Chapter 13: Chapter 12: Feelings
The smell of linseed oil and turpentine was sharp in Joel’s nose, a clean, chemical counterpoint to the perfume that usually clung to the halls of Blackthorne. He stood before a half-finished canvas, a chaotic splash of crimson and gold, pretending to study it. His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the hypothetical web he’d spun for Brooke.
She was mixing colors on a porcelain palette, her movements assured. The sunlight from the tall north-facing windows caught the dust motes dancing around her, glinting in the auburn strands of her hair. She hadn’t answered him yet.
“So, Joel…” Brooke said finally, her voice a low, amused ripple. “Hypothetically.” She loaded a brush with a deep ultramarine. “You catch feelings for a girl in the house. Sky, right? The one who kicked your ass at Mario Kart? Again and again?”
Joel felt his ears burn. He’d mentioned a gamer, but not her name. Brooke saw too much. “Hypothetically,” he mumbled, tracing the grain of the wooden floor with his sneaker.
“And you’re worried about the… logistics.” She smiled, not looking at him, focusing on a slow, sweeping stroke that defined a shadow. “About what Miss Ashley would say. About the rules.”
“It’s not a monastery, Joel. It’s a retreat. A business.” She set the brush down and turned, leaning her hip against the sturdy worktable. Paint stained her jeans, a splash of permanent yellow. “We’re not nuns. We have lives. Complicated, messy lives. Alistair’s… disappearance changes the calculus for everyone.”
She wiped her hands on a rag, studying him. “You’re overthinking it. It’s what you do. You’ve got that big, beautiful brain and you use it to build labyrinths to get lost in. Stop building. Just walk.”
“And if I trip?” The words came out before he could stop them, embarrassingly vulnerable.
“Then you skin your knee. You get back up.” She stepped closer. The scent of her, warm woman and oil paint, overtook the chemical air. “You like her. She likes you. It’s simple. The complicated part is you getting out of your own way.”
He watched her mouth, the easy curve of her lips. She was so sure of herself, so grounded in her body in a way he could never be. His world was syntax and semantics; hers was sensation and stroke. The contrast was a dizzying potent.
“You’re scared,” she stated, her voice dropping, becoming more intimate. This corner of the studio was private, shielded by tall canvases. “Not of her. Of the act. Of not knowing what to do. Of being… insufficient.”
“Yeah. I like her. I just don’t know what to do afterwards.” He said.
Brooke sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “All that theory. No practice.” She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were strong, slightly rough from clay and canvas. She placed his palm flat against the soft, worn cotton of her shirt, right over her sternum. He could feel the steady, strong beat of her heart beneath. “This is a thing that happens in the body, Joel. Not the head. The head is a terrible place to have sex from.”
His own heart was a frantic bird against his ribs. He was cataloguing everything—the weave of the fabric, the warmth seeping through, the exact pressure of her hand on his—trying to intellectualize the feeling, to parse it.
“Stop,” she whispered, her other hand coming up to cradle his jaw. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “Just feel.”
Then she kissed him. It wasn’t tentative or questioning. It was full and deep, a claiming of his mouth that short-circuited his racing thoughts. Her tongue swept against his, and the taste of her, coffee and something sweet, flooded his senses. He made a muffled sound against her lips, his hands rising uncertainly to her waist.
She broke the kiss, her eyes dark. “See? Your body knows. It’s your brain that’s the fucking coward.”
He was hard, achingly so, the suddenness of it a physical shock. She felt it, pressing her hips against his, a slow, deliberate grind that drew a sharp gasp from him.
“Brooke…”
“Shhh. Practice.” She backed him towards a deep, upholstered chaise lounge in the corner, used for model breaks. With a gentle push, he sat down, looking up at her, his mind blank for the first time all day.
