Eight Days in the Sun Read online

  “Why? You’re just going to go all judgmental or maybe just mental. Either way, it’ll frustrate both of us.”

  “Is it true he’s blind?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It should matter. You’ve always been a dreamer, Kiran. This isn’t a dream. This is your life. Does he even have a job? Can he support you?”

  No, he doesn’t, I answer silently. He’s living on a VA disability check in a house his grandma left him. His portfolio is non-existent. He can’t take care of your daughter.

  “He supports me like no one else ever has.”

  “You didn’t answer the first question.”

  “He’s still getting acclimated to his new life. Not everything is about money.”

  “Will you remember that the next time you want to go to Europe? Better yet, how about if you want to purchase a new car?”

  “You forget, I support myself.”

  “You should find someone who supports you in every way. You deserve that, beta. Do you want to take care of someone for the rest of your life?”

  No, that’s not what she wants. It’s not what I want for her either.

  “Yes, I want to take care of him for the rest of my life. You know why, Papa? Because he takes care of me too. I’m not asking for your approval here. I was keeping him from you because I knew you would not understand. But I’m not ashamed to tell you I’m with Mason. Mason is the strongest, most honorable man I’ve ever met. He fought for this country. He protected us, Papa. He’s my hero, and I won’t listen to you bash the man I love.”

  She’s saying some really nice things about me. Every sentence comes straight from her heart. But I can’t invest in the sentiments. She’s so self-assured about us. I want to believe in her words, to stride into the other room and make it clear Kiran Shenoy is mine. She has always been mine. She belongs to me just as I belong to her.

  Maybe a hero would do that.

  But there are no heroes living here.

  Chapter 34

  Kiran

  I stand outside between the jasmine shrub and tangerine tree. The wind picks up, blowing the blossoms into the air. I close my eyes and inhale the scent as they fly past me, the petals brushing my skin. I hum along to the sad lyrics echoing from inside the shed. The song is called “Hurt.” It’s not the original Nine Inch Nails version, which is epically stupendous in itself. No, this is Johnny Cash’s take. It’s much slower and more haunting. Sometimes you can feel pain radiating from a song. Johnny Cash radiates pain like no other artist.

  I knock on the shed door. “Mason, its Kiran.” I say it the way I’ve said for the past twenty-five days. I almost add, “Let me in to your secret clubhouse.”

  Mason opens the door. His navy blue V-neck T-shirt is specked with gray dust. It’s in his hair, and his hands are covered with it. Whatever he’s working on, he’s giving it his all. I’m sure it’s some kind of sculpture. I’m dying to see it, but he hasn’t invited me in yet. So until he gives me the super-secret password to the clubhouse, I’ll do my best to keep my curiosity in check.

  His muscular body takes up the entire doorframe so I can’t even peek inside. “Hey, girl,” he says in a way that can do battle with the best Ryan Gosling meme. His sexy, raspy voice is sugared with southern swagger.

  “I’m going to the grocery store. Want to come?”

  “I would, but I’m busy in here.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit then.” I turn to leave.

  “Wait.” He takes my arm and slides his hand down until he’s touching my wrist. His fingers graze across my skin. He traces the port-wine heart-shaped birthmark. “Do you want to come in and see what I’m doing?”

  What? Am I being invited into the Bat Cave? The Club House? The secret lair? “Um, yeah.”

  He draws a deep breath. He’s nervous. “C’mon in, Shenoy.”

  He kicks the door open. I take a tentative step. He stands behind me. I blink to adjust to the low light. “It’s too dark in here.”

  “Sorry,” he says, switching on a light. “I forget.”

  I gasp when I take in the sight. The shed is much larger on the inside than I’d thought. There are several deep shelves on the far wall. On each one, there is a sculpture of a sandcastle. Some are large and regal with sweeping staircases and tall turrets like the one he made all those year ago. Others are small and more whimsical. I was wrong. This isn’t a shed or a replica of a house. No, this is something else entirely. I’m standing in Mason’s artist studio.

