MILF: Wrong Kind of Love
My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty, but I force a small smile and pretend like his words had no effect on me. He backs away but keeps my hands in his, his grin mischievous in nature, telling me my façade isn’t working whatsoever.
“All of my paintings are kept at the studio in my house. Would you like to come there to view them all?” I offer hesitantly, not really sure what the appropriate thing to say is at this point.
“Perfect. Then we can go out to dinner afterwards to discuss all of the details. How is Sunday evening for you? The gallery is closed on Sundays and Mondays.”
“Sunday is great. I’ll email you my address tomorrow.”
Lifting my hands to his mouth, he kisses my knuckles again. “I can hardly wait. I think we’re going to work beautifully together.”
As soon as he releases me, I take off to find Stella, who I find surrounded by a group of men all hanging on every word leaving her mouth. Naturally. She sees me and arches her brow, forgetting about whatever she was telling them.
“Mia, love, let me introduce you to my new friends,” she says as she grabs my arm and drags me into the middle of the circle with her.
We spend the next hour or so mixing and mingling, but I never see Jonathan again. On the ride home, I share the good news with Stella about him coming to see all of the paintings and how we’ll begin planning from there. We squeal with delight together, and though I’m still uncertain if Jonathan was actually flirting with me, and whether or not I wanted him to be, I’m over the moon about the idea of having my own show. Finally, things are starting to fall into place for me, and I feel amazing.
She drops me off at home a little before one in the morning, and knowing there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep anytime soon, I quickly change out of my dress and into a camisole and pajama shorts. Quietly, as to not wake Adam and Gray, I rush back downstairs, grab a glass of wine, and disappear into the studio. I have a show to prepare for.
I heard her arrive home.
I heard her come up to her room.
And then I heard her go back downstairs.
I lie in my bed, warring with myself on whether or not I should go too. No, scratch that. I know damn well I shouldn’t go; the battle is whether or not I’m going to go.
After several minutes, curiosity gets the better of me and I slip out of bed, throwing on a pair of plaid pajama pants. Hoping she doesn’t hear me creeping down the stairs, I decide if she catches me, I’ll claim I was just coming down for a glass of water.
All of the lights downstairs are off, so I assume she’s in her studio, which excites me a great deal. It’s been five nights since I last saw her in there, and it’s taken a shit-load of self-control to not return before now. Seeing her around the house on a day-to-day basis is tempting enough, especially now that I’ve admitted to myself that I want her, but the night I watched her paint was something entirely different. It...she was spellbinding.
Soundlessly, I tiptoe through the kitchen and cautiously steal a look around the corner that leads into the old dining room. My chest tightens and dick twitches at the sight of her, and I immediately wonder why in the hell I’ve waited so long before coming back down to witness her in this element. Fucking incredible.
Wearing a thin white tank top and a pair of soft blue cotton shorts that barely cover her ass cheeks, she’s perched on the edge of a stool, working furiously on the canvas in front of her. Once again, her hair is piled messily on top of her head and she’s got her earbuds in, singing the lyrics she knows, humming those she doesn’t, and I quickly find myself hypnotized with her every movement—each stroke of her hand, tap of her foot, and tilt of her head.
She gets to a stopping point with the color she’s working with—a light pink that reminds me of the color of her full lips, which unfortunately, I can’t see right now—and she sets the brush down on the tray of paints next to her. Blowing out a deep breath, she rolls her shoulders in tandem as she drops her chin to her chest, stretching out the muscles in the back of her neck.
Without thought, I move swiftly to her, wanting to alleviate any discomfort she may be in. Not thinking about speaking up to not startle her, as soon as I’m within reach, I put both hands on her shoulders, which naturally causes her to jump right off her seat.
“Jesus Christ, Gray!” she exclaims as her head whips around to face me, ripping the headphones from her ears in the process. “What is up with you scaring me to death in the middle of the night?”
“I’m so sorry, Mia,” I apologize, feeling bad for frightening her. “I, uh, I was just getting some water and I saw the light on over here.”
Her face softens as she shakes her head, laughing softly. “So you decided to sneak up behind me and grab me?”
“No, I was watching you paint, and then I saw you adjust your neck and shoulders. You looked really uncomfortable, and I just thought I could help you out with a little neck massage.” As soon as the words spill from my mouth, I tense up, unsure of what her reaction is going to be. I didn’t mean for this entire exchange to be so fucking awkward.
“You were watching me paint?” she squeaks softly, her eyes growing wide and her cheeks glowing pink.
I’m a little surprised she’s focusing on that part of my statement, finding that the part to be unnerving, not that I wanted to massage her.
Glancing around the room, I smile coyly and nod. “I had no idea you were so talented. These paintings are impressive, and it all kinda took me by surprise. So, yeah,” I bravely return my eyes back to hers, losing myself a bit in the depth of her sapphire irises, “I watched you paint.”
The sharp intake of breath passing through her teeth speaks directly to my cock, and a burst of boldness shoots through me. Typically, with girls around my age, I’m fearless in my advances. I see what, or rather who I want, and I go get it. Rejection never crosses my mind.
