Levi's Blue: A Sexy Southern Romance (21 page)

“Finish it.  Touch me. Feel me. Do whatever you have to do to
see
me and finish it.  Please.” The last word, a plea, is said with a note of finality.

I blink back tears. Why does this feel like goodbye? Like a goodbye that he doesn’t want to give?  What the hell is going on?

“Levi, is something wrong? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“There’s a lot that I’m not telling you.”

“Then why don’t you rectify that?”

I hear as well as feel the breath he exhales.  “I will. Just not tonight.  Tonight, I just want you to paint me.”

It’s no skin off my nose to paint this man. I’ve been dying to finish it anyway, and with him actually in the room, with his face close enough to touch, it’ll be easier than I thought.

“But why, Levi? Why do you want this so much?”

“I want you to have what you see right now. The man you see right now. So you don’t forget it. Don’t forget what you see. What you
feel.
”

I swallow back a feeling of panic.

“Okay.”  I nod, sadness curling its cold fingers around my heart and squeezing. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s not good.

“Let me change,” I say calmly, starting out of the room, comfortable enough to walk unassisted in my own space.

“Evie?” he asks before I get very far.

“Yeah?”

“Can I help you?”  The timber of his voice is the same, but it lacks the playful thread that’s usually weaved through it.  Now, there’s a serious quality to it that gives me the sense that I have to absorb every ounce of him that I can tonight. I think he’s telling me we may not have a tomorrow.

My mouth goes dry, and my heart aches with something profoundly poignant.  I nod and hold out my hand.  He doesn’t take it, but rather sweeps me into his arms, his lips finding mine in a gentle kiss that lasts as he carries me down the hall.

In my room, he sets me on my feet, and I start to peel off my clothes.  Without a sound, Levi’s hands brush mine aside, disrobing me one inch, one breath, one heartbeat at a time until I’m standing naked before him.

“Wear this,” he says.

I hear the shift of material before he hands me his shirt. It’s been on his body all day, so it’s warm, and when I hold it to my nose, it smells like him.

“I’ll ruin it,” I declare, stilling the quiver of my chin, willing myself not to cry. 

“You’ll only make it better.”

I can tell by the feel of the shirt that it’s expensive.  It’s a button up, but I slip it on over my head. I half-expected Levi to make love to me since he wanted to help me change, and I’m more than a little disappointed that he didn’t.  But that disappointment morphs slowly into excitement when he takes my hand and leads me to my studio.

I pause just inside the door, inhaling the scent of my soul. That’s what this place feels like—like the physical location where everything important in my life resides.  It smells of paint and turpentine and taut new canvases.  It is the tangible equivalent to the palace in my mind where I store all the images of everything I’ve ever seen and can remember.  Here, in this space, is where I bring them to life. 
This
is where the color in my mind becomes the color all the world can see.

I walk by memory to my stool. I could make my way to it if someone spun me in circles for five minutes and turned me loose. It has a gravity all its own, like my body is drawn to it. 

I reach toward the table that always sits to the left of the easel, the easel which still holds my half-finished portrait of the Levi of my mind.  I set out the things that I’ll need, going through a routine that I’ve had for over a decade. I do it without thought, my entire brain focused on the quiet man standing a foot away from me.

“Why did you use your fingers on this? You said you usually paint with brushes. Why didn’t you when you started this one?”

I feel warmth creep into my cheeks.  “I guess I wanted to feel every stroke,
feel
you come to life. Painting with my fingers is more…organic. I have a different connection to it.”

And, in this case, more emotional, more sexual, more explosive.  This piece erupted from parts of me that I thought were dead. Or at least dying.

Self-consciously, I get back to my preparations, hoping he’ll let it go. I don’t want him to ask about the connection and why I felt so compelled to paint him that way.

I only know that I
did
feel compelled to paint him with my fingers, touching every curve and angle.

And I still do.

