Текст книги "Reckless"

Автор книги: Devon Hartford

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

These next few months were going to be insane. The good thing about the hectic pace was that it kept my mind off my fucking trial.

I did my best not to think about it.

The current painting of Isabella sitting on my main work easel was life-sized, which meant the canvas was huge. One thing was a constant in the art world: bigger work meant bigger money. I was up for it.

Time to turn the money crank.

I turned to look at Isabella, assessing her lines and forms, the lights and darks, and the overall composition of her pose. She was so beautiful, you’d think painting her would be a slam-dunk. Just paint what you see, and you had a masterpiece, right?

Nope.

Portraits didn’t work that way.

I didn’t know a thing about Isabella, other than she was hot, which ironically served only as a distraction. Her flirtatious behavior wasn’t helping either, because I knew she was repressing her authentic personality when she was coming onto me.

The obvious solution would be to paint the come-hither look that was on her face at the moment, right? Nail her sultry hot-and-bothered-babe expression and I’d sell it for a million, right?

Maybe in porn, but not in fine art.

I could never figure out why it worked this way, but the proof was in the end result.

When I painted strangers, people would say shit like, “That’s a great painting,” or “Amazing composition, Christos,” or “Beautiful brush work,” or “I love the colors.”

But when I painted people I knew, the comments would be things like, “Wow, she seems so sincere, so kind, the sort of person I’d want as a friend” or “Do you know that crazy guy? He looks like a real bastard!” or “I feel like I’m looking at the ghost of my grandmother.”

Yeah, some of the comments were totally freaky.

The weird thing was, most people didn’t actually know which of my paintings were which. I never told them, never made it obvious from the titles. Yet the responses were consistent. Viewers always preferred the paintings of people I knew, spent far more time looking at them, and paid higher prices for them than they did for the ones of strangers.

I couldn’t figure out why.

One time, I’d asked my grandfather what he thought the reason might be. He’d said it was the spiritual component, the ineffable connection that existed between two people who knew each other that no camera could ever capture. He’d said that the more you knew a person, the more your relationship with them worked its way into the painting, and the more that such a painting would captivate any viewer, even if they didn’t know why.

I guess this mysterious element was what made art so captivating for me.

For the rest of the afternoon, I continued to paint Isabella, giving her intermittent breaks. I tried to find something about her personality to work with, something to draw out her true nature, but all she did was flirt. Her gamesmanship was exhausting. I tried telling her to be herself, but I don’t think she knew what I meant because of the language barrier. She had a fairly thick Portuguese accent that was sexy as hell, but English was definitely her second language.

When I finally set my brushes down, I was wiped.

At the very least, I was doing a decent job of capturing Isabella’s exterior beauty on canvas. Not every art collector was a connoisseur. Somebody with money would buy it.

“We’re all done for today,” I said.

“I finished?” she pouted in her thick accent, still flirting.

“Yeah. Why don’t you go get dressed.”

Isabella stood before me fully naked. Challenging me.

I smiled at her, but stood my ground. I’d been staring at her for the last four hours. Whatever.

She winked at me and turned seductively before sashaying into the studio bathroom to get dressed.

I went about cleaning my brushes.

The bathroom door opened and Isabella strutted out on heels, buttoning her blouse from the top down. I caught a flash of her flat stomach in the A of her blouse’s two billowing panels. She really had an amazing body. Even in clothes, she was stunning. Again, whatever.

She stopped in front of the canvas, her top now completely buttoned, and smoothed her tightly-fitted skirt. She examined the painting. “Christos, is beautiful!”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “You make the work easy,” I lied.

She raised an eyebrow. “You call me easy girl?” she flirted. When I didn’t respond, she leaned into me. Every guy I’d ever met would’ve been pitching a tent with a beauty like Isabella coming onto them this blatantly.

I wasn’t every guy.

Undeterred, Isabella gave me one of those purring laughs that few men will ever hear in their lifetimes. Not a trashy stripper laugh. I’m talking about the kind of laugh you only heard from the world’s sexiest women, the kind they saved for the special men in their lives.

Isabella was holding her door open for me, telling me to come inside. Emphasis on “come” and “inside.” And I’m not talking about any literal door. I’m talking about her door. Yeah, that one.

But I’d heard it a hundred times before. On several memorable occasions, I’d heard it from women hotter than Isabella.

But none of that mattered to me. What mattered was that I had Samantha, and there was only one of her in the entire fucking universe.

