Nightbloom Page 6

  “Have you ever been here at night?”

  “No. Does anyone?” I laughed. He didn’t, staring ahead of us, his mood so serious I sobered at once. “So, you come here at night?”

  “Sometimes.” It snowed yesterday, leaving a thin sheet on the ground, pillowing around the base of the statues.

  The snow crunched under our feet.

  “I don’t always sleep so well.” Paxon pulled me closer, shielding me with one wing to block the cold wind.

  The gesture was possibly more gentlemanly than anything Clayton had ever done for me. Sure, Clayton had held me proudly on his arm in public and opened doors for me in my parents’ presence, but only to elevate himself in others’ eyes. Now I understood exactly how selfish a creature Clayton was, the kind of man I could never tie myself to. The man who walked next to me in reverent silence, holding my hand and protecting me from the cold wind with his body and wings was not of Clayton’s ilk. He was infinitely better.

  “Why don’t you sleep so well?”

  A shadowed glance. He tightened his hold on my hand. “Come this way. There’s something I want to show you.”

  We wound through the hedges past a line of sculptures—nude bathers, a human rider on a horse, a tree with twining roots. The cloud-cover broke, letting the full moon cast her luminous glow. I paused and touched a branch on the tree, keeping a hold of his hand. The smooth marble appeared like rough bark.

  “I remember studying this in class. We came here once. By daylight, the sculpture is so beautiful, but by night it’s…it’s magical.”

  Paxon waited while I ran my fingers down to the leafy edge, then gently he pulled me forward. “Come, Ella.”

  Winding through the maze of hedges, we eventually came out to an open square filled with winged statues. I froze, taking in the ethereal beauty bathed in moonlight. “I’ve never seen this before. This is a new exhibit, isn’t it?”

  “All of the galleries in the Gladium Province donated at least one sculpture for this section. It’s called the Garden of Air.”

  “What did Flaming Hearts Gallery donate?”

  His eyes glinted darkly. “You know my family’s gallery?”

  “No.” I glanced at the sculpture.” I mean, I’ve never been, but I know it’s yours.”

  I wasn’t ashamed that I’d done some snooping, mainly just getting what information I could from Jessen and Sorcha. Of course I was interested in Flaming Hearts. He ran it.

  “This way.” He beckoned with a soft tug on my hand.

  We made our way around a fairy hovering over a flower and a winged horse with forelegs reaching for the sky. He led me to a cluster of three figures. One was a bare-chested Morgon man, his arms reaching upward, his muscles tight for take-off. The second was a Morgon woman, her wings at rest as she gazed down at her feet. The third was the same Morgon man and woman clasped in each other’s arms, partially dressed. Her gown had slipped from her shoulder, baring one breast. He held her as if she were the most precious jewel in the world.

  My throat tightened. I knew my cheeks were pink. They appeared as if they were two real lovers, and I should avert my eyes. But I couldn’t.

  “Who’s…who is the artist?”

  “His name is Marius. He’s extremely talented.”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “He is.”

  “Come. There’s another I want to show you.”

  He pulled me along to a shadowed corner that colored a white marble figure to pale blue under the moonlight. Her arms rested at her sides. One slippered toe peeked out from the hem of her gown. Her face angled up toward the sky, a veil draped over face and hair, billowing in an imaginary wind. From her back flared huge feathered wings, finely detailed to realistic perfection. She was absolutely stunning—a luminous angel of profound beauty.

  I reached out and touched her face and marble veil. I marveled at the artist’s talent to chisel this hard stone into soft, lovely lines and create the illusion of this transparent shroud.

  I stepped back. Not realizing how close Paxon was, I bumped into his chest. I flinched, but he placed his hands on my waist, keeping me still. The weight of his hands, the tightening of his fingers sent a shivering thrill through my body.

  He spoke in a hushed tone. “She reminds me of you.”