When everything is arranged, I brush off my hands and raise them to the canvas, trailing my fingers over the dried paint of what I’ve already completed.  I
feel
the shape, the texture, the color of Levi.  Of how I “see” him, how he makes me feel.  I poured him from my soul onto this canvas, and it will forever feel like the man himself. Or
my interpretation
of the man himself.  This is how he feels
to me. 
There are a few areas I haven’t filled in yet, like the chin and mouth, and the eyes themselves. I know as I feel the outline that I’ll have to alter them slightly.  They’re some of the most important elements of his face.

My hands fall away from the canvas, and I hear Levi move, his tread nearly silent. But not to me.  I hear him.  I feel him, too. 

Mutely, he takes my hands and brings them to his face, fluttering my fingertips over his jaw and chin, his cheeks and nose, to his eyes.  He circles them with my fingertips, round and round, and then closes his eyes and lets me feel them without his help.

I do, memorizing every fine detail of his face, committing it all to its own separate room in my mind, giving him his own dedicated space, afraid that this will be the last time I’ll touch it, that I’ll touch
him.

Emotion flows through me, what’s in my heart starting to tingle at my fingertips.  I turn back to my canvas and reach for my paints, but before I can sit on my stool, Levi stops me.

He scoots in behind me, perching on the stool and pulling me onto his lap.  “Paint from here. Can you?”

I wiggle, letting my legs fall over his when he puts his feet on the bottom rung of the stool.  I sit back a little, noting that he’d make a very comfortable recliner.  That is my last thought before a drop of oil paint touches my finger.  From that moment on, I’m lost.

Levi is utterly soundless at my back. I can’t even hear him breathing. I can only feel his warmth, his presence, his
solidness
beneath me, his hands resting lightly on my bare thighs.

Several times, without thinking about getting paint on him, I reach back to touch his face, outlining his perfect mouth, tracing his perfect cheek, charting his perfect jaw. My fingers tremble as I work. I’ll feel it every time I come back to this painting, too. I’ll feel every waver, every shudder.  Everything that I’m feeling
now,
the pleasure and the pain.  The good and the bad. The hope and the hopelessness.

I don’t know how much time has elapsed when I pick up two shades of blue along with black and white, but I’m almost done. The only thing I have left to paint are his eyes. 

Carefully, I begin mixing.  I start with cerulean and add Prussian blue. I dab in black, but too much so I add back some white.  Back and forth I go until the color feels just right, until the consistency matches what I think I see in my head. Only then do I turn around and hold up my finger.  “Levi’s blue,” I say of the denim color, but knowing that I’ll forever think of his eyes when I feel it, when I paint with it.

Levi grabs my wrist and brings my finger to his cheek, slowly dragging it from the corner of his eye down toward the corner of his mouth.

Like a tear.

When he releases me, I turn, hesitantly, to finish my work. It takes me the longest to do his eyes, to get right what I believe I see, what I
hope
I see in my mind.  But I’ll never know. I’ll never know what they look like right now, what expression they’re wearing on this night as he watches me paint.

After I make the last swipe of color on the canvas, I lower my hands to the sound of a crescendo in my head.  It’s as though this represents the height of our relationship, the best of what we’ve had in this short amount of time, and from here it’s all downhill. 

The ebb.

The fade.

The
de
crescendo. 

Behind me, Levi nudges me until I start to slide off his lap. Rather than letting me go, however, he lets me find my feet and then turns me to face him, picking me up under my arms and setting me back onto his lap, straddling him. 

His hands come to mine, rubbing through the oily paint that coats my skin before dropping to the first button of his shirt that I’m wearing and loosening it.

When he releases the second button from its hole, my breathing starts to pick up. I realize that it matches his, breath for breath, as desire stirs between us, growing as quickly as a flame in the presence of an accelerant.

He
is my accelerant.

And, for the moment, I am his.

