Hold Me Close(64)

She fights anyway because it excites him. Because when he grabs the back of her hair to yank her head back and to push her again into the mattress, facedown and ass up, it excites her. He doesn’t spank her. It’s not about making this some kind of late-night Skinemax movie with handcuffs and feather masks.

Effie isn’t sure what it is about.

Only that it...is. This. Heath behind her, ramming himself inside her so deep she’s sure he will kill her with his cock. With the grip of his fingers so tight on her skin she will find the marks there for days.

There were times, long, long ago when she can remember exploring her body in the late-night darkness of her canopy bed. Tiny breasts, the surprising tingle of touching her nipples, the more exciting rush she felt when her hand slipped between her legs. The first few threads of curling hair. How her body opened the longer she touched and stroked. She hadn’t known it was sex, but she had known it felt good.

Effie can hardly imagine doing that now. Making herself come? She’s not sure she could. The only pleasure she can really find is with him.

When her body clenches around him, he shudders and pulls out. Scalding lashes of ejaculate hit her back. Her arms. Her ass. She buries her face in the pillow, shaking with her climax. Then with tears.

Heath doesn’t ask her who the baby belongs to. He simply nods when she tells him. He holds her close, curled in a ball, and he kisses her forehead. When she can’t stand the closeness of the embrace any longer, he lets her go. It’s what he does. Know when to let her go.

“I’m with Heath,” Effie tells her mother over the phone. “But so help me, Mom, if you call the police or in any way get him into trouble, I will never come home. I will never let you see this baby. I will disappear, and this time, you will never get me back.”

Effie’s mother sounds as though she’s been chain-smoking and sobbing. She probably has. “Don’t you understand I only want the best for you? Maybe you’ll get it now, when you become a mother. I want what’s best. That’s all. And Heath, Effie...he’s ruined you.”

“Don’t you get it?” Effie says tiredly, wishing all of this would go away. “I was already ruined.”





chapter twenty-nine

Naveen had called Effie early this morning about doing a gallery show, all on her own. Effie listened to the message as she sipped lukewarm coffee in her quiet house and thought about the work she’d have to do to paint enough pieces to have a real show. Her kitschy hidden clock paintings weren’t going to cut it. They paid the bills, though, and she had orders to fill. She didn’t have time to wait around for a creative muse to strike her, not to mention what paintings like the one he’d just sold took out of her.

“I don’t know, Naveen,” she said when she returned his call. “I won’t be ready to do something like that for a while. You’re talking about a lot of work.”

“Think about it,” he insisted. “Maybe you have some pieces you’ve finished that you haven’t sold?”

Effie leaned against her kitchen counter and looked over at the empty glass ashtray she’d picked up years ago at a thrift store. Heavy, ornate, clearly made in a time when everyone smoked and drank and the world was lit in Technicolor. Now she kept loose change and buttons and paper clips in it.

She did have a number of pieces she’d done over the years. Work she’d painted in the dark, ones that left her sweating and sick and sometimes on her hands and knees with her face in her hands. Too big to ship, too dark and violent to appeal, even to the people who collected her other pieces. She painted them and put them away, hoping each time she’d exorcised some new demon. They did make a collection, though not one Effie was sure she’d ever expected or wanted anyone else to see. Those paintings were her lost hours.

She closed her eyes. “How many pieces would you need?”

Naveen made a soft, thoughtful sound. “Ten, minimum. I can fill in the rest with your current work, but I’d really like to have at least ten more like what you just gave me.”

“Greedy.” Effie laughed. She had at least twice that many hidden away under sheets.

“Hey, a lad’s gotta eat. Don’t tell me you don’t love making money. And I can sell that stuff. You know I can. Your other work, too. But, Effie...”

“Believe me, I know. The hidden clocks aren’t art.”

“Not the same kind, anyway,” Naveen said.

“I have commissions to finish first. Those clocks are my bread and butter. I also have to eat, you know. My kid needs new clothes. I can’t promise you anything.” Effie dumped her coffee in the sink, thinking about making a fresh pot and not sure she felt like bothering. She had to run out on a few errands anyway. She could pick up a cup of some fancy brew from the local coffee shop. Let someone else do the work for her.


“Think about it,” Naveen repeated. “I can have Elisabeth put you on the books for the spring. That’s five months away. I’m booked that far in advance, so it will be perfect. We can get you in there, have a big to-do, get you hobnobbing with collectors. It’ll be great for your career, Effie. And I don’t need to tell you that stuff like this isn’t easy.”

“What, making a living as an artist? No, you definitely don’t need to tell me. My mother reminds me of it all the time. She thinks I should go back to school.” Effie laughed, though a trifle bitterly. She had half a degree in business administration. The thought of sitting behind a desk all day made her want to stab something with a pencil, probably her own eyes.