I really didn’t care what Isabella had in mind.

Unrelenting, she cocked her own crazy-sexy dimpled grin at me. It didn’t have the desired effect on me.

I sighed and stepped away from her, trying not to be rude. I walked over to the table where I kept my receipt book in a drawer. “Did you want cash? Or am I supposed to pay the agency directly?”

“Is all taken care of,” she smiled.

That meant Brandon. I’m sure he’d send me the invoice later. Or maybe not. When you’re slinging six-figure canvases out the door one after the other, a few grand here and there doesn’t make anyone blink anymore. At least, that was the plan.

“Do you need anything for the road?” I asked Isabella. “You want some water to take with you?”

She walked over to where I stood at the desk and placed her palm on my painter’s smock.

“Please,” she flashed her wide-mouthed smile.

Please was right. I gently skirted around her and headed toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll grab you a cold bottle from the fridge.”

I heard her clacky heels following behind me.

I’d already grabbed a water from the fridge by the time she made it to the kitchen. I leaned against the doorframe when she came in.

“We drink together?” she pouted her lips in that way women who know how to use their looks always pouted. The way that makes most guys drop to their knees, tongues hanging out, and start begging and promising the world and anything else they can think of. She wasn’t getting it.

“Sorry, Isabella. I’ve got a ton of work to do before the sun goes down.”

“Is good, having so much work, no?”

“Yes.” I said flatly. I could tell she had no intention of moving from where she stood, hand on her cocked hip.

Fine. If she wanted to play games, I knew my way around the board. I raised an eyebrow and waited her out. My guess was her next move would be a hair flip.

She raised an eyebrow.

That was her tell. The hair flip was seconds away.

Wait…wait…

Oh! There it goes!

She tossed her lustrous main around with spectacular grace.

Hair flip!

I’m sure she’d practiced that move for photo shoots a hundred times. She finished by tilting her chin down, another camera-ready pose. She really had nice eyes.

I didn’t care. It was Game Over time.

I turned and walked into the entryway and opened the front door.

I heard her pout again. This time, it was the real pout. The frustrated kind that sounded like a little girl not getting her way. When she walked out of the kitchen, she looked a bit sulky. I felt sort of bad, but she was throwing herself at me. She’d get over me. Someday.

What could I say? Old habits died hard. This shit was regular as breathing to me.

Isabella stopped on the runner in the entryway and eyeballed me again. Was she not getting the hint? She had it bad.

I motioned outside with my arm. “After you.”

“Your tattoos are very sexy.”

I already knew that. “Thanks.”

Finally, she walked outside.

I would be a completely rude dick if I didn’t open her car door for her. We walked to her shiny Jetta together. When she clicked the alarm, I opened the door.

“You are very gentleman,” she said in her lusciously accented broken English.

“Always,” I smiled.

“Maybe next time, we eat lunch, yes?”

“Maybe.” How many more sessions did I have with her? I’m thinking one too many. I sighed. At least she was easy on the eyes, and her painting would sell for a bundle to some shallow rich schmuck who didn’t look beyond the surface. Business was business.

Isabella stuck her hand out her window as she drove off and waved at me with her $400 nails. “Até logo, Christos!” She actually blew me a kiss.

I shook my head when she was gone. Poor thing. I’d have to ugly myself down for her next sitting, keep her in line. Maybe I could wear a pair of those classic novelty glasses with the big nose, bushy eyebrows, and Hitler mustache. Maybe that would tone her flirting down.

Mental note: buy novelty glasses ASAP.

I chuckled, because I was seriously considering doing it. Sure, she’d see right through the disguise, but I’d be willing to bet she’d think I was two handshakes away from being a serial killer after that. It could work as a deterrent.

Samantha, on the other hand, would probably think it was hilarious. Maybe Brandon was right. Maybe I did need to paint Samantha.

But I didn’t think I’d get her to sit nude.

Then again, the Mona Lisa wasn’t a nude. Neither was the Girl with the Pearl Earring.

It could work.

I walked back into the house. In the living room, I opened the liquor cabinet and poured myself an inch of bourbon, straight up. After my long day in the studio, I needed to unwind.

I threw back the entire glass in one long swallow. I poured myself another inch and walked into the studio.

The painting of Isabella was coming along faster than I’d expected. Most of it was still rough, but the face was finished and was as flawless as Isabella’s. My technical mastery of oil paint was clearly evident.

The only problem?