My nipples are already hard when he unbuttons the last of the row and parts the folds of expensive linen, baring me to his eyes, to his hands.  I feel the heat from his mouth seconds before it envelops my breast, sucking hard at the plump tip, then biting softly until I’m dragging my paint-covered hands through his hair.

Still he says nothing.  In the hush of the night, without words, he teases and coaxes my body to life. I rock against him, and he reaches behind me to press my hips into his, stoking the fire.

The only sounds in the room are wet mouths, hungry gasps, muted moans. And my heartbeat.

With one big hand, Levi pushes at my chest, urging me back over his arm until my chest, my whole body are his to do with as he chooses.

He laves at my nipples, and I claw at his shoulders.  He nips at my neck, and I scrape at his back.  When he reaches between us to flick open the fly on his jeans, I groan with the anticipation of what’s to come, of feeling so completely filled by him, like I can’t hold anything else.  Like nothing can come between us.

There’s the quick rattle of a condom before Levi brings his hands to either side of my face.  He kisses me softly and then urgently, but then he releases me.  Perfectly still, we sit like that, bodies begging for release, hearts listening to something else entirely.

“Watch me while I make love to you,” he whispers, releasing my face to lift my hips. 

I know what he’s asking—for me to look
into
him, to watch what can’t be seen with eyes. So I do.

I cup his face in my hands, and when I feel his thick head prodding at my entrance, I hold on, eyes closed and facing him, as he lowers me, inch by delicious inch, onto him.

I exhale, a mewl of pure ecstasy slipping out unbidden when I’m fully seated on him. He’s so big, so perfect inside me. 

I hear him grunt, want to hear his words, but still he says nothing. So I feel.

I feel his every breath. I feel his every motion. I feel the passion on his face.  But more than that, I feel his eyes. I feel them with what my hands could never feel, and I feel what’s in them.

Face to face, nose to nose, Levi moves me on him, up and down as he flexes his hips up to meet mine, driving his body deeper.  When I would kiss him, as though he feels me giving in, he murmurs again, “Watch me.”

For the first time since I lost my vision, I
do
see. I see Levi for who he is, for what he wants, and who he is to me. I see him for someone I could lose myself to—heart and soul—but who won’t let me for one reason or another.  I see it all.

This is the end of something beautiful. Whatever happens, whatever comes, we won’t ever have this moment, this perfect peace and happiness back again.

My heart tears in two.

When it becomes too much for both of us, Levi lifts me and stands, walking to the nearest wall and puts my back to it, pressing me against it so he can hammer his body up into mine.

His face is buried under my hair, his breath hot on my skin.  Within seconds, I’m flying, falling over the edge, soaring past the point of no return.  And seconds after that, he comes with me, following me down, down, down.

I cry out, in pleasure and in pain, a collision of emotion that leaves my soul a mangled mess and my body a quivering heap. If not for his arms, I would fall to the floor, unable to move.

I don’t remember Levi carrying me to my room. I don’t remember him taking his shirt off me. I don’t remember him putting me under the covers. I only remember his voice when he told me goodnight, and that it didn’t feel like I’d be seeing him tomorrow.

I only remember that it felt like goodbye.

CHAPTER 20

LEVI

LEAVING EVIE feels worse than I expected.

And I expected it to feel like shit.

I make it to the hotel by midnight. And I’m irate by the time I get to my room.

I’m not the type of man to be jerked around, much less blackmailed. If I didn’t care about Evie, I would never have even
humored
Julianne’s demands. I’d have told her to go to hell on the spot.

But I
do
care about Evie.

More than I thought I would.  Damn sure more than I
should,
all things considered.

And Julianne must be able to sense that.

So here I am, marching to her tune for the moment. Pacifying her until I can tell Evie
my way
and then take care of Julianne the way I see fit
. 
But even temporarily caving to her demands does
not
set well with me.  Not one bit.

But that’s all right.  Hers is coming.  She’s messed with the wrong man this time.