  A breeze blew a dust of snow from her wing, whirling away into the air. I studied her pretty face tilting in pensive thought.

  “Is that how you see me? Veiled? In hiding?”

  One of his hands swept my hair over my shoulder then circled my waist, spreading across my stomach. He pulled me against the hard line of his body and whispered into my ear. “I want you to lift the veil. I want to see all of you.”

  He had no idea what those words did to me. I wanted the same. I didn’t want just anyone to see me. I wanted him to see me. I leaned back, placing my hands on top of his. When his lips touched the skin of my neck, I tilted my head at an angle. I couldn’t think anymore.

  I just wanted. Period. Desire sparked as it never had for me before.

  He pressed soft caresses up the side column of my neck, then whispered, “Will you open for me, Ella?”

  Hesitant, throat thick with emotion, I whispered back, “Yes.”

  He spun me around and took my lips, crushing my body against his. He invaded with desperate need. I felt the same way, clenching a hand in his hair, pulling him closer. He lifted me off my feet. His arms became iron bands binding us together. His lips firmed against my soft ones. I opened wider, inviting him in. Farther. Deeper. A soft sound escaped me. He swallowed it. A warmth spread through my body, pooling at my core. I licked deeper into his mouth with a soft moan.

  He pulled away at once, breathing hard and fast. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to mine, our white breath mingling together.

  “Ella, Ella, Ella.” He slowly lowered my feet to the snowy ground and fisted a hand in my long hair. “What are you doing to me?”

  What am I doing to him? What was he doing to me? I didn’t even recognize myself, clamoring all over him like some wanton girl. I still wanted to, but he kept our lips apart.

  “What’s wrong?” My voice sounded different, rough.

  He grinned. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a little too right.”

  Breathing hard, I clung to him. “What do you mean?”

  A rumble of laughter vibrated from his chest to mine, which did nothing to regain my own sense of control.

  “Just that I’m doing my best to be a good boy.”

  “What if I don’t want you to be a good boy?”

  What had gotten into me?

  “Ella.” A definite warning. He nipped at my lower lip before sliding his tongue inside, giving me a slow, languorous taste. “Your mouth is so beautiful. Please watch what you say with it.”

  “Why?” I whispered as he continued to nibble and tease.

  “Because I have only so much self-control.”

  I slid one of my hands down his chest and abdomen, wishing his nice shirt wasn’t barring me from his skin.

  “The things I want…” He seized my hand, stopping its wandering path, twining his fingers with mine.

  “The things you want?” I tilted my mouth higher for him, but he’d stopping kissing me.

  Dark eyes glinted again with an unnatural luster. I thought it a reflection of the moon-drenched snow. His voice hardened. “I need to get you home.”

  He wrapped one arm under my knees, and we shot into the air.

  “Eeek!” I squeezed my arms around his neck. “Jeez, Paxon. Give me some warning, please.”

  A tight rumble of laughter. “Point the way. Where do you live?”

  “Well, I’ve never traveled home by air. Head to the south side near the country estates.”

  After a rather difficult air navigation where I realized I couldn’t just tell him turn left on such-and-such street, I finally pointed out our family property.

  “There, on t
he second floor. You can take me to my bedroom balcony. I never lock it.”

  There was no way I’d be walking in the front door in case my parents were up and about. For all they knew, I was with Clayton, so they wouldn’t be up waiting and worrying about me. The irony was laughable. Clayton was the one they should’ve been worried about all along.

  Paxon landed and set me on my feet. “What’s wrong with the front door?”

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just don’t want to wake up my parents and explain the whole thing with Clayton.”

  That was partially true.

  “About that.” He cupped my face with one hand, his thumb stroking over my cheek. “What you did in that bar took guts.”

  I lifted my chin a little higher. “Well, um, thanks. He deserved it. I’m just sorry it took me so long to realize the truth about him.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about the kiss you laid on me in front of quite a large audience. By tomorrow, the story will be all over Gladium.”