She didn’t undress with ceremony. She pulled the paint-stained shirt over her head in one smooth motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were full, tipped with pale pink nipples that were already taut. He stared, his mouth dry. She unbuttoned her jeans, shimmying out of them and her panties, kicking them aside. She stood before him, utterly naked and unselfconscious, the sunlight gilding the curves of her hips, the soft delta of hair between her legs.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice husky.
His fingers fumbled on his buttons, clumsy. She watched, a small smile playing on her lips, until he finally pushed his jeans and boxers down his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and eager. A flicker of self-consciousness hit him—was he okay? Was this normal?—but it vanished when she closed the distance between them.
She straddled his lap, not lowering herself onto him yet, just settling her weight against his thighs. She took his face in her hands again.
“Don’t think about technique. Don’t think about performance. Just feel what you feel. And for God’s sake, touch me.”
He did. His hands, which had felt so awkward moments before, found the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist. He dragged his palms up her sides, feeling the heat of her skin, the slight sweat from the sun-warmed studio. He cupped her breasts, marveling at their weight, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples. She sighed, arching into his touch, her head falling back.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Like that.”
She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. He jerked at the contact, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip. She guided him, notching the head against her opening. She was wet, slick heat meeting him. He looked up, meeting her eyes. There was no mockery there, only a fierce, encouraging warmth.
“Now,” she said, and sank down onto him in one slow, devastating slide.
Joel’s world exploded into pure sensation. The tight, clutching heat that enveloped him was unlike anything he’d ever imagined. It was obliterating. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his throat. “Fuck… Brooke…”
“I know,” she moaned, her own voice shaky as she settled fully, taking all of him inside. She felt incredible, a silken vise around his aching cock. She began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm of her hips that set a deep, immediate fire coiling in his groin. “Just… let go. Fuck, you feel good.”
He held onto her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as she rose and fell. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sounds of their joining, the little choked cries she made—it was a symphony of carnality that demolished every clinical thought. He wasn’t thinking. He was thrusting up to meet her, meeting her downward strokes, driving deeper. His forehead pressed against her collarbone, breathing in her scent.
“Harder,” she panted, her own control fraying. “Don’t be gentle.”
He obeyed, his hips snapping up with a force that drove a sharp cry from her lips. The chaise creaked in protest. He was fucking her in earnest now, a rough, desperate rhythm. One of his hands slipped between their bodies, his fingers finding the swollen nub of her clit. He rubbed clumsy, urgent circles, remembering something he’d read, applying the theory in a frantic, practical test.
“Oh, you clever boy,” she gasped, her movements becoming erratic. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
Her internal muscles clenched around him, a series of rapid, fluttering pulses that pushed him to the edge. The coil in his gut snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and brutal, tore through him. He buried his face in her neck, a broken groan echoing in the sunlit room as he came, spilling himself deep inside her in long, pulsing jets. She followed him over, her body shuddering through its own climax, her cries muffled against his shoulder.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant call of a bird outside the window. The scent of sex and paint hung heavy in the air.
Slowly, she lifted herself off him, wincing slightly. She collapsed beside him on the chaise, her body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Joel felt hollowed out, stunned. The analytical part of his mind rebooted, but it was quiet, satiated.
He looked at her. “That was…”
“A start,” she finished, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. She reached over, tracing a line through the sweat on his chest.
“Your body gets an A+. Your brain is still on probation.” She sat up, reaching for her clothes. “So…You have feelings for Sky.”
The name was a bucket of cold water. Reality rushed back in. The warmth, the closeness, the profound intimacy of what they’d just done—it was already receding, replaced by a new, complicated guilt.
Brooke saw it on his face as she pulled her shirt on.
“Don’t,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “This was practice. A lesson. A gift. No strings, no drama.” She stepped into her jeans. “You needed to know what it felt like to stop thinking and just be inside someone. Now you know.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead, a maternal gesture that somehow didn’t contradict the raw sex of minutes before. “Just go talk to her. Play your video games. And when the moment feels right, don’t think. Just kiss her. Your body remembers what to do now.”
