Suzanne smiled, grateful beyond words for his call, his apology, for his presence in her life that kept her from succumbing to the grief that threatened to overwhelm her at times.
“Dinner sounds lovely. But actually, you can make it up to me in another way,” she said, staring at her closed and useless laptop.
“Anything,” he pledged.
She’d spent the past eight years in countries with bombs and guns and death all around her. If she could face enemy armies she could face one Catholic priest.
“I need to borrow your car again.”
* * *
Michael adjusted his position just slightly to better capture the fading evening sun. His pencil flew over the paper as he traced a series of curving lines. He paused, looked at his work, erased one line and redrew it. As he turned closer to the window he inhaled and caught a whiff of something in the air. He breathed the scent in again—sort of spicy but also subtle and masculine. It wasn’t cologne or anything that strong. Just…Michael inhaled again and closed his eyes…just mouthwatering. God, whatever it was, he wanted to smell it for the rest of his life.
“Damn,” came a voice over his shoulder, making Michael jump in surprise. He turned his head and came face-to-face with Griffin, who stood next to him wearing nothing but boxer briefs. At least he knew the source of that incredible smell now. Michael stared at him in silence for a moment and took in the lack of clothes and the wet hair. Griffin had just gotten out of the shower obviously, and that incredible scent came from his skin. “You drew that?”
Griffin took Michael’s sketchbook from him and sat opposite him on the bench in the bay window.
“It’s not done.” He reached out to grab his book back, but Griffin raised his finger at him, and Michael dropped his hands.
“Submit, submissive,” Griffin said, stretching out his legs next to Michael. “I’m not your dom, but I am a dom, so behave.”
Michael repressed the urge to do the Nora thing and growl at Griffin.
“It’s not finished,” Michael repeated, pulling his legs tight to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. Griffin looked at him, set the sketchbook aside and grasped Michael by the ankles.
“What the—?” Michael began as Griffin yanked Michael’s legs out straight in front of him.
“You are out of control with the fetal-position thing,” Griffin said with obvious exasperation. “You are allowed to take up space, Mick. Every time you get the least bit stressed out, you pull up into this tiny ball and practically disappear. An impressive feat considering how tall you are.”
“Sorry,” Michael said, trying to relax. “I get nervous and I…” He tried to explain further but words failed him.
“You turn into a hedgehog,” Griffin said. “Self-protective measure. But you’re with me right now. Put the spikes away and chill. You don’t have to protect yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Not even in the fun way, okay?”
Michael’s heart contracted and then expanded hard enough he felt it at Griffin’s words. He couldn’t believe someone with Griffin’s sheer physical presence, not to mention all his money, would treat Michael with such… Michael tried to come up with a good word for it. With such care.
Slowly Michael smiled. “Okay.”
“Good. Now just sit there and look pretty while I nose through your book.”
Annoyed and embarrassed, Michael started to cross his arms but Griffin glared at him. Obediently Michael relaxed his arms and legs.
Griffin leafed slowly through the pages of Michael’s battered Moleskine sketchbook.
“Do you just do pencil sketches?” Griffin asked.
“Mostly. Pen and ink, pencil and pen.”
“Charcoals?”
“Love charcoal but it’s messy.”
“So?”
“Mom gets mad when it gets on my clothes,” Michael said and then cursed himself for saying something so idiotically childish.
“What’s with all the wings?” That particular sketchbook had nothing in it but variations on a theme—angel wings, bird wings, insect wings. Maybe next he’d try griffin wings.
“It’s my safe word Nora gave me. I’ve been doing wing drawings ever since.”
Turning his sketchbook around, Griffin flipped to the drawing Michael had been working on all day.
“This is incredible,” Griffin said, holding up the open book. “You’re like John Coulthart, but softer, more emotional.”
Michael’s blush deepened. “You know Coulthart’s stuff?” Michael asked, slightly stunned.
“I know I don’t look it,” Griffin said, “but I’ve got a geeky side. Plus I majored in art history at Brown.”
“You went to Brown?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t graduate. Long story,” Griffin said with a note of something Michael had never observed in him before—discomfort. “But I do know art. I’ve got two Picassos in my bedroom, there’s a Kandinsky in Nora’s room and there are a handful of Delaunays around. I dig orphic cubism. And since I know art, I know talent. And you have it, Mick. I love this.”
Griffin stared at the drawing Michael had been working on. Nothing very fancy, it was only a picture of slightly gothic-looking angel wings stretched out across the page. The huge hulking wings were attached to the back of a frail boy who sat on the ground with his legs pulled in tight to his chest. A personal drawing. Michael had never intended anyone to see it.
