The Unusual (Eye of the Beholder)

 

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CHAPTER ONE

The first time Lucy laid eyes on Desmond, she had been cross and cranky from hours of washing dogs and reeking of them. It did not stop her from literally staggering at the sight of him because he was that handsome. There were men who made you weak in the knees. Men who took you aback. Seeing Desmond for the first time felt like a hard punch to the gut.

The second time, Lucy was realizing as she stared wordlessly at his sketch of her then back at him, the effect was still as strong. The bedroom took up nearly the entire upper part of the loft yet now that Desmond was in it, it felt small and getting smaller. He stood right under the skylight, making his hair look like spun gold and his aquamarine eyes glow. The light loved him, touching reverently on the elegant, slim ridge of his nose, the faint afternoon stubble darkening the hard square of his jaw. His white t-shirt was frayed at the cuff of the right sleeve and it was now threadbare from age and many washings. His jeans had a well-worn look and the rips and snags by the sides of his thighs and on the left knee were real instead of something done on purpose. Lucy’s first impression of him was he had a lean figure. That was still the case. She just hadn’t noticed the hard bulges of muscles on his upper arms and the dark vein running down their long, firm length.

Their eyes met. His gaze was stunned and curious, hers, hurt and angry. Screwing her lips tight, she glared at the sketch then shoved it toward him. “What’s this?”

Desmond stared first at her then the sketch. His eyes seemed to glaze but it was a trick of light. He looked right back at her, steady and calm. His gaze washed over her like the gentle waves of the calm sea. It was all very mesmerizing and difficult not to submerge oneself in.“I told you I dreamed of you. What the hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” She demanded, flinging the sketch away. She was shaking and it gave her satisfaction seeing his eyes follow the fall of the paper. He sighed and picked it up, and held it protectively to his chest.

“I live here.” He stared at the logo of Clean Co. sewn on the left pocket of her t-shirt. “You clean?”

“Not anymore,” Lucy muttered, trying to walk past him. But Desmond blocked her way and she hissed, for he had done it so easily. His hands cupped her arms and she shook him away. He quickly held up his hands. Lucy stepped away. She was taller, but not much. He could look at her easily in the eyes without having to strain his neck or raise his chin. He knew they were beautiful but it felt like he learned the fact anew whenever he looked into them. He tried to adjust his expression into an open and slightly inquisitive one, not enough to make her stonewall him but enough so that she would listen.

“Let me explain.”

“Why?” She cried out. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what I look like but that doesn’t give you the right!”

Confused, Desmond demanded, “What the hell do you think you look like?”

For the first time since Royce Reid came on to her in his office, Lucy felt tears prick her eyes. A sob popped past her lips, startling and making her red with mortification. Again, she tried to walk past Desmond. Once again he held her by the shoulders.

As her body heaved from another loud sob it strained to control, he spoke gently. “Lucy. What do you think you look like?”

He said her name as if it was something sweet. No mocking, no judgment. No nothing. She blinked back at him and sighed. “Look, you have to let me go. I-I’m not comfortable.”

She hugged herself and looked away. She almost looked like a child. Her behavior was certainly like one, how a child would comfort herself, rock into herself and shut the whole world out. Desmond, concern in his face, opened his mouth to speak but the rapid, light footsteps going up the stairs alerted them of another presence. Lucy brushed a fist across her eyes as Mariet reached the top of the stairs. Desmond had his hands in his pockets when Lucy finally lowered her hand. Mariet looked at her then at him, confused. “What’s going on? I heard some pretty loud conversation.”

“I was just telling Desmond here that we’re done cleaning.”

“You mean Mr. Gorman?” Mariet asked, frowning at Desmond.

Now Lucy’s face scrunched tight. “Mr. Gorman?”

Desmond shrugged helplessly. “That’s me.”

Lucy’s head was spinning. Gorman. The named pinged and banged in her head like an out of control firework let loose in a confined space. Faces scrolled through her mind as if swiping through a touch screen. Voice hit her all at once. Then one stood out. Scratchy. Sarcastic. Amused. Then Arabella Thorne, smiling in that gentle, playful, mocking way of hers as she told Lucy about Desmond being quite an idiot but at least he was handsome. And quite talented with the paintbrush. She remembered that night, when she brought chicken dinner over and they watched the news of Desmond’s accident. Orissa had to leave suddenly before they could eat.

“Your brother is married to Orissa. She’s my neighbor’s granddaughter.”

“Arabella Thorne?”

She nodded.

Desmond let out a snorting sound, first looking at the ceiling and a rough chuckle issuing from his lips. Damn. Even the man’s throat was beautiful and golden as the rest of him. He really was gorgeous in a way that seemed both easy and impossible. She envied how easy it was for him with his effortless beauty. Then he lowered his head back down, first glancing at Mariet before his eyes rested on Lucy.

“Arabella told Orissa about Clean Co., who then recommended I hire them. Well, I guess the world really is that small.”

“Small as it is, time is still running and valuable. But I’m really not. . .comfortable, Mr. Gorman.” She stared pointedly at the paper he held. The distress was still on her face but there was a defiance in her eyes now. She turned to Mariet. “We should go.”

“Lucy, we’re not-“

“We’re done. Don’t worry.” Lucy assured her.

Mariet still looked unsure but nodded. This time Desmond didn’t stop her.

They quietly packed up their supplies, Mariet shooting Lucy questioning, furtive looks. Lucy put the keys on the counter and looked up. Desmond was descending the stairs.

“I don’t mean any harm by it, Lucy.”

She shook her head. “I’m a complete stranger. You don’t do that-“

“What? Dream?” Desmond asked. “Fantasize?”

This time, Mariet spoke up.

“Alright. Someone better tell me what’s going on. I just spent over an hour cleaning up here. I am not going to let that pass unnoticed or unappreciated.” She looked at Lucy for answers. When her friend was not forthcoming, she turned to Desmond, crossing her arms. “What did you do?”

“We’ve met before.” Desmond replied after a moment. “I asked if I could paint Lucy.”

As Lucy squirmed and shifted her weight from one foot to the next, Mariet squawked. “What? That was you? You’re the guy with the dog named Daisy?” Her blue eyes narrowed at him. “You’re the guy who was hitting on my friend here.”

“What-No!” Desmond looked aghast. “I didn’t.”

 “Oh please.” Mariet smirked and propped a hand on her hip. “`I dreamed of you’, `I want to paint you,’ and all that crap. You don’t look like the sort who needs to refer to the dumbest handbook around for picking up women. Unless you're just good-looking with nothing between the ears.”