It wasn’t doing anything for me. Sure, her face looked photo-real, but it was lifeless. I’d captured her pouty, full lips, her sultry eyes, her delicate jawline. She looked textbook sexy, which meant boring sexy. Cardboard. Cookie-cutter.

There was no spirit to the painting.

I’m sure I could sell it to some pin-up art collector for ten grand. But that would be taking five steps backward with my pricing. The painting of Isabella needed to go for at least $80,000 if I was going to build my name. Not $10,000, of which I’d get $5,000, meaning $3,000 after taxes, another $500 for supplies, leaving me with $2,500, which was not worth the weeks I would end up putting into it by the time I was done.

I gulped down the rest of the bourbon in my glass.

Maybe the painting would come together when I finished her body.

I went into the living room to pour myself more bourbon.

Chapter 15

SAMANTHA

Romeo and I walked into Professor Bittinger’s class extra early. I wanted to get there long before the woman had reason to give my grief.

The room was empty when we arrived, so Romeo and I set up on sculpting tables next to each other, pulling out our sculpting tools and armature wires from the previous class.

“Do you think Hunter will be back today?” Romeo asked as he peeled clay off of his armature.

I did the same with my clay, preparing my wire stick-figure for today’s sculpting. “Yeah, he told me he’s going to be here all quarter.”

Romeo frowned. “When did he tell you that?”

“When he followed me to my car after the first day of class.”

Romeo’s face lit up. “Hunter is stalking you? You lucky bitch!”

I rolled my eyes. “You can have him.”

“I think I’d need to get breast implants first.” Romeo pushed his chest muscles together with the palms of his hands. “I’d have awesome cleavage, don’t you think?”

“Are you saying you would go girl, just to get Hunter? I mean, have a sex change operation?”

Romeo rolled his eyes dismissively. “I may be gay, Sam, but I’m not crazy. I would never behead my Little Romeo.” He patted his crotch affectionately. “Poor little guy, Sam here would have you sliced off with one of those little cigar-cutter guillotines. But she totally didn’t mean it,” he looked at me pointedly, “did you Sam? Tell him you’re sorry,” he demanded.

“I’m not apologizing to your pants, Romeo!”

Romeo looked heartbroken. Then he cupped his hand to his ear. “What did you say, Little Romeo? Uh-huh. Mmm-hmm. Oh, Little Romeo, how rude! Don’t talk like that about Sam!” Romeo’s face turned sad. In a grave voice he said, “You really hurt his feelings, Sam. You really ought to apologize.” Romeo raised his eyebrows expectantly.

I was so swept up in Romeo’s genuine outpouring of emotion, I actually whispered, “I didn’t mean it, Little Romeo.” I giggled, and looked Romeo in the eyes. “How was that?”

“Excellent, now just give Little Romeo a hug and a kiss, and everything will be fine.”

“I’m not hugging and kissing your Little Romeo!” I blurted, perhaps louder than I’d intended now that the room was full of students.

“I’m kidding, Sam,” he smiled. “Little Romeo only likes boys. Just like his old man.”

Chuckling, I shook my head.

“Good afternoon, class!” Marjorie Bittinger said as she walked in the door. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was terrible due to an accident on the Five.”

I guess it was okay for her to be late and full of weak excuses.

“I’m sure the only accident she had on the freeway was in her pants,” Romeo said. He wrinkled his nose.

I giggled, but, ew. “I think that’s her perfume.”

“Smells like pewfume to me,” he winced. “Did somebody let a skunk in?” he whispered.

“Are you through?” Professor Bittinger asked, suddenly standing behind Romeo. How the hell did she always do that? Did she have a teleportation device in her pocket, or just trapdoors scattered throughout the room for her to pop up through?

“All done,” Romeo said casually while holding up his cleaned armature wire, purposefully misunderstanding her.

Marjorie scowled at him. “I’m glad to see that you have paid such fastidious attention to your 1/12th scale armature, because you won’t be needing it today,” she said victoriously. Marching to the center of the room, she said, “Today we’ll start on our 1/3rd scale sculpture of the model. We will be using the large armature wire you purchased at the beginning of the term.” She turned to me whip-fast. “Did you remember to purchase the large wire, Miss Smith?”

I struggled to not stick my tongue out at her. “Yes I did, Professor—” I almost said Bitchinger, “…Bittinger.”

She glared at me like she’d known what I’d been thinking. Then she closed her eyes dismissively before turning away, as if merely closing her eyes would magically banish me to Hell or Hades, or wherever she hoped I’d rot for eternity.