However, with Mia, for so many obvious reasons, I can’t do that. This seduction—and yes, about thirty seconds ago I decided the hell with everything else; I’m going to seduce this absolutely beautiful woman I can’t stop fantasizing about—must be well thought out and carefully executed. I don’t want to scare her away, but I need her to know I’m interested.
“Why don’t you sit back down and let me rub your shoulders for a few minutes? Then, I’ll leave you alone so you can continue,” I offer casually.
Nervously, she lifts an arm up to her neck, probably trying to hide the heat of arousal crawling up from her chest. “That’s really not necessary, Gray,” she murmurs, turning around to face her current work. “I just have a little bit more I want to do on this before I go to bed. You go on.”
Not taking no for an answer, I swallow up the space separating us in one step and bring my hands back to her shoulders. This time, she flinches slightly, but keeps her eyes trained forward, not looking back at me.
“I know it’s not necessary, Mia,” I rasp lowly as my thumbs press into the flawless, creamy skin above her shoulder blades with moderate pressure, “but it’s something I want to do for you…for everything you’ve done for me.”
And then, ever so slowly, as I begin to knead the muscles around the area, her shoulders slacken, and without protest, she finally relaxes into my touch. The breathy moans and whimpers she tries to muffle as I work the knots out of her neck and shoulders are downright torturous to my body, but I manage to restrain myself from acting on my desires.
For now.
We’ll see what happens tomorrow, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion, I’ll be spending most of my evenings at home for quite some time.
AT THE SOUND OF THE DOORBELL, I hurry from my studio—where I’ve been ensuring everything is just perfect—to the front door, smoothing down the front of my navy dress and catching one last glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror. Not that I have time to fix anything that may be wrong with me anyway, but I decide I’m good to go and open the door with my brightest smile.
“Good afternoon, Jonathan,” I greet
him excitedly, ushering him in with my hand. “Please, come inside.”
My memory didn’t fail me; he’s just as handsome as I recall from Friday night, maybe even a little more so in his casual khaki slacks and light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, instead of the reserved tuxedo. He grins, almost as if he knows what I’m thinking, and steps through the threshold, pausing to kiss me on the cheek as he does.
“Hello, Mia. It’s a pleasure to see you again, and what a lovely home you have,” he says as he walks into the open foyer, keeping his eyes steadfast on me.
“Thank you. I feel quite cozy here,” I reply, not adding I’d spent a better part of six hours earlier today cleaning it from top to bottom. “Why don’t you follow me into the kitchen? I can grab us each something to drink and then we can make our way into the studio.”
He follows me without answering, so I assume he’s okay with my suggestion. I contemplate telling him I need to drink in order to drown out the nerves dancing in my stomach, but something tells me that probably wouldn’t be the most professional thing to say, so I refrain.
Once in the kitchen, I pour us each a glass of a Pinot Noir I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and if planning my own art show isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is. Graciously, he accepts the glass with a tip of his head and takes a sip.
“This is very good. I’ll have to get the label from you before I leave,” he remarks with a pleasant smile, stepping closer to me. “Now, please show me all of your work. I’ve been dying to see this since we met on Friday.”
“Right this way,” I respond with a nod of my head, leading him into my favorite room of the house.
The moment he walks into the studio, his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning as he hurries over to the wall, where I’ve set up the twenty or so finished pieces I have. I stand back and allow him to examine each painting, which he does so meticulously. He murmurs “very nice” and “oh, yes” several times, but it isn’t until he’s finished scrutinizing each and every one of them that he turns around and beams at me.
“Mia, love, these are even better than I imagined. Shame on you for hiding this talent from the world for so long,” he jokingly scolds. “I’ve got several great ideas on themes for a show. Why don’t we go grab an early dinner and we can discuss them?”
Elated doesn’t even begin to describe the level of joy bubbling inside of me over his words of praise. I’ve always known this is what I wanted to do, but Mark had always made me feel like painting was a waste of time, and that I should be focused on taking care of him, Adam, and our house. My resentment for him and the way he held me back in life just multiplied exponentially, but focusing on a past I can’t do anything about won’t help me in the future, in getting to where I want to go. So, I swallow back the bitter taste of animosity and smile brightly at the man who can help me reach those places.
“That sounds perfect. Let me grab my purse from the bar.”
As we walk back into the kitchen, Jonathan casually places his hand on my lower back, leading me through the doorway. My body stiffens at the initial shock of the physical contact, but I quickly recover and continue moving forward, thinking I’m probably overreacting. After all, other than being on the receiving end of Gray’s fantastic shoulder massages the last two nights—events I keep pretending didn’t happen—no one has touched me since Mark left.
I gather my things from the countertop, but before we can make it out of the kitchen, the backdoor swings open and Adam and Gray come barging in, laughing and carrying on about something. Based on their athletic shorts, lack of shirts, and the sweat dripping down their bodies, I’m guessing they just finished playing basketball down the street at the park. I honestly hadn’t even realized they’d left their rooms.
They both stop their horse-playing as soon as they see me standing there with Jonathan, but their reactions to the scene couldn’t be any more different.