Lucy, really needing to leave because the loft was beginning to feel too small and hot, said, “Mariet, we should leave. Now.”

But Desmond and Mariet were on a roll. The once-over Desmond gave Mariet was mocking and condescending-hardly the kind the younger woman often received. “Look, princess, you’re clearly too young to have heard about me. But I’m an artist. Not as well-known now but well-known years ago. Ask your parents. I didn’t hit on your friend here. I asked to paint her and that’s exactly what I meant. It wasn’t a ploy to get her to come here and have her take off her clothes.”

“Yet you drew me,” Lucy gulped, “nude.”

Desmond’s answer was to give her a too-lingering look from the top of her messy hair down to the tips of her sneakers. In between, he stared in her eyes, licked his lips as he looked at her mouth. He gaze was caressing as they lingered on her broad shoulders before continuing the rest of the way down. His gaze was almost like a physical touch, so close and intimate that she could almost feel it. Sudden;y she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

“Let me paint you, Lucy,” he asked, his voice husky.

“Alright. Enough. Look, Mister, I don’t care that you’re sort of connected to Arabella but you don’t ever come up to women you don’t know and asking to paint them! And now you have a nude drawing of her” Mariet shook her head. This time, her motions were frantic as she threw the rest of their supplies into the bag before grabbing Lucy by the wrist. “No need to pay us. But we can tell you for sure that this is the last time we’ll be here.”

They let themselves out. As Lucy took a deep breath of the dry, summer air, the door suddenly flung open. Mariet shrieked and Lucy quickly threw an arm out to protect her. But Desmond moved no further from the door. His eyes searched her face.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What did you mean when you said you know what you look like?”

 

Lucy was so distraught over what happened that though she hated to lie, she went along with Mariet’s suggestion that she lie about getting sick so Adrian could immediately send a replacement. She hated to lose a day’s wages when she wasn’t physically ill but she had just about had her fill of men thinking they could take advantage simply because she was ugly.

So she went home, barely paying attention and moving by rote and body memory. By the time she arrived at her apartment, she felt sticky and dirty from the day’s events and the city grime. She locked herself in the shower, shrugged off her clothes and cried. The water was barely warm and it mingled with her hot ears as they both ran down the shower drain. She tried to wash away everything she was feeling but that was not how feelings worked so she cried.

And cried. Hard, heart-wrenching sobs. Sobs that wracked her entire body and left her hiccupping and breathless.

Abuse was nothing new to Lucy. Her looks had made her a target for bullying from the first day of school. Children stuck gum in her hair, stuck their feet out so she would trip, or straight up called her an ugly freak to her face. The onset of puberty only worsened things. In less than two years, she shot up to nearly seven inches in height, towering the rest of her class and nearly the entire student body of the local high school at six feet tall when she was only fourteen. She stood six-foot-three come graduation, and this had been her height ever since. It was never easy being different in some way but being different in all the was that Lucy was, was agony, especially as a child and teen.

Lucy’s solace was music. In the marching band, she really wasn’t ridiculed but the kids there kept to themselves. If there was a clique, she wasn’t part of it. Being part of it should have given her some protection from bullying but as with everything, just made things worse. She was the happiest when high school finally came to an end. But that only lasted a short while. She should have seen it coming. Life wasn’t going to let her escape that easily.

Abram’s death had not only made her orphan. He took with him any semblance of security and safety Lucy had. Her father was a quiet man who kept to himself but his presence was a reassurance. She knew that no matter how mean kids got, at the end of school there was hot chocolate waiting for her, and her father waiting for when she would play the cello for him. He didn’t encourage her to play but when she discovered her Mom’s old cello when she was eight, she had been eager to share something that had been a part of a person she never knew. Abram never stopped her. He let her do as she wanted and was just there for her. It was the most love that Lucy had ever felt in her life and losing it was almost more painful than she could bear.

Since his death, her world had been on a tailspin. The problem of money would never go away. After settling the hospital bills and outstanding debts and losing the house over missed mortgage, there was hardly anything left. It was just enough for the apartment she bought and several thousand dollars to keep her from starving for another six months. Lucy had been working like a dog ever since.

Despite wanting to concentrate only on work, part of her still longed for companionship. Friendship. She was so used to being alone that she didn’t really have a good judge of character. One of her first jobs was a waitress in a diner. One of the chefs there, Lawrence Brown, had been friendly and she went to the movies with him. He was shorter and more plain-looking than handsome. He kissed sloppily and groped her breasts in the cinema but he didn’t call her a freak. Or any of the mean names she was used to. She thought she could care for the man.

All that ended when Julie, one of the quieter waitresses, alerted her to a pool Lawrence had with the other chefs. Lucy had told him she was a virgin so she wasn’t ready. Never did she think that he would pretend to like her just so he could win the bet. Lucy quit, but not before confronting Lawrence in the kitchen and giving him a black eye. On her way out, one of the waitresses sneered, “What the hell’s her problem? Ugly broad like that should at least be grateful someone wants to fuck her.”

Since then, she looked for jobs where there was minimal interaction with other employees, where she could pass unnoticed, ideally. But working at the docks just about killed her and left her too exhausted to practice the cello. Cleaning houses and garages, mowing lawns, paid but not a lot. To be a babysitter these days required all these certificates-money that she’d rather spend on something more sure. She had only a high school degree and a year of college in a music school. There was little to offer employers but she wasn’t completely zero either. She used her friendship with the Lowells to get her first cello teaching job. Other jobs followed soon after.

Teaching music was seasonal, and cleaning for Clean Co. was only great during the summer. When she was lucky, there were summers she got work as a camp counselor so she was able to lease her tiny apartment for the season or at least rent it out. She had to be creative, to be greedy about work and really put herself out there but four years later, she not only had another shot at school, she could pay for it.

But Royce Reid. And Desmond Gorman

Lucy rinsed her body and toweled herself dry. In front of the mirror, she stared at her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. She knew she was ugly. But no matter how much she fought that it didn’t give people the right to abuse her, she was getting tired. She splashed cold water on her face to lessen the swelling of her eyes then threw on a ratty tank top and shorts. She took her cello and sat down, cradling the instrument gently on her thighs, bow positioned firmly yet in a relaxed way. With a deep breath, she started playing the Double Time Concerto.

She lost herself in the soothing strains of the music. The cello was always a source of comfort and strength, promising that no matter how bad things got, everything will always be okay. As she played, she remembered a story of the composition’s probable origins. Double Time Concerto was a popular classical piece but also one of the most difficult. She picked it as her audition piece because she loved the story behind it, and the rigor demanded to play it well her second reason.