The first thing I see when I walk into my suite is a bottle of champagne on the table near the entry.  It has a note tied with a red satin ribbon around the neck.  Stalking over to it, I rip off the tiny square and open it.

I decided to help you tell her. You can thank me later.  J

My mouth goes dry, and my heart thumps heavily as I reread the note. I read it a third time to be sure I’m not misunderstanding something.  I don’t think I am, but just in case…

Only I’m not.

I’m not misunderstanding anything.

My fury is the first thing to rise. I take my phone from my pocket and punch Julianne’s contact information so hard it feels like my finger might go straight through the glass screen.

She answers on the first ring.

“You
did
make it. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“What the hell did you do?”

Her laugh, the laugh that I once thought was sultry, is toxic.  “What
you
should’ve already done. What
you
weren’t strong enough to do.  I mean, really, Levi. I thought you were stronger than that. Stronger than me.  But clearly, you’re not as strong as I thought. It didn’t take long for her to make you weak.”

“I don’t give a good godda—”

“But more than that, you were right. I don’t want you this way. I’d much rather wait for the day when you come
begging
for me to take you back.  So I gave you a gift. Or, more specifically, gave
her
a gift.” 

“What did you do?” I spit again, tired of her games.

“I just sent her a little present. Nothing too expensive.  Just a trinket really. But with a note.”

I’m instantly relieved.  “She’s blind, Julianne. Or did you forget?  She can’t read your little messages.” 

“I didn’t forget.  Haven’t you seen recordable cards?”

My abs clench. With rage. And with concern.

I
really had
intended to tell Evie.  Eventually.  At least I think so.  But
I
wanted to do it.
I
wanted to be able to tell her
my way,
in
my time.

But if Julianne is telling the truth, that ship has sailed.

“Sounds like someone isn’t very happy with the news,” she purrs in a smug voice.

“You’re a scheming pathetic little bitch. I can’t believe I
ever
saw anything good in you.”

She laughs and it makes me want to reach through the phone and choke the shit out of her.  “Who are you trying to convince?  Me or yourself?  Because I’ve always been this way. It’s what you love about me, whether you admit it or not.”

“You’re not just pathetic, you’re
crazy
.”

“You won’t always think so.  You’ll want me again. I promise.”

“I’ll bury you with that promise,” I snarl scathingly. 

“Don’t be so sure.  Once little Evian gets my note, I think you’ll see things my way.”

I tighten my fingers around the phone in a grip I’m surprised doesn’t crush the damn thing.  “
I
promise
you
that I won’t.  If you ever,
ever
come near me again, I’ll make you wish you’d never met me.  And as for Evie, you’d better pray to whatever god filthy whores like you believe in that she doesn’t end up hurt because of you.  I’ll take everything from you. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve ever loved, even if I have to make a deal with the devil himself to do it.”

After all my father has done, I don’t even hate
him
as much as I hate Julianne in this moment.  I’m consumed with it, shaking with it.

Julianne is smart enough to know this is war. It’s there in the tightness of her next words. And it’s there in the card she plays, the only leverage she has to keep me from destroying her.

Evie.

She’s right in
one thing. 
Evie really is my only weakness.

“If you don’t see things my way, I’ll tell the world that she’s a fake. A phony.  And they’ll believe me, because a blind woman? Painting? Don’t be ridiculous. Her career,
her life,
and everything she’s worked for will be gone.” I hear the snap of her fingers. “Poof. Just like that.”

I growl, a feral sound even to my own ears.  “You disgusting fuc—”

She cuts me off before I can finish, ending the call with a satisfied, “Bye” and then she’ gone.

I stand holding the phone for a few seconds, literally quaking with rage, before I give in to my urge to break something. I throw the phone as hard as I can against the wall and feel a little bit better when it explodes into a zillion pieces right in front of my eyes.

Then something she said stops me.

Panics me.

If Julianne
does
get to her before I do, Evie will explode right in front of my eyes, too.

I run for the door.