One Hot Secret by Sarah J. Brooks

Chapter 5

Grace

I look out the living room window that faces the street. A few minutes after Jack leaves my apartment, I see him stride out of the building. He has his hands deep in his pockets as he looks up and down the street. To my surprise, he turns to the right and walks down the street. I watch him until he disappears from view. I’d assumed he was taking an Uber home. Maybe he asked a friend to pick him up.

In the kitchen, I rinse our coffee cups while I muse over an unexpectedly erotic night. The words Jack whispered to me in the night replay in my mind, and I blush. I may look worldly, but I’m not, and my adopted parents fairly sheltered me.

I read widely, and I’m aware of what lovers say to each other in bed, but the theory is one thing and the practical application of it, another. A sense of insecurity rears its ugly head. I feel like a boat that has been cast adrift at sea. Directionless.

I know the reason for it. Everything was fine with Jack until this morning. He looked ill at ease and in a crazy rush as if he couldn’t wait to leave. I feel as if I know no more about him than I did yesterday. He’s outgoing and fun to be with, but he keeps a lot to himself now that I think about it. I don’t know what he did before he came to the station, neither do I know where he lives. I don’t even know what he thinks about the night we spent together. I have a feeling that he won’t call, and I’m bracing myself for that disappointment, but it’s comforting to know that I’ll see him tomorrow at work.

The thought of facing him at work tomorrow morning makes goosebumps break out on my skin. Will he pretend that nothing happened between us and ignore me completely? Nausea rises up my throat. Thinking about what will happen now, it doesn’t seem as if it was a good idea to have sex with Jack. I need a distraction desperately. I go to my bedroom, make the bed, and take a quick shower.

Memories of Jack are everywhere. I had so many firsts with him. First time to have a one-night stand, which I hope will culminate in another one and another one. I’ve never showered with anyone before either. At the memory, my body heats up, and a sudden ache comes over me. I try to ignore it, but it grows exponentially by the second. My body demands to be touched. I palm my nipples and imagine that it’s Jack’s massive hands on me. I let out a sigh as my imagination takes over, and as far as I’m concerned, Jack is right there in the shower with me.

He drops to his knees. “Spread your legs for me,” he says.

I spread my legs, and he circles my clit with his fingers. I let out a cry when he swipes his tongue along my slit. Then he pushes a finger in and pumps it in and out in a steady rhythm, each time pressing the heel of his hand on my clit.

“Faster,” I murmur, and he adds a second finger and increases the speed of his thrusts.

Moments later, I come with a loud cry, Jack’s name falling easily from my lips. Only when it’s over do I appreciate and curse the power of my imagination. In my mind’s eye, he was in the shower with me. I’m mildly disappointed but also relieved that the terrible ache between my legs is gone. I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and over them, the overalls I use when I’m painting. I head to what was once a guest bedroom but is now my art studio.

The light is perfect in the curtain-less room, and I ignore my work in progress and put up a fresh canvas. My subject comes easily, and so does the outline of his face as I sketch it onto the canvas, with light charcoal and a pencil. I find myself smiling as I remember the details of Jack’s face.

As it often happens when I’m painting, I lose all sense of time and place. I have no idea how many hours passed when I hear a jarring sound. I look up in confusion until reality dawns on my brain. I’m in my art studio, and the noise I just heard is the doorbell.

I frown as I leave the studio and make my way to the door. As I walk past the living room, I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s two in the afternoon. Time just flew by. It’s probably Isla who tried calling me, and when she couldn’t get hold of me, decided to come over. It’s not the first time she’s done that.

I fling the door open with a smile that freezes on my mouth when I see Jack standing there. The first thing I do is glance down at my attire in dismay. Paint is splashed over the front of my overalls, and I’m sure my face is the same.

“Thought you might be hungry. I tried calling, but your phone went to voice mail,” he says in that deep drawly voice that makes me want to melt into his arms.

I notice the brown bag he's holding and the delicious smells it’s emitting. My stomach growls loudly.

“Sorry, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” I can’t stop thinking about how I look. “I’m a mess. Come in.” I step to one side to give him space to pass.

He towers over me and stops to peer down at my face. “You look adorable. Is that paint on your nose?”

He flicks it with his finger, leaving my skin burning where he touched it. It reminds me that I masturbated to him that morning. My face heats up with embarrassment even though he can’t read my thoughts.