For the next hour, we built a much larger wire stick-figure man.

When I was finished, I noticed Hunter Blakeley walk into the room. He was preppie-sexy and had the aviator sunglasses on again. He walked directly to the professor and they chatted for awhile.

Marjorie Bittinger transformed into her usual preening, flirty self when Hunter was in close proximity. The way Hunter acted, you’d think they were dating.

“Do you think those two are hooking up?” Romeo whispered.

“It seems that way.”

Hunter walked into the corner and changed into his robe behind a hanging curtain. Marjorie stole glances at him the whole time.

“She’s peeping at him!” Romeo whispered, faux-offended. “You think she’d wait until he was standing naked in front of the entire room. She’s totally desperate.”

I could relate to that feeling of desperately wanting something you couldn’t have. I felt like I’d been seeing as much of Christos lately as Marjorie was getting to see of Hunter at the moment. Glimpses.

With any luck, that would change this evening when I had dinner with Christos. I crossed my fingers. And my toes.

Hunter walked out from behind the curtain and onto the dais wearing his robe. He flung it off with a flourish.

Sigh, yeah, he was totally hot.

I noticed a gleam in Marjorie’s eyes as she pretended to give Hunter’s naked body a cursory inspection. She tried to play it off like no big deal. But her hunger was obvious.

“Hunter,” the professor said, “please take your pose. Class, grab some clay from the warmer, and go to it.”

It turned out the bigger sculpture needed way more clay. I had to go back to the warmerator three times before I had enough. I slapped clay onto my armature, and went to work with a wooden paddle smoothing out the planes. I was getting the hang of this sculpting thing, and had my voodoo man blocked in pretty quickly.

Minutes later, I discovered that working larger was more difficult. There was a lot more room to screw things up. I was getting hung up on one of the legs. The knee looked wrong and the calf was three sizes too big.

“Your paddle,” Marjorie demanded.

“Huh? Oh.” I handed her the wooden tool, which looked like a small spatula.

Despite Professor Bittinger’s lack of interpersonal pleasantries when it came to anyone other than Hunter, she was amazingly skilled at sculpting. She plucked off a hunk of clay from the calf muscle on my sculpt. Then, with three quick swipes of my paddle, she transformed my wonky clay leg into a work of art.

“Wow, Professor. That looks amazing.”

She handed me the paddle unceremoniously and walked away.

I rolled my eyes behind her back. Was that supposed to be teaching, or just showing off? Despite her clinical beauty, she was a robot in the social arena. She was totally hotistic.

During the break, Hunter robed himself and bee-lined right over to me. I couldn’t help but notice Marjorie’s glaring eyes glued on him. I felt like running out of the room, just to get away from Hunter. Either he didn’t realize or didn’t care that he was souring my relationship with my professor, which would probably have an impact on my grade.

“Hey, beautiful,” he smiled. “Been thinking about you.”

I almost said, “That’s funny, because I haven’t,” but realized such a brush-off might sound like flirtation. I didn’t want to be a rude Bitchinger either, so I opted for bland, “Hey, Hunter.”

“You remembered my name?” He grinned. “That’s a start.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” he smiled.

I swear, everything with Hunter was a come on.

“Hiiii, Hunter,” Romeo smiled longingly. I think he batted his eyelashes. At least, he may as well have based on his fawning tone.

Hunter glanced at him dismissively. “Hey, dude.”

“You remember Romeo, don’t you, Hunter?” I shifted positions so Romeo was between me and him. “I need to, ah, get some more clay.” I didn’t, but it was a worthy excuse.

Too bad Hunter followed me to the warmerator. I opened the door and pretended to scan for what I needed.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about mine?”

“No.”

“It was pretty awesome.”

“I’m sure.”

“Me and some buddies went skiing at Mountain High. Powder was insane. Do you ski?”

“No,” I lied.

“I could teach you. I bet you’d be great, with some expert instruction.”

How the hell did he manage to turn everything I said into an opportunity to hit on me harder? He was a genius. Maybe if I led him toward Marjorie, she could take over for me. But she was on the far side of the room, talking to a couple of students. Weren’t there any other available females for him to honey badger?

Hunter chatted me up for the remainder of the break. Luckily, it lasted only five minutes. It seemed like five-hundred and five. Sigh.

Who would’ve thought a hot guy hitting on you could be so tiresome?

