Celia’s yearning for art and Le贸n’s passion for painting ignite, but their journey teaches lessons far beyond the canvas.
"You can live in my pool house, if you'll teach me to paint."Living alone in her bare mansion in LA’s Hollywood Hills, gentle Celia takes up art therapy, hoping it will soothe the deep scars of her past. Each failed artwork deepens her fear of losing to depression, like her father.
Le贸n, an intense painter struggling with a creative block, empties his savings to move to LA in search of new visions. He needs a cheap studio and some raw, authentic inspiration—his dreams and future as an artist depend on it.
Brought together by their colorful mutual friends, Celia offers Le贸n a deal: he can live in her pool house for free if he teaches her to paint. As he becomes her infatuated teacher and she his reluctant muse, both are laid bare by their pursuit of honest art. Could the desperate creativity that drew them together also rip them apart?
Unique and powerful, this sensual slow burn romance unfolds between mature characters, exploring themes of healing, trauma, and empowerment. Perfect for readers who appreciate new contemporary romance and women's fiction, this novel includes diverse, over 40, LGBTQ characters, making it a profound choice for those looking for explicit angsty romantic stories that mirror their own experiences and complexities.
“Wait,” he said, moving close behind her, face hovering over her shoulder. “Look.”
She followed his gaze past her to the dark pool house window. The low light reflected her murkily, the polarized film tinting her nearly-nude reflection a faint pearly purple. She had only moments to be amused at his painter’s eye for imagery before his hands traveled around her from behind to caress her bare skin.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, but Le贸n watched their reflection.
It was another moment he had to remember—to paint. In his arms, Celia was warm flesh and scent and movement. He was free to explore her for the first time, the anticipation of it making his head swim. But in the window, he saw a shadowy mirror woman, faintly iridescent and indigo. She was shrouded, unobtainable, beckoning him with welcoming curves he could see his hands roaming, but untouchable.
He finally pressed his length against her from behind, pulling her body to him with one hand on a breast and one on her stomach, starting to slide lower. She inhaled as his fingers inched under the band of her panties and turned her head to his for a kiss. He was still sneaking a look at the reflection, his breath racing.
“Le贸n,” she murmured. He finally looked at her, the supple human within his reach. “If you are thinking about a painting, so help me god….”
“I’m not,” he said. “I mean, I can’t help it.”
She turned in his arms. “That light is going off.”
She left him, going down on one knee on the daybed and stretching to reach the lamp. He had just one second to see her, reaching forward with one arm, one leg stretched back to the floor. What a line, what a pose! Then the light was off, and he could only see her faintly in the reflected aqua light from the pool outside.
In a quick motion, he began unbuttoning his jeans. He was done looking. It was time to feel those places his brush had gone first.
She followed his gaze past her to the dark pool house window. The low light reflected her murkily, the polarized film tinting her nearly-nude reflection a faint pearly purple. She had only moments to be amused at his painter’s eye for imagery before his hands traveled around her from behind to caress her bare skin.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, but Le贸n watched their reflection.
It was another moment he had to remember—to paint. In his arms, Celia was warm flesh and scent and movement. He was free to explore her for the first time, the anticipation of it making his head swim. But in the window, he saw a shadowy mirror woman, faintly iridescent and indigo. She was shrouded, unobtainable, beckoning him with welcoming curves he could see his hands roaming, but untouchable.
He finally pressed his length against her from behind, pulling her body to him with one hand on a breast and one on her stomach, starting to slide lower. She inhaled as his fingers inched under the band of her panties and turned her head to his for a kiss. He was still sneaking a look at the reflection, his breath racing.
“Le贸n,” she murmured. He finally looked at her, the supple human within his reach. “If you are thinking about a painting, so help me god….”
“I’m not,” he said. “I mean, I can’t help it.”
She turned in his arms. “That light is going off.”
She left him, going down on one knee on the daybed and stretching to reach the lamp. He had just one second to see her, reaching forward with one arm, one leg stretched back to the floor. What a line, what a pose! Then the light was off, and he could only see her faintly in the reflected aqua light from the pool outside.
In a quick motion, he began unbuttoning his jeans. He was done looking. It was time to feel those places his brush had gone first.
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What is Incubadora?
Maya Bairey lives on the banks of the Columbia river in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and their old cat, Dory. Turning from corporate writing to storytelling, Maya was surprised to find she had a bunch of passionate stories inside her, where stuck people learn to live out loud.Her debut novel, Painting Celia, explores the intersection of honest art and intense love, where creativity and passion can heal and change us. Maya invites readers to have a fun escape, but also to look inward, discovering their own creative and emotional depths.
For a deeper dive into the Celia’s world, visit bairey.com.
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looks like a fun one
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