“Sorry, Mom, I didn’t realize you were having company. We’ll get out of your way as soon as we grab some water,” Adam says with a wide smile, obviously pleased to see me standing here with a man, who I’m sure he thinks is here for personal reasons.
“That’s okay, sweetie. I’d actually like you to meet Jonathan Evans. He’s the owner and director at the Maxwell Evans Gallery in Atlanta. You remember? The one I went to with Stella on Friday?” I explain, trying not to notice the deep scowl on Gray, who hasn’t moved a foot since he stepped inside the door. “Jonathan, these are my boys—Adam and Gray.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Adam exclaims, leaning forward to extend his hand out, then thinking better of it once he realizes how dirty he is. Chuckling, he tips his head toward Jonathan, whose hand hasn’t left my back. “Well, we’ll have to shake hands some other time, when I’m cleaned up, but it’s very nice to meet you. I hope you make my mom famous; she deserves it.”
God, I have an amazing kid.
“Likewise,” Jonathan says to him. “Your mother is an amazing artist. We just looked over all of her pieces and I’m simply blown away. She shouldn’t need much help from me.”
Gray rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath, then walks over to the refrigerator and grabs two bottles of water, tossing one in Adam’s direction. I want to say something about his blatant rudeness, but I’m stopped short, because as Adam goes to catch the flying H2O, I catch sight of something on his back. Something big, black, and although very artistic, even more permanent.
“Adam Joseph Sullivan, what in the hell is on your back?” I bark out, forgetting all about Jonathan being there, overlooking Gray’s impolite behavior, and slipping directly into Mom-mode.
“Ummm.” He looks at me like a deer caught in headlights. “Dirt?”
Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I don’t miss the tittering of laughter from where Gray stands, and I can’t help but join him. There’s nothing I can really say, and I truly don’t care all that much, but it just caught me off-guard.
“We’ll talk about this later.” I open my eyes to his guilty grin. “Jonathan and I are going to dinner to discuss business. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek, careful not to get me dirty. “Okay, Mom. I’ve got a date tonight, and Gray’s heading to Jess’ place. We can talk tomorrow. Be careful and I love you.” Shifting his attention to Jonathan, he smiles and tips his head again. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Evans. Take good care of her.”
“I most definitely will, son,” he replies, sliding his hand up from my lower back, around my waist, and patting me softly on the side. Okay, I’m definitely not overreacting. This is not how business associates touch one another.
Adam strolls out of the kitchen, but Gray remains standing a few feet away, his eyes transfixed on where Jonathan’s fingers are curved around my hipbone as his jaw clenches and releases, over and over.
I’m trying not to stare at his bare chest and washboard abs, trying not to be jealous of the drops of sweat clinging to his tanned skin as they gradually slide down the perfectly-carved torso, trying not to remember the heated desire that pooled between my legs as he rubbed my neck and shoulders, trying to remember I’m supposed to be leaving for dinner with a man who is not only my age, but someone who can be a vital part of building my hopefully new career…and I’m failing miserably at all of it.
Jonathan speaks up, his voice cutting through the rapidly growing awkwardness in the room. “Gray, is it?” he asks as I suck in a deep breath, hoping this situation doesn’t get any worse. “I may be way out of line here, but you seem a little apprehensive about all of this, so please let me assure you my gallery is highly-regarded in the art community. I see true raw talent in your mom,” I cringe slightly at the reference to me being Gray’s mom, but Jonathan keeps on talking, “and I think Maxwell Evans Gallery will make her a star. She’s in great hands with me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gray growls as he pushes off the counter and stalks out of the room. “Have a
great night, Mom.”
“Grayson!” I call after him, but he ignores me, and seconds later, I hear his heavy stomps moving up the staircase.
Twisting to face Jonathan, I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what’s gotten into him,” I lie. I’m pretty sure he’s jealous over Jonathan, and even though I’m a little pissed about his outburst, it makes me feel...good.
Wrong, but good.
“No worries. Sometimes children have a hard time adjusting to changes in their parents’ lives. I’m sure he’ll come around; just give him time.” He squeezes my waist and smiles. “Now let’s go enjoy our dinner.”
I follow him out the door and into his sleek, black luxury sedan, never bothering to correct him on his mistaken assumption. It’s probably best if he thinks that’s why he had the reaction he did.
The rest of the evening, throughout our conversation about what Jonathan envisions for my first show, I follow along and allow myself to get even more excited than I was before. However, each time his knee accidentally bumps mine under the table or when his hand happens to land on my upper thigh, instead of having the effect it should when an extremely handsome man that seemingly has all his shit together does these things, my thoughts immediately drift to Gray and what he’d think if he saw us.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
Never in my life have I been a jealous person, mostly because I’ve never had a reason to be jealous. Sure, there are people in life who have a hell of a lot more than I do—more money, fancier cars, bigger houses—but none of that means much to me. Happiness is what I care about, and up until recently, I’ve always been a pretty fucking happy guy.
So as I seethed internally, watching that pompous-ass, uppity prick put his hands on Mia, I had to ask myself why it was, exactly, that I was pissed. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was most definitely jealous.