The Art of Submission (7 page)

At the office, I look over at the
paintings and feel a twinge of sadness at the idea of giving them
back. Do I really want to do that? Not really, but if it’s the only
way I can win Isabel’s trust, I guess I’ll have to. Again, I’m
getting way ahead of myself. I just can’t stop thinking about her.
Those eyes. That voice.
Those
paintings…
.

Why the hell hasn’t she called me back?
It’s 1:45. I don’t wait for women.
Ever.
This girl is starting to irritate me. She
could at least have the common courtesy of returning my call to let
me know if she’s amenable to discussing her paintings, one way or
the other. I just need to finish up my work here and get my mind
off of the whole situation.

It’s now 2:30 in the afternoon and I’ve
finished with my work. Still… no call from Isabel. Maybe I’ll just
drive by her place on my way home. Just then my phone rings and I’m
struck with a feeling of anticipation.

“Young here.” Shit, it’s not Isabel. It’s my
right hand man Sawyer. There’s a situation with one of our clients
in Dallas.

“Young, Sawyer here. Security has been
breached and we need you here ASAP. Sorry, but there’s no way
around it. “

Sawyer always has the shittiest timing. It’s
not his fault. It’s the nature of this business, I suppose. At
least the trip will take my mind off of Isabel. I immediately head
home and get packed. I call my people and get my business plane
chartered for Dallas and still no call or message from the Isabel.
The whole situation will just have to wait until I get back.

The plane ride to Dallas goes smoothly. The
pretty redheaded co-pilot was making eyes at me, and normally I
might entertain the thought of indulging in her, but I just can’t
stop thinking about Isabel. What is it about her? Is it just her
paintings that I’m drawn to or is there more?

We make good time, and it’s only 4:45 p.m. by
the time I arrive at my hotel. I no sooner start to get settled in
and Sawyer is at my door to pick me up. Fine. Let’s do this.

It’s 10:30 p.m. when I arrive back at
the hotel and the semi-crisis has been averted. I check my messages
and
nothing.
Like a fool, I
check again. Yep. Still nothing. What gives? How thickheaded is
this female? This would be a non-issue had she never come to my
office, but as it stands – she did. Now she won’t even return my
fucking message. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep this off. I get
showered and settled in.

Shimmering blonde hair… warm amber eyes…
inviting wet mouth… I am standing above her. She’s kneeling,
looking down at her hands. I lift her face to meet my eyes. I
slowly bend down and kiss her deeply. She tastes so good…..

Alarm clock, loud and obtrusive.
No… it’s too early
. I just want to
sleep a little more and keep dreaming of Isabel. Okay. I’m awake. I
can’t take it anymore. I need to see this girl. If she doesn’t
respond or call me by this afternoon, I can’t be held responsible
for my or my alter ego’s actions.

It’s 11:00 a.m. and I’m back in Denver.
Much to my dismay, there’s still no message from Isabel. On my way
back home, I take an out of the way detour and find myself in front
of her apartment building. I’m sitting in my car deciding on my
next plan of attack, when I see Greer coming out of the front
doors. Why the fuck is
he
here? He looks frustrated and I know it must be because of
Isabel; she seems to have that effect on men. I don’t like the
thought of her frustrating him or any other man, for that matter.
As he heads towards his car, he’s nervously looking around, but he
doesn’t see me. I get out of my car and head to the front entrance.
I buzz her apartment number. No answer. I buzz it again. Then… her
voice.

“What?!” She snaps.

Whoa….what’s she so pissed about? “Isabel.
This is Dylan Young. Can I come up?”