She was still playing long after the sun had sunk down. She had gone through several versions of the piece, just for funsies. Now she collapsed on her chair, spine sinking deep while she hugged the cello to her chest. Her legs fell open.

Lucy had no idea how long she sat like this, the cello held gently against her chest, half-sprawled in a chair. She would be content to pass the night here if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing. She frowned, turning her head slowly to stare at the source of the sound before getting up.

“Did you forget the keys?” She asked, shuffling barefoot towards the door. Mariet should have been home earlier. It made Lucy feel guilty that her friend was probably coming home late to do her work. She should have at least made something nice as a gesture of thanks to Mariet.

“Say, I was thinking- Holy shit.”

Disbelievingly, Lucy could only stare at the man standing at her doorway.

“You,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Green eyes looked into hers. Desmond Gorman cleared his throat. “Me. Can I come in?”

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CHAPTER TWO

For the first time in years, Desmond faced the new day not only with a renewed sense of purpose but he also felt alive. It was like being able to see everything for the first time yet also seeing a lot more clearly. The white walls of the loft, he discovered, were actually brushed ever so slightly with gray. The sun outside was the color of a wobbly egg yolk and the sky was a series of shades of blue piled on with divine brushes to create such a color. He saw color palettes, saw everything begging to be rendered on canvas.

He put Lucy’s sketch in the drawer before heading off to the bathroom. The shaving kit was left untouched in the cabinet behind the mirror so it was off to the shower straight off. There was no embarrassment in washing off the sticky stripes of his come from his thighs this time. He shampooed and soaped, scrubbed until his skin was pink.

There was no Orissa to bother him today and he wondered how much better things could get. The vigor thrumming inside him was pushing him towards activity, to lose himself in concentration, motions, towards creation. Or creations, he thought, cracking an egg over a pan where bacon was frying to a perfect crisp. He put bread in the toaster, brewed coffee. The drive that put him off his ass so early in the morning got all the more amped up as he devoured the food.

He spent the rest of the morning in the studio, sketching Lucy one after the other. It wasn’t easy because she wasn’t there but he could remember. Remembered everything. The messy blonde hair. The wide, full-lipped mouth. Freckles. Those eyes. Above all those eyes. Damned if they weren’t the most perfect things he had ever seen. He dug out what little paints he had because a lot of them had dried off already in their tubes. Blues upon blues were blended, mixing a dollop of white, then more blues. It was frustrating to work from memory. Even more that he knew that there was no way to capture the aquamarine color of her eyes without her right in the room with him. He needed her.

How the hell was he going to convince this woman how much he needed her-how important she was to him? She was a skittish, resistant, stubborn thing. It was like dealing with an unyielding door, built to withstand all the force and violence upon it. He thought about calling Gareth and hiring a detective to cough up records on her. He still couldn’t believe that she was real. It was highly preferable that she was a lot more pleasant than how she came across but over time, he thought, over time he’d wear her out. No one could be so against being painted, right?

Now that he knew where she was employed, it was only a matter of time before he got something more concrete about her. Didn’t mean he couldn’t start preparing now, however. So Desmond made two charcoal sketches of her. The first was of her scowl after he said he dreamed of her. There was no forgetting that-her eyes had darkened to near-black and she looked ready to kill him with her bare hands. The second had her wearing an expression of doubt, with eyebrows drawn together, full lips pursed. It didn’t make her any more attractive but Desmond thought she looked ready to give an angry kiss. She was uglier, true, but his cock disagreed. So he was grateful that she’d slammed the door to his face and threatened to call the cops on him when he insisted on speaking to her.

The angry growling of his stomach alerted him to lunch. Desmond put away the sketches in a drawer with care before closing it. Then he gathered up his supplies and put them back in their shelves. Usually he just ate a salad and a sandwich but his body demanded something more substantial today. He went out to get a meatball sub with four different kinds of cheese.

While he was out, he went to his favorite art supply store. He stocked up on paints, paintbrushes, paper, charcoal. Desmond ordered by the bulk, quick to surrender his credit card and signing his name on the slip without even glancing at the amount at the end. He would have to wait three days but the store promised to rush some of the items. It felt good knowing he was sure to do something in the following days. The better feeling was knowing he was actually going to see it through the end.

Desmond went for a walk around the city before deciding to turn towards home. His earlier euphoria had wiped his mind clean of what today entailed. As he opened the front door of his loft, he heard music. His face was grave, anticipating that intruders had broken in, when a dark haired woman walked right in front of him, holding a mop.

From an early age, Desmond had trained himself to see and observe. The woman’s profile faced him but it was enough to confirm that she was pretty. Thick, brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, high cheekbones, a soft, gentle arc formed where her jaw connected to her throat. She was slim but her black-and-navy uniform looked good against her. Desmond realized that this was the cleaning service Orissa had hired. He was supposed to be out while they worked. He closed the door, the sound quiet, but the girl’s head turned toward him, pale blue eyes widening when she was him by the door.

He held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m Desmond. I live here.”

She was young. In college most likely or in her early twenties. Her loveliness may have incited attraction and lust from men but not Desmond. There was no denying that she was one of the more beautiful faces around, and despite the t-shirt and shorts, he could tell she had a good figure. Full, thrusting breasts, a narrow waist, curving hips, slender, long legs.

After Desmond had looked his fill at a person, the next question he asked himself was whether he wanted to render him or her in a painting.

No for this girl. She was. . .generic. Boring. Predictable.

Now she was frowning at him and she pulled out a sheet from her pocket, reading it. “Desmond Gorman?”

“That’s right. That’s me.”

As she put it back in her pocket, she said, “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s okay, but we still have quite a lot of work to do.” He had to smother a chuckle. This girl was implying with smooth subtlety that though he was paying them, while they were working, he was in the way.

“I understand. I’ll just need to get some things from my room then I’ll be out of your way,” Desmond said, walking past her and launching up the stairs.

“My partner’s there,” she called after him then resumed working.

When Desmond reached the bedroom, his heart dropped to the floor. The girl’s partner had turned out to be her. The ugly blonde with the awful pink uniform. She was wearing a black t-shirt and navy shorts now and they looked better on her. He froze seeing her staring at a piece of paper. Despite realizing the wrong impression she was taking from that drawing, he couldn’t look away from the remarkable changes of expression in her face. Surprise, with her eyebrows shooting to her forehead and aquamarine eyes getting big. Followed by the grim realization that she was staring at herself, and her nose reddened as if burned by the sun. When she looked up and saw him, the betrayal and hurt were in the blush getting more vivid with each passing second and the violent wobbling of her chin.

Still ugly. Uglier in the daylight but he couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Those eyes.