The class resumed sculpting when Hunter returned to his pose in the dais.

At one point, I glanced beside me at Romeo’s sculpture and noticed his had a huge erect dick.

I clapped my clay-covered hand over my mouth before I guffawed.

“What are you doing!” I whispered.

He looked confused. “What do you mean?” he asked innocently

“His thing!” I whisper-squealed. “It’s not that big!”

“You sure?” Romeo asked doubtfully. He lifted his monocle to his eye, squinched it into place, and glanced repeatedly between Hunter and his sculpture. “Looks right to me,” he said seriously, then lowered his monocle, allowing it to pendulum from its string.

“Yours is like twenty sizes too big. And his isn’t at attention.”

Confused, he said, “It was earlier, wasn’t it?”

“No!”

Romeo shrugged sheepishly. “Silly me. I must have been day-dreaming.” He pressed the clay penis down with two fingers, causing it to break off and topple to the floor. “Oops!” He bent over and picked it up, holding it in front of me. “You ever hear that song ‘Detachable Penis’ by the band King Missile?”

“What?! There’s no such song!”

“There totally is. Look it up.”

“Having fun?” Professor Bittinger asked, fists on hips. The toe of one of her shoes machine-gunned on the cement with restrained irritation.

“Definitely,” Romeo smiled at the professor. “Have you ever heard that song—”

I clapped my hand over Romeo’s mouth.

Through my fingers, he said, “Defafaffle Fefis?”

Marjorie frowned at me. “Is your friend all right?”

“No, I need to get him to a doctor or something. He’s sick.”

“Perhaps you should escort him to Student Health. That way, neither of you will waste anymore class time with your obtrusive Tom Foolery. While you’re there,” she said to me directly, “perhaps you should see a doctor as well.” She stalked off on her firecracker heels.

“Shut up!” I hissed at Romeo. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

“Do you think Marjorie has a detachable vagina?” he whispered. “I think she does, and she lost it at a party, like, ten years ago. She hasn’t been laid since then. That’s why she’s so irritable.”

SAMANTHA

After sculpting class, Romeo walked me to my job at the campus art museum and we said our goodbyes. He had section for acting class again.

When I was behind the counter, I pulled out my notes from History and started reviewing them.

Not long after, Hunter walked through the doors of the museum.

I tried to duck behind the counter, but he’d already spotted me.

“There you are,” he smiled, striding over to the counter. “I thought I saw you walk in here.”

“Hey,” I said morosely. Maybe he’d pick up on my zombie tone and take the hint?

Nope.

“You looked like you were having fun in class with your buddy today,” he smiled. “I saw Bittinger giving both of you guys dirty looks. What was that all about?”

“I think she hates me,” I groused.

“Why? What’s to hate?”

I smirked and rolled my eyes. “I’ve been asking myself that since class started.” Wait. I just realized Hunter was tricking me into a conversation. I wasn’t going to say anything else. I officially zipped my lips.

Hunter grinned. “She’s probably jealous, like all the other women on campus. Speaking of which, I went out with your friend Tiffany.”

Okay, that was worthy of de-zipping. “You what?!”

“Yeah. I took her out for sushi at Japengo. It’s a fancy sushi place on the other side of the freeway. A workout buddy of mine is a waiter there. He always cuts me deals.”

“Okay, wait. Back up. You went out with Tiffany? Like, on a date?”

“Yeah,” he smiled.

I was in shock. I hadn’t actually seen or heard of such a thing. All I knew was that Tiffany was always trying to steal Christos from me. “Well, how’d it go?” I was dying to know.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he said suggestively.

Bastard! But I wouldn’t let on. The last thing I wanted Hunter thinking was that he had anything I wanted, even if it was merely gossip. I stared at him, waiting him out.

I scrutinized his face. I couldn’t decide if he had really gone out with Tiffany, or if he was lying to make conversation. Sure, I could picture Tiffany going out with a guy like Hunter, but I needed proof.

Then, inspiration struck. “Well, if things went well, she probably wouldn’t be happy seeing you here with me.” That was an understatement. If Tiffany had gone out with Hunter, and the date had gone well, she’d tear me apart if she caught Hunter with me.

Hunter chuckled cagily. “Why, does Tiffany hang out at the art museum a lot?”

“No.”

“Then we don’t have to worry about her, do we? It’s just the two of us.”

Like I suspected, Hunter was a player or a liar, which basically amounted to the same thing. “Hunter, I’d love to chat, but I have homework to do.” I motioned toward my books.