She walked back to her easel, picking up her brush as if nothing had happened. Joel dressed slowly, his limbs loose, his mind still blissfully quiet. The phantom feeling of her, tight and wet around him, lingered.
He paused at the studio door, looking back. Brooke was focused on her canvas, adding a detail to the shadow she’d been defining. She’d given him something priceless, and asked for nothing in return.
“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate.
She didn’t turn around. “Go on. And Joel?” She glanced over her shoulder, her smile knowing. “You reek of me and poor life choices. Go shower.”
He slipped out into the hall, the cool air a shock. His body hummed with a new knowledge, a quiet confidence humming in his veins where only anxiety had been before. He thought of Sky’s laugh, the way she bit her bottom lip in concentration when she played, the easy camaraderie they shared. The labyrinth in his mind was still there, but for the first time, he could see a straight path through it.
He headed for the showers, a plan, simple and terrifying, forming not in his head, but in his blood. He would find her tonight.
The hot water did little to scrub away the memory of her, the phantom pressure of her hips in his hands, the animal smell of sex that seemed baked into his skin. He soaped himself roughly, the steam filling his lungs, and tried to will his pulse back to normal. Brooke’s words cycled in his head. Your body remembers.
Dressed in clean jeans and a dark t-shirt, he hovered outside the door to the media room. The blue glow of a massive screen pulsed from within, casting long shadows into the hall. He could hear the staccato gunfire of a first-person shooter, the familiar, tinny cacophony of digital warfare. His mouth was dry.
He stepped inside. Sky was curled in the center of a vast sectional, a controller clutched in her small hands. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. She didn’t look up.
“Hey. You’re just in time to watch me die. Again.”
“I’ve seen that show before. The reruns are terrible.” His voice sounded almost normal.
She snorted, her character exploding on screen in a pixelated red mist.
“Asshole.” She tossed the controller onto the cushion beside her and finally glanced over. Her smile was easy, familiar. Then it flickered. Her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. A slight, knowing tilt of her head. “You smell… different. Like oil paint and poor life choices.”
Joel’s heart hammered against his ribs. She knew. Of course she knew. This was a house of women who trafficked in whispers and scent. He forced himself to walk forward, to sit on the opposite end of the couch. A canyon of plush fabric between them.
“I was in the studio. Talking to Brooke.”
“Mhmm.” Sky drew her knees up to her chest, watching him. Her eyes were sharp, missed nothing. “Talk looks good on you. You’re less… twitchy.”
“I feel less twitchy.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the game’s idle music tinkling softly. The confidence Brooke had planted in him was a fragile seed, threatening to wither under Sky’s analytical gaze. He couldn’t think his way through this. Thinking was the trap.
“Brooke said I overthink things.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the chaotic menu screen.
“Brooke’s a smart lady.”
“She said I should just… do the thing. Instead of planning the thing.”
“Also smart.” Sky’s voice had softened. She uncurled, shifting a fraction closer on the cushion. The distance between them shrank from a canyon to a stream. “What thing did you have in mind?”
He turned his head. She was right there. Her eyes were wide, expectant, but there was a caution in them too. He remembered the feel of Brooke’s mouth, the surrender to sensation. Just feel.
He closed the gap. He didn’t plan the angle, the pressure. He just kissed her. It was nothing like Brooke’s commanding takeover. This was a question. A faint press of his lips against hers, hesitant, tasting the cherry gloss on her mouth. She went very still.
For a terrifying second, he was certain he’d misread everything. Then she let out a tiny sigh, a release of held breath, and her mouth opened under his. Her hand came up, her fingers cool against the side of his neck. The kiss deepened slowly, a sweet, searching exploration that sent warm currents spiraling down his spine. This wasn’t a lesson. This was a conversation.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his. Her breath was shaky.