Lucy looked hurt and Desmond stepped forward to reach for her. But she refused comfort, refused to hear any of his explanations-not that he tried hard enough. He was too caught up by changes in her face, the emotions flitting through her eyes. Then when her broken voice uttered that she knew what she looked like but he had no right, it was like breaking through the surface. Desmond didn’t realize just how hurt she was until that moment. “What do you think you look like?” He had asked. But Lucy’s partner showed up and there was nothing more to do. Even when he chased after them and asked again, Lucy refused to answer. Instead she gave him her eyes again, breathtaking aquamarines shining with her distress.

Right now she was standing in front of him, her big hand grasping the doorknob like it was a lifeline. The sight of her was an attack to his senses, his thoughts. Seeing her so close was doing things to him that shouldn’t happen-knees weakening, cock thrusting stubbornly against the limits of his underwear, his pants. I’ve been without a woman too long.

But he couldn’t stop drinking her in and there was so much of her. The mess of her hair that he realized now was more straw than pale blonde. The freckles splashed from her forehead down to her legs-Desmond had never seen anyone covered in so many freckles. Her shoulders were broad, wider than his. As he had guessed, she had small breasts-more breasts than breasts, really. He was confused about his reaction to such an ugly creature but his mouth watered at her nipples pressing against the white fabric. It wasn’t cold in her apartment. Desmond had to take a deep breath upon wondering if her nipples were so prominent, if they were often hard. Her drawstring shorts revealed thick but firm-looking thighs. And the legs. How was it possible to have such long legs?

He looked back at her face, focusing on her eyes. Finding his voice, he held up a box of pizza. “I come in peace.” He held the leather portfolio under his other arm.

She frowned. “What do you want? How did you know I live here?”

“You said Arabella’s your neighbor. That didn’t need a lot of math.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to her feet and a blush swept from her face down to her chest. Desmond shuddered, not from revulsion, but the overwhelming urge to press his tongue on each spot. I need to fuck a woman soon.

“Lucy,” and he liked saying her name. “I ask again, can I come in?”

She worried her thick lip until it was red and wet. Desmond clutched the portfolio, glad his hands were full. He wouldn't be able to resist touching the slick, swollen flesh. Then she nodded, stepping aside.

As he walked past her, he caught the scent of oranges-clean and fresh, vital. It was so much better than the dog stink she carried with her the first time although, he amended to himself, if she was wearing the tank top then he wouldn’t mind so much. Lucy closed the door.

Her apartment was a humble studio. He saw everything at once: the half-pen curtain that served as a partition between her bed and the rest of the space, the loveseat by the window, with a pretty, blue cello resting against it. A dining table for two against the wall and the kitchen, with a sink and about a quarter of the size of a regular counter. Desmond’s closet was bigger but there was a cozy, intimate feel to the space, rather than pristine and elegant.

“You can put the pizza there,” Lucy pointed at the dining table. She walked toward the fridge then paused, blushing. Staring at him then back at her feet, she mumbled, “Um, I don’t have anything to drink. I have water. But no beer. I have one can of soda and it’s yours, if you want.”

Desmond gave her a pleased smile. “Water is fine.”

She looked at him questioningly.

Flushing, he put the box on the table, the portfolio on a spot on the floor near his seat. “I haven’t touched alcohol in years, Lucy. I’d rather keep at it.”

She’s going to think that I’m an alcoholic pervert.

She reddened again-does she ever stop blushing-before stammering, “You can have the soda.” Yet she also sounded stubborn, defiant. Contrasts, Desmond thought.

“Only if you don’t want it.”

“It’s yours.” She growled.

“We should share.”

She blinked at him, clearly startled.

She could be obstinate but sweet, he realized. “I would like for us to share, Lucy.”

“Okay.”

Desmond flipped open the box while Lucy got glasses. It was sweet that she poured a perfect half of the soda into each glass. He tucked the cover of the pizza box at the bottom so there was space for their glasses. Her fingers brushed his when handing him the glass. Desmond nearly groaned out loud at finding her skin there to be soft and smooth. I should go find myself a woman after this.

She sat down and he followed suit. Warily, she asked, “What are you doing here, Desmond?”

She shifted, bumping her knee on his. Desmond stiffened but Lucy, unaware, continued, “It’s been a long, emotionally exhausting day. As much as I appreciate the pizza, I need you to be straight with me. What’s your angle?”

“I wish to make you understand.”

“You wish to make me understand?”

Well, he had to be a bit of an asshole to get what he wanted from her. That was the plan. It got him what he wanted, always. This wouldn’t be the case with Lucy. As skittish as she was, even when she spent more time talking to her feet than to people, she saw things. Read him clearly. She did sound tired, her voice thick with gravel. Her aquamarines were not as bright. But she stared at him with sharp scrutiny, indicating that she refused to be fooled and despite all his good intentions and the pizza, if he stepped off, she would kick him out.

Desmond wasn’t scared. In fact, his blood was singing. He wanted to dare her.

He changed tactics. “You play the cello?”

Startled at the sudden turn of the conversation, Lucy took a quick swallow of her soda. “Yes.”

“Professionally?” She was young but he thought she must be close to graduating.

She flushed and shook her head. “N-No. Actually, I’m working to get back to school. Um. . .my studies were interrupted due to certain events.”

“Music school?”

“The Camden, yes.”

Desmond had heard of the Camden. Serious students of music practically killed themselves to be admitted there. As he looked at her, realizing there was more to the ugly, freckled woman, Lucy hastened to add, “I was there. Before. But. . .but. . .my father got sick. I had to take care of him. By the time things were. . .over, my leave of absence had passed. And I couldn’t. . .you must have gone to a specialized school. You know how expensive it gets.”

Lucy had skimmed over some pertinent information but it wasn’t hard to deduce exactly what she had left unsaid. The father was dead. It must be a long, complicated illness to wipe out the finances of the family. A leave of absence was only good for a year. Her failure to return meant she had been gone from school for a while. Desmond saw faint lines under her eyes.

“How long were you at Camden?”

“Just a year.”

“Your father.” His voice was gentle. “How-how long? If you don’t mind my asking.”

She took a deep breath. This was still a hard subject for her. “F-Four years. Next month.”

Damn, she was young. At her age, I was chasing and fucking every skirt. I was doing what I wanted. It was embarrassing. He gestured that she help herself to the pizza and she hesitated. So he took a slice. She followed, but only bit into hers after he did so.

“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.” He remembered where she worked. “Still difficult.”

“Yeah, it is. I really miss my Dad. I have no family left, you see. There’s Mariet and the Lowells but they’re old family friends. They wanted to take me in before but I couldn’t. . . I didn’t want to add to their burden.”

