Helena Hunting - Clipped Wings

Beyond the living area was what looked to be a drafting table, like the ones architects use. The space was delineated with a box shelf, which housed more books and several red fabric bins, the contents hidden from view. The cool colors and the uniformity were both calming and masculine.

The condo wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d envisioned some kind of anarchist retreat, including a wall of angry graffiti. Instead it felt like I walked into the pages of a modern magazine.

Spanning the wall behind the couch, perfectly spaced out, were three framed works of art. The two on either end clearly belonged to Chris and Jamie, but the one in the middle was Hayden’s creation. Detailed and vibrant, the art almost looked like a photograph. It was a perfect replica of my tattoo on my body. The rendering held me in an incredibly flattering light.

“I, uh . . .” Hayden cleared his throat. “I just put that up the other day.”

“You don’t see enough of me so you thought you’d hang me on your wall, too?”

Hayden stood at the edge of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. “Something like that.”

“It’s beautiful.” His mood was difficult to track. Inviting me into his space was like giving me a look inside his head. Hayden kept such tight control over everything in his life: his work, his home, his emotions. I seemed to be the exception to that rule.

“That’s because it’s you.” His smile was shy. “Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, red wine, scotch. I think I might have stuff to make a girlie drink if you want.”

“Wine would be nice.” I moved away from the drawing and followed him into the kitchen. “Do you have a housekeeper or something?”

He eyed me like the notion was absurd. “I’m good at keeping things organized. I don’t need someone else to do that for me.”

“Are you taking a shot at my housekeeping skills?”

“I can’t take a shot at something you don’t have.”

Insulted by the insinuation that I wasn’t tidy enough, I circled his kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers while he poured drinks.

“What are you looking for?”

“Where’s your junk drawer?”

“My what?” He swirled his scotch, amused.

It was a strange contradiction, seeing this man, so unnervingly beautiful, sipping scotch in the most immaculate kitchen I’d ever stepped foot in.

“Your junk drawer. You know, the place where you put all the stuff you don’t know what to do with.” When he just stared at me, I provided a few examples. “Elastic bands, twist ties, masking tape, spare pens, those kinds of things.”

“Open the drawer to your left.”

I was sorely disappointed by what I found. An organizer had been dropped into it, each compartment labeled according to the items it housed. In my world, most people tossed those random items into a catch-all drawer. At least that was what I grew up with. Even Connor, whose family had employed a live-in housekeeper, had a junk drawer.

“This is too organized. It doesn’t qualify.”

“I like organized. Clutter stresses me out.”

“I never would have guessed,” I replied.

My place was perpetually lived in. He was always tidying up after me. Now I understood his compulsion. In comparison to his, my apartment looked like a bomb had gone off in it.

“Are you done snooping?”

“For now. Did you want to show me where you sleep?”

“Sure.”

At the end of the hall, he opened a door and hit the light switch. Hayden’s bedroom retained the same masculine minimalist bent as the rest of his place. A king-sized bed was set against a midnight blue wall, the heavy dark wood frame complemented by a dresser and a nightstand in the same modern style. The slate gray duvet was turned down, navy sheets pulled tight, matching pillows propped against the headboard. There were signs of life in here; books stacked neatly on the nightstand, a digital clock, and a lamp with a dark shade.

There was more art on the walls, all of which reflected abject sensuality. A trio of photographs depicted various female body parts—the curvy silhouette of a woman’s torso, the line of her neck, the swell of a hip draped in red satin.

“Lisa took those,” Hayden said, his fingers drifting down my spine.

“Is it someone you know?”

“No. Just a model from one of her photography classes.”

“Oh.” Relief flooded through me. I didn’t want Hayden staring at photographs of a woman he’d once been with as he was drifting off to sleep, or doing anything else in that bed.

“No one’s ever been in here before.”

“Did you just move in recently?” The room defied the typical bachelor pad; no piles of clothes draped over chairs or discarded on the floor.

“I’ve lived here since we opened Inked Armor.”

It took a few seconds for the message to sink in. “You’ve never brought a woman home?”

“Well yeah, but never in here. Not in my room or my bed. Except for you. I want you in here. With me. Jesus. I sound like a douche.” He gulped down the rest of his scotch. “I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“Hey.” I tugged on his wrist, pulling him farther into the room, toward that massive bed. He came willingly. My wineglass found a home on the nightstand. I stepped away, turning to face him.

“Only me?”

“Yes.”

Territorial pride gave me courage. “Why?” I asked and lowered the hidden zipper on my dress. It loosened and fell away, pooling at my feet. Hayden’s eyes stayed on me as the rest of my clothing dropped to the floor.

“Because I—” He looked so vulnerable. “I want to— Being with you is different.”

I sat on the edge of the mattress, tucked my knees under me, and crooked a finger. His empty glass kissed mine, the muted clink the only sound other than our breathing. When he was right in front of me, I started to undress him.

“It’s the same for me,” I admitted, pushing his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms. I unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his pants, and pushed them over his hips. “I’ve never had this kind of connection with anyone but you.” I lifted my eyes. “It scares me that I feel this way. The thought of losing you—” The prospect was too disconcerting, especially considering how close we’d been to that potential reality so recently.

He cupped my face in his hands and dipped his head down to kiss me. “I don’t want to be without you again,” he murmured.

I moved back as Hayden climbed up on the bed and prowled over me. When my head hit the pillows, I parted my legs and he settled between them.

“I should have brought you here sooner,” he said against my mouth.

“I’m here now.” I wrapped myself around him, drawing him close.

Everything was slow, careful. It was such a relief when he finally eased inside me. He moved over me with that same unhurried passion, like the end was something he was trying to stay away from, not get to.

“I can’t get close enough,” he whispered, stealing my breath when he kissed me.

My hands moved down, resting on the dip in his spine. I lifted my hips, urging him deeper. His eyes closed briefly, his smile wry. When they opened, the way he looked at me made my heart ache. His emotions bared in that moment as his fingers skimmed my throat down to my collarbone and his palm stopped over my heart. “I want to be in here.” There was such quiet yearning in his eyes as he gazed down at me.

I touched his perfect face, wishing I could give him more of me. “You already are.”

When I came, it felt like I was breaking apart and being put back together at the same time.

It was a long time before either one of us moved. Hayden blanketed my body, his weight deliciously heavy. His head rested on my chest, his colorful arm cutting a line across the pale, unmarked skin on my stomach.