled with light. Zachary had opened the windows and the breeze felt soothing on my skin as it drifted by. He was buried behind a canvas while the strains of sultry jazz played in the background. Every so often, his hand would wrap around the edge of the canvas as he stood close, etching some detail into his work. Other times, his arm would flash as he struck a jagged stroke on to his creation. I had often seen other artists working at street festivals or along the boardwalk when on vacation, standing in front of their canvas, silent and inert, but not Zachary. He was in constant motion as he worked, the odd muttered word escaping his mouth, and at times he’d hum or sing along with the music.

His singing voice was terrible.

I felt lazy today—I had since I woke up from my fractured sleep. In fact, for the past couple days, I had felt weary. I wasn’t sure if it was emotion, or if I was coming down with something, but when Zachary had come up here to work, I was happy to join him, knowing I’d nap for a few hours. Neither of us had slept very well last night, and for the first time since I returned from Boston, we didn’t make love after going to bed. He held me, but he had been restless most of the time, causing my own sleepless night. His quiet apology this morning was tinged with worry when he informed me I looked tired and questioned the reason, thinking I was still upset. I assured him I wasn’t, and he seemed relieved when I followed him up stairs and settled into my corner.

Movement caught my eye and I grinned as he lifted one foot and used his toes to scratch the top of his other foot. It was rare he stood still while painting, his bare feet hitting the planked floor in an uneven rhythm as he moved and shifted, stopping only for the briefest periods as he contemplated his work. I sunk deeper into the pillows, my eyes feeling heavy. I let my book fall to my chest and shut my eyes allowing the soft music, the sound of the brush hitting the canvas and Zachary’s awful tenor to lull me to sleep.

Warm lips ran over my throat, a soft tongue swirling on my skin. Groggy, I opened my eyes meeting the darkened gaze of Zachary as he loomed over me. Sliding my hand around his neck, I buried my fingers in his thick hair that curled around his shirt collar. “You have paint on your cheek,” I mumbled, my voice still thick from sleep.

“Azure blue,” he whispered, dropping gentle kisses to the side of my mouth. Grinning, he rubbed his cheek along mine. “Looks better on you.”

“You got paint on me.”

He sat back, dragging his shirt over his head. “Allow me.” With light touches, he wiped the paint off my cheek, following the linen with his mouth. “I’ll kiss it all better.”

“You missed a spot.”

His voice was husky. “Show me.”

I tugged his face closer, so close I could feel his breath wash over my face. “Here,” I whispered, flicking my tongue out and touching his bottom lip, trailing along the full flesh.

Groaning, he covered my mouth, slipping his tongue inside and kissing me. It was a kiss filled with tenderness and want. One that said “I’m sorry,” and “I’m here—I want you.” His taste filled my mouth, and the scent of him—musky, warm, citrusy—wrapped around me, enveloping my senses as he pressed us deep into the blankets and pillows. Heat surged through me at his touch, shooting down my arms and legs, warming my body. I needed him. I needed to feel him hard and moving inside me—claiming me, and making me his. I whimpered into his mouth as he touched me, delving under my clothes to feel how much I wanted him. Piece by piece, clothing disappeared, our mouths only separating for the briefest of moments before coming back together again. He caressed and teased with his hands and mouth while I arched under him wanting more—wanting closer. He crooned, whispering how much he wanted me, how beautiful I was, how good I felt to him as he slipped inside, rocking into me. I felt his love seeping into my skin as he thrust forward, my name falling from his lips, his rhythm slow and deep. He captured my restless hands, pinning them beside my head, staring down at me, his emotions naked and glaring. Everything I needed to know, every insecurity he tried to hide, blazed from his wide stare as he opened himself to me. I cried out as my orgasm hit me, exploding like glass shattering against stone. Thousands of shards tore through my bloodstream as Zachary gathered me to his chest, burying his head into my neck and groaning his release.