  “They’re spectacular. I had no idea.”

  “No idea of what, sunshine?”

  “I knew you had skills, but this… This is beyond anything I imagined.”

  “A very special girl once told me I should be a sandcastle builder.”

  “That’s one smart girl.”

  “She’s brilliant.”

  I move closer, examining each piece. The details are vibrant. “You have so much talent.”

  His smile is full of relief. “Thank you. I’m happy you like them.”

  “Like them? That’s an understatement.”

  “How did you learn all these techniques?”

  “Working with clay was part of my rehabilitation. I enjoyed it so I bought a few slabs and started experimenting. It’s like my hands remember what my eyes can’t comprehend.”

  “Muscle memory, right?”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  “There are cases like this. Have you ever heard of Francisco Luggio?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “He was blinded as a teenager. But he’d always painted. He was able to resume his work, and most critics say it got better. They performed head scans on him while he was drawing. They found out the part of the brain that controls the optic nerves had activity. Science can’t even explain it.”

  “Yeah, it is sort of like that for me. I can’t see, but everything just has more dimension. Even the air is tangible. I can’t explain it except it makes me happy when I’m creating something.”

  “I have the article. We can load it into your iPad if you want to read it.”

  He frowns, running a hand through his hair. “How did you know about him?”

  “I’ve been doing research. Just reading up on different cases and stories.”

  “I hope you’re not looking for a cure. You’ll only be disappointed.”

  “Not a cure, Mason. Just trying to understand what it’s like in your world. I’m sorry if...”

  He takes my face. “No, don’t be sorry. I’d be interested in reading the article.”

  I embrace him. “Thank you for showing all this to me.”

  He holds me tight. I feel his heart beat through his clothes.

  “I’m getting clay on you, and you’re wearing a nice dress. At least I think you are.”

  “I don’t care about the clay, but for the record, this is a pretty dress.”

  “Course it is. Anything you decide to put on is pretty, sunshine. Because you’re wearing it.”

  I turn around to take it all in again. There is a long wooden table flanked by two shorter tables. An array of coffee cans with tools sticking out of them sit on the long table. Everything from chisels to knives to string. I shudder when I spot the knives. Please God, don’t let him cut himself. But I see his skills in all these creations. Mason’s a true artist, talented and clever. A white sheet covers an object on one of the smaller tables.

  “May I see what you’re working on now?”

  “Sure.”

  I remove the sheet. One of the smaller tables has slabs of clay on it. He’s started something. It’s a round figure. “This one doesn’t look like a sandcastle.”

  “It’s a different project.”

  “What is it?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s my only attempt at sculpting a person, but it’s probably a crappy imitation. I’ve been working
on it for a while now. I’m having some trouble with the details. I want it to be right. Would you consider posing for me?”

  I suck in a breath. He’s sculpting me? It’s a solid mass with a few curves. I cannot imagine it finished.

  “Pose? How will that work?”

  “Say yes, and you’ll see.”

  “I’d be honored to pose for you.”

  “The honor is mine.” His smile goes from cheerful to wicked in two seconds. “Take off your clothes, Kiran.”

  My skin prickles with the thought of it. “This is a nude?”

  “That would be my preference. Not to mention, I will ruin your dress.”

  “A nude it is.”

  He licks his lips. “Then let’s get on with it.” He tugs on my dress. “Take it off.”

  “You do it.”

  “With pleasure.”

  He fingers the straps of my dress before sliding them down my shoulders. The fabric lands around my feet with a soft swish. He grapples with the bra. I take his wrists and move them to the hooks. My belly flips as he drags my panties down. He picks up all my discarded clothing, folds them, and places the items in a neat stack on a vacant corner of the long table.

  He approaches me, only a sliver of a gap between us. “Get on the table.”

