My Sons Best Friend Ch 16

"So, you didn't bring me any paintings?" I asked.

Jonah nodded.

"You did bring me some, or you didn't?"

He nodded again.

"Oh, you!"

Then he laughed. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He handed it to me.

I took it, feeling a little excited, a little nervous. Drum roll please!

We were sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the pickle juice to boil. Rows of glass jars filled with peppers were at ease on the counter, awaiting orders.

I unfolded it one direction, then the other. Then I smoothed it out on the table.

It wasn't a painting. It was a pencil sketch.

It was...simple. Profound. Complex. Elemental.

It was me.

At least, I thought it was me.

"Is this me?"

He nodded.

"Wow. I didn't know I was so beautiful."

My head was bent over, studying the drawing. He was standing next to me, and he put his hand at the base of my spine, rubbing his knuckles gently over the bone. Then he began to work his way up my spine, pausing at each vertebra.

The picture went into me, through my gut, sliding up my spine, until it reached my neck and spilled out onto my shoulders and over my arms like a shawl against the chill of the night.

"Can I have it?"

He nodded again.

I picked it up and held it against my breast.

"Thank you."

I took it to my room and put it on the desk. Then the pickle juice was ready, and I needed to pour it in the jars and put them in the canning bath.

Jonah sat in the kitchen and watched me work.

"I'd like to see more, sometime," I said.

"They're in my room."

"Can you bring some here?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"No room here."

"We could make room."

He shook his head again.

"Can I come see them then?"

"Yeah."

* * * *

I wanted to ask him if his mother would be around. But then I told myself, 'You have to meet her sometime. This thing with Jonah is not going away, so just buck up and face the music.'

We went out the back door, and Jonah took my hand, and we headed down the ravine to the hill behind the house. It would be a nice walk on a beautiful day.

We didn't see anyone along the way, but we were easily visible from the windows of a number of houses, and I didn't care. It was wonderful to walk with Jonah and feel the air moving in and out of my lungs, my leg muscles working, the ground passing under my feet.

The place looked kind of deserted when we arrived, and there was no car in the drive. We went to Jonah's room in the back, and the door stuck a little when Jonah pushed it open.

There were still piles of clothes on the floor and the balled up covers on the bed indicated that they were probably never arranged or smoothed neatly over the mattress.

Jonah led me to the closet, and there were stacks and rows of heavy paper and canvas, all covered with color, and numerous sketchbooks of different shapes and sizes, and pieces of wood that looked like they would fit together to make an easel. There were paints and brushes on the floor, and it looked as though the closet had been the subject of some painting sessions as well, with drips and splashes and swipes of color in random places.

"How did I miss all this when I was here that night?" I asked incredulously.

Jonah shrugged.

"Well, I guess I was a little preoccupied. I wasn't exactly looking for artwork that morning when I was trying to get out of here in one piece."

Jonah picked up a large square and handed it to me. I peered at it.

"This is that morning, isn't it?'

He smiled softly. Then he handed me another.

I grinned, remembering. "And this is that night."

He took his finger and tipped my chin up, and kissed me softly, and I could feel all the magic of that night in his mouth.

I heard a car crunch over the gravel outside the doorway, and pulled away abruptly. I looked toward the open door, and my eyes had just a tinge of terror in them.

"Relax," Jonah muttered and shut the door. "She never comes back here."

Then he came back to me and kissed me again, deep this time, and the tension of her being so close just made me all the weaker in his hands. I wanted him to take me, to own me, to flaunt it right under her nose. If he didn't care, why should I?

His hands moved under my shirt, up to my breasts, and I was paralyzed, riveted to the movement of his thumbs circling my areolae into my nipples, his tongue filling and writhing in my mouth.

I grabbed his hips and pulled them against my belly, his erection already hard, pressing into me, wanting me. We pulled off our shorts and lay on the bed, and I spread my legs. He sucked on my cunt, licking, making it wet, drawing the nectar to the surface, while his thumbs continued their rhythms over my nipples. The tension pushed everything faster, and the pulsations in my groin made me want him inside - all the way.

"I want you, Jonah! Come inside me," I pleaded. "Fuck me Jonah!"

So he mounted me, riding fast, riding to the rescue, riding for his life! The orgasm was hot and fast, and hit suddenly.

"Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

I closed my eyes, a little dizzy, and he kissed me, filling me up with his tongue.

We rested a moment, then got up and put our shorts on. I stood up, lost my balance, fell back on the bed.

"Oh! Head rush!"

He offered a hand, and I took it.

Mmm. I felt good now. Ready to look at more paintings. There were lots of drawings and sketches too.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"Forever."

I leaned back into his sturdy frame, holding a stack of pieces, and he put his arms around me, his hand on my abdomen. I flipped them to the back, one by one. There were way too many to appreciate in one sitting, but I looked at a lot, and I could see how he had made progress from his early stuff.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Dunno."

"Can I have this one?"

"Yeah."

Jonah went to the player and put some music on. It was nice. I liked the words. All the music he and Paul listened to seemed to have a monotone quality to it - different from the melodic stuff I had grown up with; but lyrics were important to me, and I liked what this one said. I could appreciate his music given the right setting. And I loved that Jonah was sharing his world with me.

Beyond the sound of the music, I detected a gravelly sound that indicated his mother had left again. I guessed I wouldn't be meeting her today. Just as well.

"I'm hungry," I announced.

"C'mon. She probably left something in the 'fridge."

I looked up at him. I had never considered actually going into her house. But then, why not? She was gone anyway.

So we followed the walkway to the back door, and Jonah waltzed in as if he lived there. It was kind of small and crowded and dark, but fairly neat. The kitchen was old, with old appliances, a worn oak table, dirty gingham curtains.

Jonah found some leftover lasagna in the 'fridge, and we ate it cold out of the foil with two forks.

"Mmm. This is good. Did she make it from scratch?"

"What's scratch?"

"Y'know. When you buy all the ingredients and put them together instead of buying it ready made."

He nodded. "Yeah, she did that."

"She's a good cook."

"Yeah. You want some soda?"

"No thanks. Just some water."

He got a glass and filled it from the tap, then pulled a soda out and popped the tab. We downed our drinks, and I was ready to leave. I didn't want to be in here too long. I threw away the soda can and the foil, put the forks and glass in the sink.

"Let's go home."

"Okay."

I got the picture from his room that he said I could have, and we started the long walk back.