“Mariet?”

“The girl I was with earlier? At your place.”

The boring one, Desmond thought. Going back to what she had said, he asked carefully, “There’s really no one for you?”

Lucy’s smile was shaky. “No.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Desmond knew how it was to lose a parent but he had never been alone. His father was still around. Gareth. His brother with his infuriating wife. As much as Gareth and Orissa annoyed him by treating him like a baby, Desmond was grateful. Without them, he wouldn’t have even thought of going to AA.

“You didn’t come here for my sad life story, Desmond.” This time, she was more confident in helping herself to another slice. “And I really would rather not talk about it tonight. What do you want from me?”

“I would love it if you gave me the opportunity to paint you.”

She made a face. He titled his head. “You find the prospect unpleasant.”

“Can’t you see what I look like?”

“And we’re back to that. What do you think you look like, Lucy?”

Anger reddened her face. “Have you come here to watch me humiliate myself even more? Like you haven’t done enough?”

“What exactly have I done?” He shot back, frustrated at all her assumptions. Her false, insulting, hurtful assumptions. “All I’ve asked is for the chance to paint you. I said I dreamed of you. Fantasized. What the hell is so humiliating about that?”

“You wouldn’t know! All my life I’ve been called ugly and made fun of, treated as something less than human. Desmond, people actually made bets as to who would get to fuck me. They pretended to be nice so that I’d drop my pants and let them fuck me! So forgive me for reacting like this whenever you say stupid shit like wanting to paint and dreaming of me!”

Lucy threw her pizza down and stood up, nearly jostling the contents of the table onto Desmond’s lap. As she stormed inside her tiny apartment, Desmond got to his feet. She turned, lips curls in a snarl and he seized her by the shoulders.

“Lucy-“

“I won’t let anyone humiliate and hurt me like that again. I’ve been through more than enough. No more!”

He shook her. “I’m not going to hurt you!” As she stared at him in disbelief, he said, more calmly, “Lucy, I’ll swear on my life. I will never hurt you. You have my word.”

Lucy stared at him, confused and still doubtful. But there was no anger now-at least, it had diminished drastically. But she still moved sharply away from him. “Why me, Desmond?”

“Why not you? Yes, you’re ugly. That’s the truth of it. But it is what makes you interesting. It intrigues me. It makes me. . .Lucy,” and this time, he sighed, shoulder slumping as the weight of the last seven years came crashing on him. “Lucy, when I saw you at the park, for the first time since I got sober, I wished- no, hoped, to paint again. To create. I could see again. Because of you. All it took was a fleeting glimpse of you. Now that you’re here, that I’m here, I’m- I’m overwhelmed. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Possibly never. Until now.” He looked in her eyes. “Until you.”

He let out a groan, but it wasn’t of desire. Exhaustion. That’s what it was. He brushed past her and collapsed on the loveseat, flinging an arm over his eyes.

The seat under him was dented, so he knew he was on her preferred spot. He smelled oranges too, and he wondered how many hours had she spent playing her blue cello here. He sighed again and let his arm fall to the side. He had said more to Lucy than he had to his brother since getting sober.

Lucy was still standing, staring at him. She was pale now although the freckles were still here. She looked uncertain. Unafraid, but uncertain.

“Lucy,” and this time he was pleading. “I need you. I need you more than I’ve needed anyone. I’m nothing but a has-been artist. I highly doubt if I’ll get back to where I was but right now, all I know is just the sight of you makes me want to try and create. . .something significant. That’s what matters,” he added, his throat dry. He searched her eyes until he was sure she wouldn’t look away. “Not being on top.”

He managed to hold her gaze before she put her eyes away. Desmond would have stood up but then she returned those to him. Does she know the power of such eyes?

“Please, Lucy.” He wasn’t accustomed to pleading but with her, he would. He couldn’t create without her. Couldn’t see without her. She had given it back to him without even knowing it, the ability to regard yet again.

“You said I’m ugly.” She whispered.

He hung his head then said, “I apologize-“

“No. Don’t. I’m not. . .I know. I’ve always known.” Her voice was bitter but also resigned. “It’s just that, you’re the first to say it without. . .without hate. Like it’s a good thing.”

“You’re not as ugly as you think you are, though.” This, he was truthful about. That friend of yours, the brown haired one, she’ll only be that pretty while young. Your eyes will always be beautiful.

She blushed. “I don’t need lies.”

“I don’t lie.” He snapped.

“Right.”

“I swear it, Lucy.” He liked saying her name, he discovered. A sweet name for a strong woman. It was perfect.

“I still don’t. . .I mean, I understand about needing to create, Desmond.” He liked the sound of his name from her lips too. “I just can’t. . .I can’t understand why me, though. Why not somebody like Mariet? Isn’t she intriguing too?”

Now Desmond had to be blunt. “I suppose. If you have no imagination.”

She frowned.

“She’s beautiful. But beauty on the surface like that, beauty that’s obvious, that’s the way things always are, aren’t they? You see it and that’s it. There’s nothing to mine from it. Nothing more to get. You, on the other hand. . .” He couldn’t stop himself from caressing her figure with his eyes. She did not have a womanly shape but her limbs were long, she was covered in freckles and those nipples. Still hard. He hoped they were long.

“Are so much more than you think. More than you and I can comprehend, to tell you the truth.”

“You  don’t know what you’re seeing.” Lucy sounded helpless. “You’ve imagined me a certain way.” She choked. She was remembering the nude sketch. “I’m not. . you haven’t. . .you don’t know me, Desmond. You have these expectations and I don’t want. . .I can’t disappoint you.”

“How can you think that?”

“You-you haven’t really seen me, Desmond.” Lucy’s chin was wobbling again. “And-And I think before I agree, there must be something you should know first. I can’t. . I don’t want lies, Desmond. I want the truth. I want you to see me as I am and paint me as I really am. You have to see me.”

“I am seeing you.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She sounded morose.

“Lucy-“ he moved to stand but she stopped him by holding up a shaky hand.

 “Please, Desmond,” she whispered. “Let me. . .I have. . .” Then her eyes glittered and there was a determined set to her jaw. “I have to do this.”

She took a deep breath then reached for the bottom of her tank. Desmond’s eyes got big as she pulled it off, flinging the threadbare garment to the floor before she straightened up and looked at him. He was right. Soft, gentle swells rising from her broad chest, splashed heavily with freckles. His breath sped up when he discovered that her aureoles were pink and huge, nearly taking the circumference of her meager breasts. Her nipples were plump and hung long.