  The blood drained from my face. Why hadn’t I considered the consequences of my little charade before I acted? If everyone was talking about it, it could easily get back to my parents, to my mom.

  Paxon’s brow creased together. “Do you regret it?”

  “No! Of course not. I just, I just don’t like people talking about me.”

  He laughed, giving me a soft kiss. “That’s the price of lifting the veil, angel. Everyone will take notice of the beauty beneath.”

  I gulped.

  “By the way, I was serious about needing a good curator for our gallery. Are you still interested?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. That would be really great.”

  “Good. Can you meet me at the gallery tomorrow morning around eight a.m.?”

  “Sure, it’s a date. I mean, well, not a date. Just a meeting.”

  He laughed, pressing his lips to mine, opening them just a little to lick inside. Heat flared once more. Such a new sensation, it struck me dumb every time.

  “Mmm,” he hummed against my lips. “Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that.” He stepped back, beat his wings once and landed on the stone railing. “Tomorrow morning is a business meeting, Ella. Our first date is tomorrow night.”

  He lifted off into the night. The rush of wind from his beating wings washed over me, caressing me with his masculine scent.

  “Our first date.” I smiled up at the Morgon man fading away against the night sky. “Our first date?”

  What in the world would I tell my mother?

  Chapter 6

  I stood outside the door of the Flaming Hearts Art Gallery staring at the Nightwing crest emboldened on the glass door—three black dragons encircling a red heart of flames. Deep breath in, I pushed open the door and entered.

  At once, a sense of comfort and peace washed over me. This always happened when I entered into an environment filled with artwork. Something about such a space gave me a sense of belonging.

  “Hi. You must be Ms. Barrow.”

  A slender Morgon with wings of deep purple greeted me, extending a dainty, pale hand. Even her black hair had a purple sheen. “My name is Elsibeta Violetvale. Mr. Nightwing is expecting you.”

  I shook her hand, mesmerized by her delicate wings. She fluttered them, something I’d noticed female Morgons do from time to time.

  “I’m sorry.” I tried not to gape. “I’ve never seen a Morgon with wings like yours.”

  Her expression softened. “The Violetvale clan is very small, mostly living in a remote village beyond Drakos near the Sabine Province.”

  “How, if you don’t mind me asking, did you end up here?”

  “I don’t mind.” She waved me into the gallery and led me through an office door behind the counter. “Our clan is a very passive one. We don’t function well in most cities, especially Drakos, which is—shall we say—an aggressive atmosphere to live in.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  She exuded serenity. Even her voice was soft and melodious.

  “Gladium isn’t exactly happy-go-lucky,” I remarked.

  She laughed, a smooth sound. “Not entirely, but Gladium is much more tolerant and accepting than many places. Have you ever been outside of Gladium?”

  “No. Never.”

  We passed through a back room with oil paintings, marble statues, and bronze sculptures, some boxed, some ready for display, and headed down another short hallway on the other side.

  “You are fortunate. This is the most pleasant place I’ve ever lived, other than my home, of course.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  She turned her violet eyes on me.

  “I apologize. That was a personal question.”

  “It’s not so personal. I left because I love art. Although the people of my village have rudimentary talents, I wanted to see what other artists of the world could create. I realized that my heart felt incomplete, restless. I needed more than my home could offer.”

  I sighed, a heaviness coming over me. “I know that feeling. Very well, I’m afraid.”

  “Then we’re kindred spirits, you and I.”

  I pondered her words—meek, unsure Ella a kindred spirit with this lovely creature before me, bound by a deep love of the arts and a desire for more out of life. It took me a second, but I realized that, indeed, we were. “Yes. I suppose we are.”

  She smiled and gestured toward a doorway.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Paxon gazed out an open window into a small courtyard where a fountain bubbled among a garden of wildflowers, the entire space encased in a greenhouse dome, creating an artificial summer. His wings were folded tight against his back. Dressed in black slacks and a starched blue shirt of a shimmery material, he looked every bit the dashing businessman—poised and controlled. I recalled how his steady eyes had lost their composure last night.