  He moves forward as I take a step back. My ass hits the edge. He grips my hips and lifts me onto the surface.

  Mason’s hands roam through my hair. It’s in a tight French braid today. “May I take it down? I’d really like to capture it all wild and tumbling.” He’s already pulling on the rubber band.

  “Yes.”

  I close my eyes as his fingers travel through my strands. This feels so good I’m not sure how long I can stand it. The circulating fan makes a nice breeze, but the room is heating up a degree or two every time Mason touches me.

  “Did you use different shampoo today? Something with coconut?”

  “Yeah, I opened a new bottle. Do you like it?”

  He buries his nose in my hair and sniffs. “Mmm, I approve.”

  He lays me down and shifts me to my side. Mason moves one of my legs so it’s slightly bent over the other. He takes my arm and places it over my breasts.

  He bends down so we’re eye level. “Are you all right in this position? Comfortable?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He smiles as he plays with a strand of hair. “This is how I wanted to sculpt you. Completely naked, yet hidden too.”

  The way he’s positioned me, all my naughty bits are covered up with my limbs. He turns off the light. It’s almost pitch black except for the few streaks of filtered light coming through slats of the wood shutters. He walks over to the slab of clay on the other table. He begins cutting away the negative space, adding more definition and curves. I watch, grateful to see him in this element where his passion and talent shine. His hands are covered with clay. He walks to the small sink and washes them. When he comes back to me, they are cold and dripping wet. But I need something cool right now. Otherwise I might self-combust. He runs his hands across my body from my ankles to my ass to my hair and everything in between. His deft fingers skate across my flesh until my skin tingles. I try not to squirm as he strokes me, but I fail many times. He gives me a playful smack on the ass.

  “Quit it. Behave and be still.”

  “Trying.”

  Maybe he considers this posing. I call it the moment between agony and ecstasy. Somewhere between teasing and torture.

  I know he’s turned on too. Hell, I just have to lower my glance to see how turned on he is. But Mason is a professional. He focuses on the task while I silently plead for release. He reaches back and pulls off his shirt. His jeans ride low on his hips, revealing the sexy indented V-lines on his lower abs. I chew on my bottom lip. A trickle of sweat travels down my back. The rotating fan offers little relief. I want to touch myself so badly.

  The sculpture takes on more shape and definition as his deft hands manipulate the clay. I begin to recognize myself in the silhouette he creates. Each one of his carefully carved lines creates more drama with texture and shadow. He uses several knives, chisels, and even string to cut away the excess clay. The figure he’s making isn’t a life-size model, but it is very accurate. He even draws my scars. He sings softly about rainy days and Mondays while he works.

  He comes back to me. His hands touch me once more. He holds my face at an angle, his thumbs traveling down each ridge and bone. This is powerful and intimate. My body isn’t perfect, it’s marred and flawed. It jiggles and bounces where I don’t want it to. I acknowledge those areas, but I no longer dwell on them. In many ways, Mason’s helped me with that. When I look at the realistic replica he’s making, I see nothing but beauty. I even see beauty in the scars.

  He washes his hands again. A sign he will touch me.

  Don’t touch me if you aren’t planning to love me, to fuck me, to ravish me. The last two hours are both torture and rapture. He’s working so I’m not sure what this is for him. But for me, it’s been some crazy intense form of foreplay. I’m stiff and wet and full of lust.

  His thumb crests across my lips. I open my mouth and suck slowly.

  He swallows a harsh breath.

  “Let’s take a break…please.”

  “Yeah, you need a good, long, stretch.”

  I unbuckle his jeans and push them down. He lowers his boxers. I pull his hard erect form into my mouth, stroking his shaft as I draw him in. He moans and jerks as my lips wrap tighter around him. His fingers grip the edge of the table. “I need to touch you right now,” he says, somewhere between a plea and demand.

  “All you’ve been doing is touching me.”