He swallowed. He wanted one of those nipples in his mouth.

Her waist was straight, with a flat stomach. If not for the softness of her eyes, even when they were laced with defiance and challenge, or the shy rises of her breasts from her chest, Desmond would think her a man. He watched her undo the laces of her drawstring shorts before shimmying them down her wide hips and trunk-like thighs, down to her long legs.

Then she straightened up again, this time fully nude. Desmond’s eyes were quick to fall on her bush. It was thick with springy curls, a mix of pale and dirty-blonde. His cock pushed against his pants, wanting inside. Lucy was hairy, much hairier than all the other women but damn.

He must capture her on canvas. He must.

Lucy was blushing violently, as if red paint had been spilled on her. She was embarrassed and afraid but it was clear she was ready to see this through.

“You have to see,” she said, stubbornly, defiantly. She met his eyes. “Don’t you make fun of me, Desmond Gorman.”

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CHAPTER THREE

Lucy had never stood naked before a man. Or anyone. Nor had she given her body a hard look except for the occasional glance in the mirror when getting dressed. A lifetime of abuse had not encouraged her to love anything about herself. Her body was serviceable. Strong. Nothing more.

As she stood before Desmond, she found herself wishing for the first time that there should at least be some parts of her that were traditionally feminine. She was taught to never question what was given to her, taught never to envy what people had that she didn’t. These were lessons she adhered to but she cracked, once in a while. How could she not?

She hated remembering any time with Lawrence but he had been the first, and the only one, to touch her. Knowing it was all due to the bet made the memory more painful. She wished to forget, but how? All too well, she remembered those afternoons in his apartment that stunk of beer and sweat. Where she would whimper in protest and confusion as his lips tugged and pulled at her nipples harshly. She was both terrified and aroused as his fingers plunged between the lips of her sex, telling her that a cock, his cock, would feel so much better. Her protests dissolved into whimpers as his tongue pushed deep inside her mouth.

Once, he suggested, since she was so scared, that they could fuck differently. She could turn around. He would take her another way. Lucy was so innocent in many ways but not that innocent. His suggestion so horrified her that she ignored him at work for a week. Didn’t take his calls and wouldn’t let him inside her apartment. He apologized with a half-dozen red roses and she forgave him. She begged that they take it slow. He was the first to ever kiss her, to like her. She needed time.

Lawrence complied for about two weeks before he was ripping her blouse open again. He sucked and bit at her nipples until they hurt. Her sex also hurt because his fingers had been deeper but there was no blood. She cared for Lawrence but the idea of him being the first, even when he liked her, rankled. A couple of days later, she found out about the bet. Lucy was more angry at herself than at Lawrence, so she punched him. She vowed never to trust anyone with her heart again.

Standing before Desmond, Lucy scanned his handsome face for a tell-tale twitch of disgust or amusement. She knew what she looked like from head to toe. Her breasts were so small she didn’t really need a bra. She had a straight waist, and broad hips without any hint of curve. She was lean and muscular from the physically-heavy jobs she did. Her fingers were calloused, her toenails cracked. If Desmond wanted to paint her, he had to see her as she was. Lucy refused to be seen any other way. If he wanted her, then he had to see all of her.

Lucy took off her clothes to slap him with the truth. As seconds passed with only silence between them, and the air conditioner cooling her body so her nipples were beginning to harden, she began to have second thoughts. Emotions had her plunging headfirst into the situation she was in now. Now she was mortified at what she had done. And with no word coming from Desmond. . .

She didn’t cover herself when Royce Reid stared at her chest. She hadn’t been afraid. With Desmond, she was suddenly unsure. Confused. A shaky breath fell from her lips and slowly, she crossed her arms to cover her breasts.

The action snapped Desmond out of the trance. He rose from the couch and went to her, a hand outstretched. Her eyes widened and she clutched her arms to herself in panic. Desmond paused, his face grave. Slowly, he dropped his hand back to his side.

“No.” He told her. “Don’t-don’t do that.”

She shook her head, still embracing herself. “You’re not-you’re not saying anything.”

“Forgive me. I just. . .this was unexpected.”

Lucy blushed and turned away, looking for her clothes. Desmond’s calm voice stopped her.

“Please. Let me see you.”

“Just say it,” she said, turning around but still covering her breasts. Her shoulders were stiff and she was angry at not having thought things through. “Just say that I’m ugly and you made a mistake. I won’t take it against you.”

“That’s not going to happen, Lucy.”

Startled, her mouth fell open. One side of Desmond’s lips quirked.

“Artists love rendering curves. Softness is an ideal, I guess. But angles can be good too.” He put his hands in his pockets and seemed to struggle for words. His eyes lingered on her face before they drifted down to her chest, her stomach. Her legs. “Angles. . .are beautiful. Plains are canvases in themselves.”

“You mean I’m not sexy.” Lucy muttered.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Desmond, you did say I’m all angles.”

“And I said they’re beautiful.”

As he spoke, his eyes fell between her thighs. Lucy froze, realizing what he was staring at. She never trimmed the hairs of her sex. Never had it waxed or done anything to it except clean it. Even the idea of touching herself down there sexually mortified her. Lawrence had only gone down on her once. She protested, trying to remove him from her but he managed to spread her legs and sink his tongue inside. She cried the entire time, even when she felt something inside her give away and shoot up. Lawrence told her that’s how it felt to come, and didn’t it feel good? She didn’t know. To this day she still didn’t know how she felt that afternoon, only that she didn’t want it.

Desmond was frowning and she blushed, realizing that in remembering that bastard she had paled and looked angry. Lucy schooled her face in a blank expression but he continued to stare at her, clearly wondering what she was thinking. She started to cover her sex but Desmond shook his head.

“Don’t. It’s just. . .” He raised his head and stared at her face. “I like hair on a woman.”

This time, Lucy’s face was the color of a red traffic light. “I-I should trim,” she confessed.

“Probably.” He shrugged. “But if I’m going to paint you, you I’d rather you didn’t.”

“What? Why?”

Desmond cleared his throat. “I’ve actually sent away models who were completely waxed or kept themselves really maintained down there. It’s not natural. And I like natural.” His eyes fell on her breasts then. Or what he could see because her hands were still blocking them. “Let me see you, Lucy. Please.”

He sat back on the loveseat. His green eyes bore that pleading, puppy dog expression that would be ridiculous if not for the charged emotions going through them. Lucy took a deep breath and dropped her arms, standing nude before him, as proud as she could muster to be.