  As if sensing my presence, he faced the door.

  “Ella. Come in. Have a seat.”

  So proper. So formal. I was glad I’d dressed in full interview attire—straight black skirt and white blouse.

  I sat and passed him my resume from a leather portfolio, noticing his gaze wandering down my legs. Someone didn’t have his mind on business. I sat up straight and waited while he perused the two-page document. I cupped both hands on one knee, heart thumping hard, pretending to have patience.

  He glanced up. “Your thesis for graduation was ‘The Emotional Impact and Abstract Beauty of Mixed Mediums’?”

  I nodded, knowing my closed-lipped smile was forced and tight.

  “And your final project was a form of this art?”

  Another nod. No smile. Heart pounding right out of my chest.

  “Ella. Please relax. You already have the job. I’m just curious about you as an artist.”

  I still couldn’t speak. My art was personal. I had only shown it in college when I was forced to, when there was no other way out or ahead.

  “I would love to read this thesis sometime.”

  “You can.” Clearing my throat, I tried to hide the nervous thread twanging my voice. “It was published in Illumination Magazine this past December.”

  He eyed me carefully, certainly taking note of my stiff posture. Putting the resume on the desk, he folded his hands.

  “Okay. The position available is as co-curator with Elsibeta over this gallery. We’re considering expansion, so you’ll need to work every other weekend to scout for new and upcoming artists for exhibition. We have a steady clientele of local artists, mostly Morgon, but I’d like to expand to include more human artwork, which is the reason I’m specifically looking for a human curator. Elsibeta can acquaint you with the style we tend to feature and exhibit, however, I have no doubt with your credentials that you’re more than qualified for the position. You’d also alternate opening exhibits with Elsibeta. I’ve been leaning too heavily on her with the workload. I need another curator, especially with a new gallery l
ooming in the near future.”

  During this stream of information, which was music to my ears, my heart soaring at the prospect of working with art every single day, he kept his business-face fixed and his words steady.

  “Would you like time to consider, Ms. Barrow, or will you accept this position?”

  Ms. Barrow? I beamed. “I accept.”

  “Good.” A tight nod. He stood and came around the desk, then lifted me to my feet. “Now that business is adjourned—”

  He planted a steaming, mind-blowing kiss on my lips, one hand wrapping my nape, the other wandering low on my back, pulling me closer. After thoroughly loosening my body of nerves, he pulled back a fraction, dark hair falling over his forehead, partly obstructing his eyes.

  “Paxon…that’s not very professional.”

  “That was nothing. This isn’t very professional.”

  His hands slid to my bottom and pulled me firmly against him. I whimpered at the intimate sensation of his hard body—all of him—pressed so deliciously against mine. His mouth slanted at the perfect angle to coax my lips wider. He showed me how a woman was supposed to be kissed—not sloppy and overeager like Clayton, but slow and tender and glorious. The only way Paxon could.

  He lifted me onto the desk, then trailed his fingers up the backs of my calves and hiked up my skirt where his fingers lightly gripped the backs of my knees. I skimmed my hands over his chest and up to his shoulders, hard muscle tight beneath his starched shirt. Sealing his mouth over mine, tasting, devouring me, his hands eased under my skirt and up my legs to my thighs, his thumbs rubbing along the inside.

  Every time a guy had tried this sort of thing before, my impulse was to close my legs, my body growing cold under his touch. With Paxon’s hands on me, my body longed to open. Some primal instinct gripped me hard, forcing me to acknowledge that he was meant to touch me, that his lips were meant for my skin, that he was born to give and take pleasure from me alone.

  He nipped the line of my jaw to my neck, dragging his teeth, sensitizing my skin to his touch. One hand rose higher on my thigh, pushing the skirt as he went.