A Battle Raging (11 page)

"Could I even stop you?
This is your home after all. Feel free."

He rolled back to allow her room to view the canvas. He looked up at her expression, then realized he was holding his breath.

"It's me," she said with awe. "It's so beautiful."

"It's just what I see when I look at you."

"And you see me like this?"

"And you don't?" he asked incredulously. It hadn't occurred to him that she wouldn't know how gorgeous she was.

She shook her head slowly. "I mean I know it's me, but it has a different aura, like you're deifying me."

"
Well, a goddess should be deified."

She looked at him with a smirk. "Now you're being facetious," she said without rancor despite her words.

"No. That first day when I was such a dick to you…well, it was because I was so intimidated. I hadn't wanted to come in the first place and then I come and see you. And all I can think of is how I didn't want to make a fool of myself because I'm so rusty…and I guess I was so anxious that I took it out on you and the class. I'm sorry. Again I was a selfish prick."

Owning up to
one's bad behavior was something that Dr. Madison often stressed in his sessions, both group and private.

"It's important not to use your PTSD as some moral get out-of-jail-card," Dr. Madison had said recently. "You may not be responsible for the cause, but you're
largely responsible for the cure, which is checking your emotions and attitudes when you can."

Those words rang in Zach's head now. He often
had trouble apologizing. But today the regret flowed easily, without any pushback from him.

"Thank you, Zach. I know from experience it's not easy admitting when you've been wrong. And I apologize to you for trying to push you beyond your comfort zone. It was not my intent to push you out of the class."

She looked back at the portrait.

"I still say
I have nothing to teach you. Your skills are even beyond my expertise."

She stepped back and shifted to turn
. The robe snagged on the easel's edge, pulling the material until the robe opened slightly. Zach spied the curve of a thigh, saw a peek of white panties before she jerked the robe, ripping it a bit, pulling the material closed again. He saw the embarrassment on her face.

"Don't worry, I didn't see anything…much," he assured her. "Strange, being an artist and so ashamed of nudity."

"I'm not ashamed of nudity," she said, but the tone of her face reddened a bit. "It's a natural state."

"Yes, and a beautiful state,
as well," he said. "Look, I'm in this chair and you'd think that I would feel awkward taking off my clothes, but I don't. I have a scar running along my back and my legs aren't as muscular as the rest of my body. You know, sometimes I sit in front of my floor length mirror and examine my body, compare it to the body of my younger self, how I remember it. It's different, yes, but no less than it once was. It's part of who I am now."

"That's a healthy attitude," she conceded, but her hands
maintained a death grip on the edges of the sides of her robe, obviously afraid of another "betrayal" by the garment.

Before he could think about what he was doing, he reached with both hands, put one on either one of her hands.

"Let go," he coaxed.

The initial panicked expression conflicted with other emotions and obvious curiosity. He realized that she was at war with herself , two sides trying to trump the other. The pragmatic Maya who was probably telling her that she couldn't do this, that he was a student and practically a stranger. And maybe the more adventurous side that peered out at times, even during the short time he'd known her.

Desire and curiosity. In the end, they won out and she loosened her grip.

He reached for the belt, pulled at it until it gave way.
The robe fell open. He saw the otherwise taut stomach with just a slight curve to it and lace-edged white underwear. She had no bra on and her breasts were bare, her nipples just a few shades darker than the rest of her. They were slightly uptilted, something that should be captured on canvas, in various oils.

His forefinger touched her stomach tentatively and he heard a sharp intake of breath. He let it roam downward, trace the edge of the panties, upward then, traveling toward the undercut of her breast, tracing
its edge.

He grabbed the edge of the robe, jerked it down, and it
fell to the floor, leaving her naked and open.

"Take off your panties," he inst
ructed, knowing he had no right to ask, but urged on by his need and her apparent acquiescence.

That acquiescence seemed t
o give way for a second as she stood unmoving. But then both her hands grabbed the material from her hips, dragged it down to the floor. She stepped out of them. Her eyes never left his.

He reached out
a hand and curved it around her waist, pulled her to him until she was at the edge of his chair.

He smelled a whiff of something floral. Probably some feminine deodorant. Why did women hate their natural scent so much that they had to mask it with
something unnatural? At least she just trimmed and was not shaven like a juvenile.

He wanted to smell her
, wanted to taste her excitement.

She stood silently but he was pleased at the naked desire in her face as she waited
for him to lead.

He pushed a finger between
the crevice where her thatch converged and was satisfied at the moisture he felt there. He caressed the puckered flesh, ran a finger in between the folds, pushing into her tight passage with first one, two, then eventually three fingers, rolling in and out with a steady rhythm while his thumb rolled against her clitoris. Her breathing was slightly audible, quickening with the pleasure of the finger fuck.

There it was. Her natural scent, slightly pungent,
sharp with a tinge of sweet.

His own excitement was evident by the strain of the jeans. With his free hand he unzipped himself to relieve the pressure.

He wanted to taste her. He shifted forward until his face was pressed into her thighs. Her smell was heady now, intoxicating. He replaced the digital manipulation with a tongue he pushed into the outer folds, tasting the tiny knot of flesh, heard another sharp intake of breath, a moan. Grabbed her ass, kneading the soft roundness of it, as he lapped the juice around her clit, turning the moans into helpless mewls.