“Okay. That was a good thing.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“I could tell. It was better.” She kissed him again, quicker this time, a punctuation mark. Then she stood, offering her hand. Her small hand disappeared in his. “My room’s closer.”
Her room was a chaotic nest of game cases, manga, and soft blankets. A single salt lamp cast a deep amber glow. She closed the door and the world outside vanished. Here, there was only the sound of their breathing.
She approached him, backing him toward the bed until his knees hit the edge. Her hands pushed his shirt up over his head. Her touch was different—lighter, curious. Her fingertips traced the line of his collarbone, the flat plane of his stomach. “You’re so tall,” she murmured, as if just realizing it.
“You’re not.” He reached for the hem of her tank top, lifting it. She raised her arms, letting him undress her. Her body was a slight, beautiful contrast to Brooke’s opulent curves. Small, pert breasts, narrow hips, a dancer’s taut leanness. He felt a surge of something fierce and protective, mingled with a raw, specific hunger.
He laid her back on the blankets, covering her body with his, kissing her with a growing urgency. His hands roamed her, learning her new geography. She arched into his touch, her legs parting to cradle his hips. The rough denim of his jeans scraped against her bare thighs.
“Off,” she breathed against his mouth, tugging at his waistband. “Now.”
They wrestled his clothes off, a tangle of limbs and muffled laughter that quickly died. Skin met skin. He settled between her thighs, the heat of her core radiating against the head of his cock. He was already rock hard, throbbing. Brooke’s lesson had primed him, stripped away the novice’s hesitation. The need was a pure, sharp blade.
He looked down at her. Her pupils were blown wide in the dim light. “Sky.”
“Just fuck me, Joel. Fuck me.”
He guided himself into her with a single, slow thrust. She was tight, a snug, incredible heat that made him see stars. He sank to the hilt, a groan tearing from his chest. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head pressing back into the pillow. “Oh god. Oh, right there.”
He began to move, establishing a deep, rhythmic pace. The wet, slick sound of their joining filled the small room. It was slower than with Brooke, more concentrated. Each stroke was a deliberate act of discovery. He watched her face, her expressions varied, fleeting and unfiltered—a wince, a gasp, a dazed smile.
“You feel so good inside me,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “So fucking deep.”
Her words ignited him. He drove into her harder, faster, the bedframe starting a soft, persistent knock against the wall. He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking her leg higher over his hip, changing the angle. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“Yes! There, right there, don’t stop!”
He was relentless. The coil of pleasure tightened, a white-hot wire in his gut. He was a piston, slamming home, owned by the base, physical truth of it. The smell of her sweat, their sex, the salt lamp’s clay scent—it all swirled into a potent musk. He was going to come. He was going to lose it.
“I’m close,” he grunted, the words thick.
“Come in me,” she begged, her own hips meeting his thrust for thrust. “Fill me up. Do it, Joel. Do it.”
Her permission was the final key. Pleasure detonated at the base of his spine and rocketed through him. With a raw, guttural shout, he shoved deep and stilled, pumping his release into her in hot, pulsing jets. The intensity locked his muscles, blurring his vision. As his climax subsided, he felt her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around him, her own quiet moans vibrating against his throat as she followed him over.
He collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead damp against her shoulder. Their sweat mingled. He could feel her heart hammering against his own.
Minutes bled by, measured only in the slowing of their breath. Finally, she shifted. He slipped out of her, a intimate, wet sound. She curled into his side, her hand spread on his chest.
“So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You and Brooke?”
The question landed like a stone in the warm, dark water of the aftermath. All the complicated guilt came flooding back. He opened his mouth, but no adequate explanation formed.
Sky just patted his chest, a tired, accepting gesture. “It’s this place. It does things.” She paused. “But you’re here now.”
He held her tighter, the scent of their sex and her cherry gloss clinging to him, layering over the ghost of paint and Brooke that still lingered on his skin. The labyrinth was gone. He was simply in the maze, and every turn was a new, uncharted darkness.