“Were you painting?”

I nod. “It’s a hobby.”

“Great, can I see what you were working on?” Jack says enthusiastically.

“Sure.”

He places the bags on the living room coffee table and then follows me down the hallway. I remember too late that he was my subject that morning. The nearly finished painting sits on the easel, Jack’s penetrating blue eyes staring straight at us.

Jack steps into the room and goes directly to the painting propped up on the easel. He doesn’t say a word as he stares into it. “Did you paint this?”

I nod before realizing that he can’t see me. “Yes,” I squeak and follow it up by clearing my throat to cover up my nervousness. The only person who has seen my paintings is Isla, and even then, it was a long time ago.

“You are so gifted.” He can’t fake the awe in his voice. He steps closer to the painting. “Look at the detail in the eyes.” His voice is almost a whisper as he studies it for what seems like forever and then walks around the room looking at the other paintings propped up on the walls. They are landscapes and portraits. My skin is dripping sweat, and it’s not from the heat. When he reaches the end, Jack turns to face me with his hands on his hips. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Are your paintings sold in a gallery somewhere?”

“No, not yet. I’m not ready for that. I have a lot to learn still.” That’s my standard response when anyone suggests I show my work.

He turns around to look at his painting again. Pride envelops me. It could be my best work. It came out of me with seemingly no effort on my part. Not that it’s without faults. I see Jack’s eyes look a bit off, but it adds a mysterious quality to him.

“Bullshit. I’ve bought works of art over the years, and I can tell you that yours are up there with the best of them. As a matter of fact, I’d like to purchase that one.” He walks around and points at two others. Both landscapes. “And these.”

My heart pounds crazily in my chest. I’ve never sold a painting.

“How much are they?” Jack says.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ve never sold one.”

“I’ll take them.” He drops a price that stops my breath.

I’m horrified. “You can’t buy them for that amount. It’s too expensive.”

“They are worth a lot more than that, I assure you,” Jack says. “It’s a bargain, and years from now, I won’t be able to afford your work. I’ll have the honor of saying that I bought your first works.”

I swallow down the next question, which is whether he can afford that amount of money. A nervous laugh escapes my mouth. Then feelings of exhilaration come over me.

I just sold my first paintings!

“Let’s go and eat before the food goes cold,” Jack says and leads the way out of the studio.

I excuse myself to wash my face and hands, and then I join him in the kitchen. I take out plates while Jack unpacks the food.

“I got both Chinese and Mexican food and figured you had to like at least one of them,” he says.

I stare at the amount of food on the table. It’s too much for two people. It can feed a whole family. It’s extravagant of Jack to spend so much on food that we won’t come close to finishing.

“That’s a lot of food.”

“You can pack the leftovers for tomorrow,” he says.

I don’t bother pointing out that we’ll both be at work the following day. We settle down at the kitchen table to eat. I pile both types of food onto my plate and start to eat, making appreciative noises.

Jack grins. “A woman after my own heart. I love to see a woman who can eat.”

“I’m a firefighter. I have to eat to keep up with the physical demands on my body,” I tell him. “Plus, I love food.”

He laughs.

“When did you start painting?” he asks, peering at me as though seeing me for the first time.

I think about his question for a few moments before answering. “I’ve never not painted,” I say to him. “But I guess I became more serious when I was about ten years old.”

When I moved in with my adopted parents, they took me to see a therapist who was big on having her patients use art to express their feelings. I don’t tell Jack this part as it will bring up a host of other questions that I can’t answer. I vowed to bury my past, and I’ve managed to do just that. Apart from my adopted parents, no one else knows my real parents. Isla knows that I’m adopted, but that’s about all.

“No wonder you’re so good,” he says. “Why is your work not displayed in a gallery and being sold for crazy expensive prices?”

I laugh at that. “I’m flattered that you think my paintings are worthy of being displayed in a gallery.”

“One of my closest friends owns a gallery. If you like, I can hook you up with him.”

My pulse races, and I look at Jack as if he’s lost his mind. “No! Please no.” Panic grips my throat.

“Hey, relax,” Jack says quickly. “It was just a suggestion.”

Relief floods me, and it dawns on me that my reaction might have been a bit on the extreme side. I plaster a smile on my face. “I’m grateful for the offer, but I’m not ready for that.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you say is fine with me.”