  “With my hands. There are other parts of me that are fucking screaming to touch you.”

  He pushes me back. I watch him, not even daring to blink as he discards his clothes. He walks around the table, gripping the edges with his fingertips. After he comes around the other side, he bends and gives me a tender kiss. His mouth travels south down my body, marking his path with slow seductive kisses and swirling licks of his tongue. I lean my head back as he delves inside of me. His tongue fondles and strokes until I’m a thrashing ball of energy. I’m so warm, yet I’m shivering. He grabs my bottom and lifts me to his mouth.

  “Almost, baby,” I scream, adjusting his head to where I want it. Where I need it. His fingers dig into my flesh, his mouth devouring me as if I’m the sweetest dish. It all culminates into the most intense climax of my life.

  He waits for me to come down from it, stroking himself as I extol his name.

  He massages my legs, exactly what I need after being in the same position for hours followed by euphoria.

  “Kiran, I need you,” he says.

  “Then take me, Mason.”

  He shakes his head and knocks his fist against the table top. “This is a sturdy table. I built it so I know exactly how much weight it can take. But what I have in mind is probably not safe. I know you’re a bit of a daredevil, but there are some risks we don’t need to take.” He leans down and picks me up from the table. I feel safe in his arms as I always have. He sets me down. “On your knees, girl.” This he says in his commanding voice, hard and virile. I’m under the spell of Mason Cutler. It’s so powerful that time and distance cannot diminish it.

  I fall to my knees. He does the same. He turns me around, his strong hands positioning my body so he’s crouching behind. He pushes my hair to the side. He kisses my neck, shoulder, and then trails his mouth down my spine. “Tell me if this is not okay with you, baby.”

  “Mason, it’s more than okay.”

  He lets out a manly grunt to indicate he is pleased by my answer. His body, warm and hard and strong, covers me. His fingers dip inside my sex.

  “Jesus, Kiran, you’re drenched.”

  “That’s what you do to me, Mason.”

  He traces my seam with his erection. I struggle to keep the position and not collapse. H
e enters me slowly. I gasp.

  “Am I hurting you?” He asks it with such guilt it tears my heart.

  “No. Just getting used to it.”

  “I’m almost inside.”

  What the hell? He’s not all the way inside yet?

  He traces the shell of my ear with his tongue. His teeth scrape against my shoulder. I feel every inch of him. I cry out as he whispers sweet, wicked words with each movement.

  “When I’m inside of you, I lose myself. Your body was made for mine. I love fucking you.” Yeah, that last one almost makes me come. “Sunshine, angel, darling, Kiran.” The words roll together, barely intelligible, as his speed increases.

  “I’m close,” I tell him, although we’re breathing so hard I doubt he’s heard.

  “Thank God,” he mutters, increasing his tempo. His finger presses into my nub in sync to his thrusts.

  I close my eyes tight and let go. He follows not far behind.

  I’m ready to collapse. He inches out of me and takes me into his arms. We lay there on the polished wood-planked floor, curled up in each other. I run my hands over his skin.

  The wounds on his body have mended, but not healed. There is no doubt how much he suffered. It’s written on his flesh as clear as any tattoo.

  He takes my wrist and kisses the underside. “Don’t be sad, sweetheart. They don’t hurt anymore.”

  “I’m not sad. I’m angry at the person who did this to you. I want to destroy him.”

  “He’s dead, Kiran.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  He turns on his side to face me. “When you are consumed with hate, there isn’t room for much else. I should know. For a long time, all I wanted was revenge. I’m not saying I forgive. But I was so angry. Not just at him either. At the whole world. It’s funny, I hated the thought of people pitying me. All the while, I pitied myself. That’s no kind of life.”

  “When did you realize that?”

  He kisses my head. “About two minutes ago.” He chuckles. “Guess I’m a slow leaner.”

  “You just have a hard head.”

  “Oh, I’ve got more than a hard head, girl.”