She watched him looking at her. His expression was unreadable as he stared at her throat, a slight frown forming then clearing away as his eyes lowered to her breasts. He looked at them for quite some time, probably memorizing the number of freckles on and around them, their shape, their smallness. He gave her a waist the briefest of glances before resting his eyes on her sex. Sweat began to pool in the middle of her back. What was he seeing? What was he thinking?

A demand began to tease the tip of her tongue when Desmond suddenly said, “I’m going to need my charcoal and sketchpad.”

“What? What for?” She shrieked. Lucy caught herself but her eyes were wide with fear. This was not what she expected him to say at all. No, no. The idea behind her stripping was to confront him with the truth about herself and have him leave her alone. Angles were beautiful, indeed. Who was he kidding? As Lucy tried to find the words to make him change his mind, Desmond went to the kitchen and took a leather portfolio from where he had sat earlier. She hadn’t noticed him with it.

Her eyes were still big and disbelieving as he retrieved a sketch pad then pushed several pieces of charcoal in his shirt pocket. Noticing her at last, he pointed behind her.

“I noticed you have a bed close by. Perhaps you should go there. You won’t fit on the couch.”

Panicking, she cried out, “Why the hell should I go to bed?”

Desmond was impatient. “I don’t want you to go to bed. I meant put your ass there. I’m drawing you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen you. All the more that I’m convinced I should paint you. Now I have to show you how you are.” Desmond said, looking around. Then he looked past her and she stepped aside. He nodded at the loveseat. “I’ll have that. Get on the bed, Lucy, while I fix this. Don’t worry, I’ll put it all back together.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look,” he said, speaking carefully now, as if addressing a child. Lucy glared at him. His eyes flashed back in challenge. “You have all these ideas about yourself that honestly, they’re painful to hear. You are ugly. That’s the truth. But past that, you have a very skewed view of yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” She demanded. “Desmond, you had no idea of my existence until days ago. You can’t make all these presumptions and telling me that I’m wrong about myself.”

“To an extent, you’re right.” Desmond put the pad on the table and started pulling at the loveseat. “Damn it, this is heavy. But people have been horrible to you. You think so poorly of yourself because of what they did. Let’s hope that changes beginning today.”

Desmond dragged the loveseat away from its spot. Lucy could only watch as the furniture squeaked and scraped across the floor, Desmond maneuvering it until it was facing her bed. Seeing her still standing on her spot, he asked again, “Lucy, please. On the bed. Believe me, you won’t regret this. I promise.”

Lucy stared at him and Desmond looked desperate. “Please, Lucy. I feel like I have to show you. Now.”

She could still throw him out. How could he want to paint her still? And why did he think that just by painting her he could convince her to see herself differently? How arrogant, really, to be so sure that he could undo everything. Lucy wanted to tell him to stop. He was mocking her, she was sure of it.

But when Desmond was looking at her with such need, rearranging her furniture and promising her that she was wrong about herself all along, she longed. . .wanted to believe.

And if she could be brave about stripping before him, she could do this too. Let him draw her. Fine.

So she sat at the foot of the bed while Desmond plunked down on the loveseat. He took his pad and put it on his lap. When he looked up, he saw Lucy staring at him expectantly.

“Oh. Right. Lucy, I need you to lay down.” Then he put the pad away and went to her. Lucy tensed, realizing what kind of vulnerable position she was in. Seeing her reaction, he held up his hands.

“I’ll need to touch you every now and then, Lucy. With your permission, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because touching you might help you get into a preferred position faster.”

Lucy frowned, biting her lip as she turned his words over in her head. Did he just-

Desmond caught himself too and flushed. As it dawned on him how his words could be construed, he said, “I meant-I only meant-“

Lucy sighed impatiently. “I know. You didn’t mean how it sounded.” She was annoyed but a part of her kind of wished that he meant more than that, or at least, the words were said in another context. But that’s ridiculous, she thought. She had long learned never to want or dream of things that will never be hers. Who would want her?

How could anyone love her as she was? Looking as she did?

With awkward gestures, Desmond directed her to lay on her side. He stacked pillows and indicated she rest her head there. He showed her how to position her arms. When she couldn’t get them right, he looked at her for permission first before she nodded her assent and offered her wrists.

Desmond’s hands were calloused. The tips of his fingers and nails bore the dark smudges of charcoal. He put her left arm a little higher on her head, flattened it gently. The right one he put a little below her face, and he had her angle her head a little higher so her hand won’t block it.

She watched as his hands fell on her hips, turning them slightly so they were not completely flat on the mattress. As Desmond adjusted and moved her body to a position only he could envision, Lucy struggled to relax. She knew the difference between sexual and impersonal touches. It was Lawrence cupping her breasts, sliding his hands between her thighs and fucking her with his fingers. Yet, those intimate touches had not stirred her as much as Desmond’s light, casual touches were doing. She was tensed yet curious, worried about getting disappointed yet also worried he’ll take it further and she won’t feel as horrible as she should. She swallowed, for the first time in her life praying for disappointment. It was known. It was familiar. Disappointment was a comfort.

Seeing the veins of her neck standing out, Desmond, whose hands were on her legs, stopped and said, chidingly, “Relax, Lucy. I won’t hurt you.”

“Maybe,” she stuttered, “Maybe I shouldn’t . .I should get. . .clothes.”

He stepped back, his eyes raking her again. It was dark out and there was only little light in the room. The darkness in his eyes was just that, due to a lack of light. Not anything else.

“If you want,” he told her after a moment. “But you’re perfect as you are.”

She looked away.

“Lucy,” and then he was kneeling before her. His hand on her cheek was all the touch it took for her to summon enough courage to look back at him. A lock of golden blonde hair fell across his forehead. He looked like an angel. Maybe he looked like a god. Lucy was sure no human being could be this good-looking. For all she knew, this was all a wild, crazy dream.

Disappointment was a comfort.

“I need you to trust me.”

She bit her lip. Lawrence used to say that. Trust me. Then as soon as she put her guard down, his hands were on her breasts again, his mouth insistent tugs on her nipples. As his tongue choked her, his fingers plundered her sex, seeking something only he knew about.

“I think you do but you’re still afraid. You wouldn’t have stripped before a stranger if you didn’t trust him in some way. I understand being afraid. We can stop this anytime you want. It doesn’t have to be like this.” He was caressing her cheek now, as if it was smooth and not freckled and flushed embarrassingly. As he touched her cheek, his other hand smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “Shall I get your clothes?”

He was leaning over her. She could smell his cologne, a clean, gently-spiced scent mixed with his musk. The rough fabric of his t-shirt was tickling her nipple. He continued to make soothing, soft noises, looking at her the whole time.