“Dinner sounds lovely. But actually, you can make it up to me in another way,” she said, staring at her closed and useless laptop.
“Anything,” he pledged.
She’d spent the past eight years in countries with bombs and guns and death all around her. If she could face enemy armies she could face one Catholic priest.
“I need to borrow your car again.”
* * *
Michael adjusted his position just slightly to better capture the fading evening sun. His pencil flew over the paper as he traced a series of curving lines. He paused, looked at his work, erased one line and redrew it. As he turned closer to the window he inhaled and caught a whiff of something in the air. He breathed the scent in again—sort of spicy but also subtle and masculine. It wasn’t cologne or anything that strong. Just…Michael inhaled again and closed his eyes…just mouthwatering. God, whatever it was, he wanted to smell it for the rest of his life.
“Damn,” came a voice over his shoulder, making Michael jump in surprise. He turned his head and came face-to-face with Griffin, who stood next to him wearing nothing but boxer briefs. At least he knew the source of that incredible smell now. Michael stared at him in silence for a moment and took in the lack of clothes and the wet hair. Griffin had just gotten out of the shower obviously, and that incredible scent came from his skin. “You drew that?”
Griffin took Michael’s sketchbook from him and sat opposite him on the bench in the bay window.
“It’s not done.” He reached out to grab his book back, but Griffin raised his finger at him, and Michael dropped his hands.
“Submit, submissive,” Griffin said, stretching out his legs next to Michael. “I’m not your dom, but I am a dom, so behave.”
Michael repressed the urge to do the Nora thing and growl at Griffin.
“It’s not finished,” Michael repeated, pulling his legs tight to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. Griffin looked at him, set the sketchbook aside and grasped Michael by the ankles.
“What the—?” Michael began as Griffin yanked Michael’s legs out straight in front of him.
“You are out of control with the fetal-position thing,” Griffin said with obvious exasperation. “You are allowed to take up space, Mick. Every time you get the least bit stressed out, you pull up into this tiny ball and practically disappear. An impressive feat considering how tall you are.”
“Sorry,” Michael said, trying to relax. “I get nervous and I…” He tried to explain further but words failed him.
“You turn into a hedgehog,” Griffin said. “Self-protective measure. But you’re with me right now. Put the spikes away and chill. You don’t have to protect yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Not even in the fun way, okay?”
Michael’s heart contracted and then expanded hard enough he felt it at Griffin’s words. He couldn’t believe someone with Griffin’s sheer physical presence, not to mention all his money, would treat Michael with such… Michael tried to come up with a good word for it. With such care.
Slowly Michael smiled. “Okay.”
“Good. Now just sit there and look pretty while I nose through your book.”
Annoyed and embarrassed, Michael started to cross his arms but Griffin glared at him. Obediently Michael relaxed his arms and legs.
Griffin leafed slowly through the pages of Michael’s battered Moleskine sketchbook.
“Do you just do pencil sketches?” Griffin asked.
“Mostly. Pen and ink, pencil and pen.”
“Charcoals?”
“Love charcoal but it’s messy.”
“So?”
“Mom gets mad when it gets on my clothes,” Michael said and then cursed himself for saying something so idiotically childish.
“What’s with all the wings?” That particular sketchbook had nothing in it but variations on a theme—angel wings, bird wings, insect wings. Maybe next he’d try griffin wings.
“It’s my safe word Nora gave me. I’ve been doing wing drawings ever since.”
Turning his sketchbook around, Griffin flipped to the drawing Michael had been working on all day.
“This is incredible,” Griffin said, holding up the open book. “You’re like John Coulthart, but softer, more emotional.”
Michael’s blush deepened. “You know Coulthart’s stuff?” Michael asked, slightly stunned.
“I know I don’t look it,” Griffin said, “but I’ve got a geeky side. Plus I majored in art history at Brown.”
“You went to Brown?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t graduate. Long story,” Griffin said with a note of something Michael had never observed in him before—discomfort. “But I do know art. I’ve got two Picassos in my bedroom, there’s a Kandinsky in Nora’s room and there are a handful of Delaunays around. I dig orphic cubism. And since I know art, I know talent. And you have it, Mick. I love this.”
Griffin stared at the drawing Michael had been working on. Nothing very fancy, it was only a picture of slightly gothic-looking angel wings stretched out across the page. The huge hulking wings were attached to the back of a frail boy who sat on the ground with his legs pulled in tight to his chest. A personal drawing. Michael had never intended anyone to see it.