There’s no response from the other end,
but the door buzzes open. I’ll take that as a yes. There’s no
elevator in the old dilapidated building so I head up the stairs to
the 3
^rd
floor. The stairwell
is dirty and moderately run down. I can hear loud music coming from
one the apartments, and what sounds to be a loud argument from
another. Interesting neighbors. Why is a girl as pretty and
talented as she is living in a neighborhood like this? She can
certainly do better
. I’d love to help her
do better…

I’m standing in front of her apartment
door, and I hesitate. Why the fuck am I so anxious? It’s just a
girl.
Pull it together,
Young
. I knock on her door and I hear shuffling. The
door slowly opens, and there stands the angel from my
dreams.

She’s even more attractive than I
remember. She has a small snub nose and a light dusting of freckles
on her cheeks. Her lips are full and her mouth the shape of a
heart. Her eyes are almond-shaped and staring widely at me. Her
hair is just past her shoulders and wavy, and it isn’t just blonde;
it’s the color of champagne. She’s half standing behind the door,
peeking out at me from behind her long blonde lashes. She’s not
wearing a stitch of make-up and she looks absolutely stunning. With
her free hand, she’s fidgeting with a lock of her hair, twirling it
between her fingers. She gives me a nervous half smile then looks
down at the ground.
No sweetheart, I want
to see those eyes….

I finally break the silence. “Can I come
in?”

She apologizes, steps back and opens the door
for me. It’s a very small efficiency apartment and it’s immaculate.
It’s sparsely furnished, but tastefully so. I’m impressed. On one
brick wall hangs four paintings above her bed and I know
immediately that she’s painted them herself. I look back to her and
she’s watching me intently. She looks nervous as I walk towards
them to get a better look. She quickly steps in front of me before
I reach them.

“What did you want to talk about Mr. Young?”
She asks in a soft silky voice.

“I don’t take kindly to people not returning
my messages, Isabel. Have you considered what I said?” I ask.

She looks around guiltily, then down at the
floor. She is fidgeting with her hair again I’m finding it
difficult to concentrate when she does that. I don’t know what
comes over me, but I reach over, grab her chin and tilt her face up
to look at me. “Answer me, Isabel.”

Her eyes stare wide at me, her lips part and
I hear her breathing halt. Shit. Why did I just do that? Her eyes
flit from my mouth to my eyes and back. What is this look? Fear?
Arousal? She doesn’t move.

Finally, she answers me in the sweetest
voice, “I didn’t listen to it. I deleted it.”

What the hell? She deleted my
message
without
listening to
it? This little angel has got some nerve. She looks sweet and
innocent, but there’s something else going on altogether here. I
don’t know why I’m surprised, hell, look at her paintings. I narrow
my eyes at her and she backs away from me.

“I see. Since you didn’t listen to it, I’ll
tell you in person what I said. You told me on the phone that you
wanted your paintings back and since we both know that you can’t
afford to buy them back, I thought maybe we could come to some kind
of deal.”

She interrupts me before I can finish. “Can
we talk about this somewhere else, please?”

I can see she’s extremely uncomfortable
with my being here. She’s shuffling from foot to foot. She looks
over at her paintings and back to me.
Oh.
She doesn’t want me to see her paintings.
“You’d prefer somewhere more ‘neutral’?” I ask.

“Yes, please.”

Fuck.
Her
voice is so seductive. Little Ms. Ibanez has got submissive written
all over her. “That’s fine. Can I take you to lunch and we can
discuss it there?”

“Right now? Um… sure. I mean, yes, that’s
fine.” She stutters. She looks surprised by my offer.

“Can I change first?” She asks.

“Why? You look
fine
.” And that’s the truth. It’s the first time
I’ve seen her in clothes that actually fit. I can see her fantastic
curves. She’s by no means skinny, but she really does have a
fuckable little body. Her breasts are full and large; a small
waist; a soft but flat belly; and deliciously curvy hips. Why the
hell does she hide her body all the time? Again she looks surprised
by my response and looks away from me. She blushes and starts
twirling her hair between her fingers again.
Why do I find that so fucking sexy?

“Okay.” She whispers.

We immediately leave, me guiding the way, and
I steal one last glance at her paintings before she shuts the door
behind us.

