I run a hand down my belly, between my legs, while holding his gaze, and that’s all it takes.
Before I can think about anything, I’m flat on my back on the towel I just tugged to the ground and Zack is inside me, getting me off so hard I scream loud enough to trigger irritated pounding on the ceiling from the person in the room above ours.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, writhing beneath him. “Don’t ever stop.”
“Never,” he promises, hitching my knee higher and finding that perfect angle, making it impossible for worry or fear to find a foothold in the pleasure washing over me, carrying every ugly thing out of sight and out of mind.
Chapter Nine
Zack
There’s music rushing through my head.
All through breakfast and the drive Upstate.
I pull over twice to jot down lyrics, and just twenty miles from the retreat, I have to roll into the parking lot of a scenic overlook and fetch my guitar from its case in the trunk.
“Sorry,” I tell Colette as I grab my Gibson, leaving the case open in the back seat. “I’ll be five minutes. Maybe ten. I just need to get this recorded before I forget it. Choruses stick in my head, but if I’m not careful, I’ll lose the bridge every time.”
“No worries at all!” Colette shuts the passenger’s door, clapping her hands as she bounces up on tiptoe. “This is exciting! I’m so glad your creative juices are flowing. I’ll stretch my legs and give you some privacy. Take as much time as you need.”
“Are you sure? You can stay if you want,” I say even though I would secretly prefer to be alone with the bridge.
I know it’s superstitious, but until I’m sure the muse is going to trust me with the entire song, I like to keep it to myself.
Colette waves a breezy hand as she slides her sunglasses on. “No, you do your thing. I’m going to go soak in the sun and the view.” She pulls in a deep breath that makes her gorgeous—and still bra-less—breasts strain the front of the strapless top she’s wearing today. “It’s beautiful up here. Glad I brought my hiking shoes for later.” Blowing me a kiss, she says, “Good luck,” and wanders away toward the trailhead at the edge of the parking lot, looking so happy and relaxed, I can’t help but feel proud of myself.
I fucked that happy smile onto her face, and I intend to do it again as soon as possible.
A no doubt goofy grin on my own mug, I give my Gibson—Quinn, named after my first crush, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman—a quick tune and launch into the notes that have been skipping through my head since we turned off the highway. In a few minutes, I have the bridge solid enough to hit the record button on my phone and capture it for later.
I’ll inevitably end up tweaking it as the rest of the song comes together, but it feels good to have it locked and loaded. Catching songs is the only thing as much fun as catching fish, something my granddad taught me to love at a young age. Sitting beside him on the boat, I’d dangle my line in the ocean next to his and wait for the magic to happen.
Speaking of magic…
Tucking Quinn back in her case and locking the car, I go in search of Colette.
As I step onto the trail, the temperature drops by at least ten degrees. It’s hot in the mountains of Upstate New York this time of the year—a hell of a lot hotter than coastal Maine, even during the heat wave that gripped my hometown in the days before we left—but it’s beautiful in the shade. Perfect hiking weather, making me wish we had time to go for a real walk. But the caretakers are expecting us to check in between noon and two, and it’s already one thirty.
I find Colette about a half mile down the winding path, standing at the edge, looking out across the lake-dotted valley and the mountains on the other side. With the sun turning her hair platinum and illuminating her silhouette through her top and flowing skirt, she’s so stunning my first thought is that someone should paint her.
I love a well-curated social media feed as much as the next man, but there’s something about a painted portrait that puts photography to shame. Maybe it’s because the conversation between the painter and the subject goes on for so much longer than it takes to snap a picture or spice it up in Photoshop.
By it’s very nature, a painting has layers, depth, and a point of view a photo can never equal.
If I were painting Colette, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from paying extra attention to the parts that fascinate me most—the curve of her breast, the thoughtful tilt of her head, the graceful swoop of her neck. Anyone looking close enough would see that fascination, see my feelings for my subject as well as the beauty of the model herself.