He pushed his face deeper into her space,
sucked at the sticky ooze of her excitement, began licking the viscous cream, enjoying the salty tang of it.

She thrust her hips, grabbed the back of his head,
rocked against him, as clutched her ass, bracing himself against the rough motion.

He knew that he could stay there forever, drowning in her liquid, her scent, her taste, feeling her pleasure in the
squirming of her body, hearing her sighs and moans, feeling her fingers tangled in his hair…

But eventually, she
convulsed as she came hard onto his face, seeping more juice that he eagerly lapped up, drinking all of her. When he finally pulled away, he looked up into her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth opened, pulling in needed breaths.

He swiped at the moisture on his face with his hand, tasted it off his fingers.

When he looked up again, she had opened her eyes, was looking at him with an expression that he couldn't read. Then she looked downward at his swollen member peeking from the open zipper.

"You can feel down there?" she asked.

"Yes," he said softly. "I was shot in the back, but the bullet didn't take all of the sensation. I just don't ejaculate much. But I don't need any Viagra. I'll respond to direct stimulation."

He closed his eyes when
she knelt before him and closed a hand around his penis. The hand was warm and slightly moist, probably due to the heat of the day.

She began
an upward stroke, following the natural curve of his dick. At first, her touch was soft, gentle and felt exquisite to him.

"
He opened her eyes, saw her gauging his pleasure.

"Harder," he
requested, his breathing quickening at her manipulation.

She complied, pressing him harder, running the edge of her nails along his ridges.

"You feel that?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"Feels good?" she prompted.

"Oh God, yes."

She smiled beatifically, and Zach knew right then that he would do everything he could to keep her in his life. And he would specifically thank Dr. Madison for his suggestion that he take an art class, to alleviate his "demons." He hadn't hoped that he could ever feel this way again, not since his SCI. But, to be honest, he hadn't felt this way about a woman even before his injury.

Her hand was performing its own exorcism, drawing out some of the emotional pain and lifelessness that had been pent up in
side him for so long. He let his head rest on the back of his chair, his mouth opened to drag in air. Her smell was still on his face, in the air, mixing with the solvent and paints. It would be a mélange he would never forget.

He had one more request.

"Can you…touch the outer rim of my ear?"

She half laughed. "What?

"Parts of me have become more sensitive since my paralysis. It's weird that way."

As she continued stroking him with her right hand, her left
hand ran along the fleshy part of his right ear. The nerve endings in his flesh were on fire now. He wanted more, but knew that it wouldn't happen today. They were just beginning and there would be plenty of time to explore one another.

He came
with a shudder, his body shaking, his breaths ragged. But as he expected, there just a little cum. And he was still hard.

She touched her lips to his, slightly. A teasing touch. Then pulled away.

He reached up to caress her cheek, then pulled her head in for a proper kiss. He pushed his tongue in, letting her taste herself on him. Sucked in her breath, licked her tongue, bit her bottom lips. He loved that she responded in kind.

When they finally pulled apart, he saw
by her pained expression that she wanted more. And he was glad to oblige.

He leaned toward the crevice of her neck, ran a tongue down the curve, further downward to the rise of her breast. Further downward until he felt the small button of her nipple, tasted it. Heard the rasp in her breath. Heard another intake as his fingers began their favorite exploration of her pussy.

Took a moment between his ministrations to pull back and say,

"Maybe we should go on a date
."

Saw her smile and then he did other things to make her moan
again.

"What'
re we doing today?" Jada asked.

"Chicken Marsala," Maya
answered as she pulled the plate of skinned boneless chicken breasts, already defrosted, from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter before retrieving the package of butter.

"
Get the sherry and wine, and I'll get the mushrooms," Maya suggested.

Today, they'd decided to do dinner instead of the traditional breakfast,
a variation they did on occasion. Again, though, the menu was in homage to Lucille, their mom.

"Oooh, this is going to be good," Jada said.

For a few minutes, they silently performed delegated duties of pounding the chicken and slicing the basketful of mushrooms after which Maya mixed a bowl of flour, salt, black pepper, and oregano. Once those duties were done, she placed the butter in the large iron skillet she pulled from a cabinet, placed it on the oven range before going back to pounding the chicken.

She was on auto-mode
today, her mind in two places. Physically she was in the kitchen with Jada, while her mind was back in the art room, with the ghosts of yesterday re-enacting the tableau of paint and seduction.

What the hell had she done?

She pounded the hell out of the chicken.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Jada was looking at her as though she'd taken leave of her senses. Which was probably the case, since the chicken pieces were flatter than she'd intended.

"Nothing," Maya answered quickly as she continued the pummeling. Too quickly for Jada it would seem.

"Don't shit me, Maya
. Something's up because you just gave that chicken a second death. I'm pretty sure the first one was enough."

Maya stopped the poultry destruction and let out a soft sigh.

"And?" Jada prompted.

"And what?"
Maya asked with more sass than she'd meant.

Jada stood, paused in her kitchen duties,
with a look of consternation mixed with concern. The younger sister stepping in as the elder again. Or more like the assistant district attorney sussing out a secret.