Once we get outside, I point to where my car
is parked and she gives me a bemused look.

“That’s
your
car?”

“Yes. One of them anyway,” I say, and
immediately wished I hadn’t said it like that. She doesn’t even
have a car that I know of and I’m bragging about having
several.
Nice job, Young.
I
can be such an ass sometimes. She just stares at me wide-eyed for a
moment and then continues to the car. What was that about? I go
around to the passenger side and open the door for her.

Again, she gives me a bewildered look and
then politely says, “Thank you, Dylan.”

The site of her mouth saying my name
floors me. And that voice…
fuck
. I stand immobile outside the car, trying
to coax my cock into not getting hard, and trying to regain my
composure.

I decide to take us to a small café not
far from her apartment, mainly because it’s a short drive and I
want to get down to business. On the drive over, she nervously
glances at me time and time again. She shifts in her seat
uncomfortably and I see her start to twirl her hair between her
fingers.
She’s driving me fucking crazy
with that
. I look over at her and she just gives me a
shy smile and looks away quickly.

I find a parking spot and we make our
way into the café. We seat ourselves at a small table near the
window. She’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to make the
first move.
I like that.
I
just stare at her, drinking in all her features; large luminous
unblinking eyes, hands in her lap, mouth slightly parted…
a look of pure submissiveness.
I
feel my cock ache just looking at her. The waitress brings over two
menus, but we don’t break our gaze, and she quickly leaves. I could
stay like this forever.

Finally, I break. “Isabel. The reason I
wanted to meet you face to face, was so that we can discuss your
paintings. Am I to understand that you want them back?”

“Yes. I do. But you know I can’t afford to
buy them from you.” She’s no longer looking at me. Her eyes are
scanning the tabletop as if it’s going to yield divine
inspiration.

“Can you please just answer this: Why
do you want them back so badly?”
I need to
know her reasons.

She pauses for the longest time, searching
for the words I think, as she runs her fingertip along the edge of
the table nervously.

“Because they’re deeply personal to me.”

Her voice cracks as she says this and I
don’t think I’ve ever heard a more sincere statement in my life. I
can actually feel her heart ache.
Fuck
. What is it about this girl?

“I see. And you didn’t want to sell
them?”

“Not at all. But Mr. Greer… well, he’s very
persistent…”

Her eyes are still cast downward when I
cut her off. Persistent, huh?
I know what
that means.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I ask, narrowing my
eyes at her. I swear to fucking Almighty if she says yes, I’m going
to be sick.

She looks horrified. “No.
Absolutely
not
.”

I feel immediate relief. That’s the loudest
I’ve heard her voice. Well, except for when I laughed at her on the
phone. But I can tell she’s holding something back about Greer.

“Is he an
ex-
boyfriend?”

Her eyes flit nervously from my mouth to my
eyes. Then she guiltily stares at the tabletop.

“Not exactly.” Her voice is back to a whisper
again.

What the fuck does that
mean?
“What then,
exactly
?” I ask trying to control my
anger.

She sits quietly without answering me. Why
won’t she answer me? Damn it woman – “Isabel, answer me.” I’m stern
with her.

“We slept together. Once.” Her voice is
barely audible.

Shit. Why did I ask? The thought of that
asshole giving it to her pisses me off beyond all reason. Now his
evasiveness about her makes perfect sense. He didn’t want me to
know the artist was a woman or to meet her because he wants her all
to himself. I can’t say as I blame the man; I want her all to
myself, too. I can tell by her body language that she’s not happy
about it either. As a matter of fact, she looks downright
embarrassed about it. But my alter ego won’t let it go.

“So how was that for you?”

“What do you mean?” She looks up at me
outraged and shocked at my question.

“I mean, was it good for you? Did you
enjoy it?” Why do I keep asking questions that I really don’t want
the answer to?
Because you’re a
sadist
my subconscious screams at me.