“N-No.” Her breath stilled as he stopped touching her. “I-I want to do this. I’m scared but I have to do this.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Yes, it is. You have to see me. You’ll see how wrong your fantasies are.”

“They certainly are.” Desmond said and this time, he stared deliberately at her breasts. Lucy’s hands fisted as she restrained herself from covering them, but there was no stopping the wave of pink spreading through her. “My fantasies are a disservice to you.”

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Desmond’s eyes fell there, then on the wildly beating pulse in her throat. Once again, he brushed his knuckles brushed her cheek. “Please trust me, Lucy.”

No, this man was nothing like Lawrence. Or any other man. He looked at her but it wasn’t with want. He did see her, ugly face and mannish body.

She took a deep breath and her lips formed a silent, wordless prayer. “I trust you,” she whispered.

Desmond continued caressing her cheek. The light touch was relaxing, almost drugging. That’s how good it was. As Lucy’s eyes began to close, she felt him lean close. In the next instant, his warm, moist lips were on hers. Her breath locked in her throat as Desmond kissed her, a tentative brush of his lips on her mouth. Then he was gone, sitting back on his heels. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her anxiously.

“Y-You kissed me.”

“How else to reward trust but with a kiss?”

She blushed and managed to say, “I’ve never heard that before.”

“You looked so scared. You still do, but not as much.” Desmond confessed. “If I hugged you, I think you’d punch me. If I pay you a compliment, you’ll say I’m lying. By kissing you, we both get what we want. Also, it would spare my having to explain to people why I’m injured again. I also thought a kiss would be a good ice-breaker, you know?”

Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you know what I want?”

“To see this through. And I want you to trust me.” He looked at her lips again. “I’ll do it again, if you’d let me.”

She blushed and dropped her eyes. “Only if you want to.”

“No, Lucy. Only if you want to.”

She raised her eyes at him, unaware of how she looked limned in the light of an indigo evening and the golden glow from a lamp. “Desmond, I trust you.”

Relief crossed his face and then his lips were on her again. This time she kissed him back, remembering to tilt her head to the side to give him better access and so she could also kiss him better. Her heart was racing again, going a hundred miles an hour. She wondered if he could feel it under his arm, which was resting between her breasts.

No, this was nothing like Lawrence’s kisses. Lawrence did not kiss her. He choked her. Desmond. . .it was like a dance. Him gently leading and patiently waiting her to follow. Brushing his lips on hers as to not scare her away. Introducing the warmth of his breath, the moist slide of his lips, his warm tongue. He gave her just the tip and it was enough to encourage her to reciprocate.

Then she was putting her palm flat on his chest. Desmond sighed, understanding. He rested his forehead against her neck before leaning away. They looked at each other once more before he turned away to sit on the loveseat. Lucy watched him take his sketchpad and put it on his lap.

They didn’t speak for the nearly two hours, except for when Desmond assured her she could stretch her legs a bit or rub the numbing spot under her ass. But Lucy would only allow herself to stretch, not wanting to mess the position she was in. She watched him gaze at her intently, then at the version of her he was rendering on the paper. On and on this went. His eyes were sharp, deep emeralds, looking at her and seeing more. The hush and hiss of charcoal skidding across the paper was the only sound in their circle of quiet and trust.

Lucy put her clothes back on, unaware that Desmond watched her the entire time. He only turned away to drag the loveseat back to its original spot. Back in her tank top and shorts, she faced him. Desmond held out three sheets of paper to her.

“The two are the sketches I made of you this morning. I’m leaving the latest with you.” He said as she took them. Lucy’s cheeks were hot. They were all nudes. The pose he had her do was that of a woman luxuriating after an afternoon of lovemaking. That’s what she looked like, anyway. Nothing could be further from the truth but this was what she looked like. Lucy looked up and saw Desmond watching her.

“I guess artists see the world a certain way but it’s always part of a larger truth. You would know.” He told her. “I don’t lie, Lucy. Never to you. I swear it.”

He said it simply, as if stating something that had always been true between them. Lucy didn’t know what to say. She had trusted a man she knew little about. Stripped before him, let him touch her, kissed him, let him see her. She could only hold the sketches to her chest.

There was nothing else to say. Except for this: “I trust you, Desmond.”

He looked startled, as if she had just revealed something shocking. She watched him gather himself then he was suddenly standing before her. His green eyes looked into hers before his hand was wrapping around her nape. This time, his mouth mashed against hers. There was no sweet, gentle coaxing. His tongue swooped inside and she opened her mouth wide. Her hand fisted on his shirt as he sucked her tongue, as if to take a taste of her with him.

Before, she had stopped him. Now she wondered what the hell would possess her to stop a kiss like this. But Desmond had the answer. Lucy hoped her disappointment was not too obvious as his kisses suddenly stilled and then he was removing himself away from her. Her mouth felt bruised and she blinked rapidly at him, trying to understand what just happened. Desmond looked confused too; his shaking hand rising to smooth his hair told her.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were searing.

“What’s your schedule like?”

“Huh?”

“Your work. If you’ll be collaborating with me, we’ll have to work around that.” He glanced at her cello. “Also your practice time.”

Lucy had to scramble in her head for her schedule. She gave it to him and Desmond looked to memorize it.

“Come to my place tomorrow after your work. If you’re interested to see our collaboration through. I hope so, anyway.” Desmond looked at the papers she still held and he grinned. “I hope I didn’t disappoint today, Lucy. I certainly found some. . .significant satisfaction with us.” Then he smiled as she blushed furiously.

He got his portfolio case and gestured at the leftover pizza slices. “Those will make for a great breakfast tomorrow.”

“D-Desmond, wait.” Lucy called out to him as he opened the door. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. I-I can’t stay long. I have work that night.” She had almost forgotten about Royce Reid.

“What kind of work?”

“This dinner party I’ll be performing in. Some rich guy and his investors. I’m sorry. But I have to practice.”

“Don’t be. How’s your Friday?”

She nodded. “It works.”

“Good. Lucy, could you come here, please?”

So she did, thinking he had something else to give her. Or something to say.

Instead, he tugged her by the waistband of her shorts before planting his mouth on hers. Desmond Gorman’s marauding mouth roamed hungrily across and inside hers and she let him. Why is this happening?

Before she could come to some understanding why he had kissed her, again, and why she let him kiss her, again, he pulled away and left. The blasted man did not even look back! Lucy slammed the door, cursing under her breath.

When Mariet finally got home thirty minutes later, she noted the fiery flush on Lucy’s cheeks and thought she was fevered.

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CHAPTER FOUR

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CHAPTER FIVE

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CHAPTER SIX

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CHAPTER SEVEN

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CHAPTER EIGHT

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