“I can come back later.”

“Please, no,” I pleaded.

He chuckled and waved as he walked out. “Until next time, beautiful.”

I didn’t wave back. The last thing I needed in my life was more Hunter, no matter how hot he was.

Where was Christos when I needed him?

Sigh.

If Hunter were to take one look at my hot, tattooed boyfriend and see how totally in love we were with each other, I believed Hunter would finally give up on me and go away.

I truly knew my love for Christos was that strong.

But I needed Christos in my arms for our enchantment to work and shoo Hunter off.

At the rate things had been going, that might not happen for days or even weeks.

Sigh.

SAMANTHA

The drive north from campus took awhile in traffic. I knew the Pacific Ocean was somewhere to my left, but it was blacked out by the glare of oncoming headlights.

My relationship with Christos was starting to feel as inconsistent as my view of the ocean. We never had enough time for each other, just brief moments that lacked in both quantity and quality.

Between my classes, my homework, my museum job, my never-ending job search, and Christos’ crazy round-the-clock work schedule, I feared we were slipping apart.

I started weeping at the wheel of my VW.

Yes, I had met the perfect man and we had fallen in love, all in the span of a few short months. But in the span of a few short weeks, I felt like our relationship was crumbling to dust. I knew our love was strong, but if we never saw each other, how could it grow? Love wasn’t a static thing. It required effort, commitment, and constant attention. It needed tending and care for it to grow, otherwise it was bound to wither and die.

I knew, because I felt Christos slowly slipping away from me.

Worse, despite our increasingly tenuous connection, my feelings for Christos had grown immensely, and I feared what would happen to me if our connection were to break completely.

I wasn’t sure I could handle it.

Whatever heartache and betrayal I’d gone through with Damian would be nothing compared to what I’d go through if I lost Christos.

I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand, probably smearing my eyeliner. I didn’t care. I drove to my apartment, looking forward to another evening alone.

Where Is Your Heart by Kelly Clarkson was the next tune to play on my car’s MP3 player. Half way through the song, I punched the OFF button.

Stupid Kelly Clarkson. Why did you have to be so right all the time?

I hated her.

I tried to think constructively. What could I do to help my relationship with Christos? No matter where my mind went, I always smacked up against the same wall: we needed more time together.

But we didn’t have more time in the day. Maybe I needed to sleep less?

I parked my VW at home and trudged upstairs to my apartment. I dropped my book bag on my coffee table and sank into my couch.

I texted Christos, expecting no reply.

I miss you, Christos. My heart is aching for you. We never see each other. I need you. I love you. When can I see you again? <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Yes, I used five hearts, which was two more than I’d decided was officially “too” needy. Screw it. I didn’t care. I set my phone down and waited. I stared at it, willing it to beep. What was that old saying? A watched phone never bleeps?

I opened my book bag and dug out my books and laptop. It was time to pick my poison.

History, Sociology, or job search.

Where was my ice cream?

I jumped when my phone bleeped.

A text from Christos, Want dinner? Got some cooking right now. And a surprise…

I was right. The two extra text-hearts I’d used had done the trick. I texted him right away. I LOVE surprises! Be right over! <3 <3 <3 :-D

I only used three hearts this time. I didn’t want to ruin my good luck.

I washed my face in my bathroom and hurried to my car, wondering what the surprise might be. I never knew with Christos. It didn’t matter. Having dinner with him was more than enough.

A few minutes later, I pulled into his driveway and parked. Christos walked outside before I climbed out of my car. He opened and held my door for me.

“Your feast awaits, madam,” he said, bowing and offering his hand.

I took it and he helped me out of my car. “Thank you, kind sir,” I said, sounding ten times more buoyant and happy than I would’ve thought myself capable twenty minutes prior. I tiptoed up and kissed him.

Without warning, our simple kissed turned passionate and our tongues danced together. I’d forgotten how much I missed his touch. How many days had it been? I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed an eternity. I wrapped my arms around his neck and fell into the kiss.

“Samantha,” he murmured. “I missed you so much, agápi mou.”

Our lips continued to press and throb against each other as I mumbled, “I missed you too, my love.”

He reached down and hooked his arm under my knees and carried me toward the front walkway.

I continued kissing him as he carried me into the house. Would I ever get tired of being carried over thresholds?

Probably not.

Christos kicked the door closed with his boot and immediately crushed his mouth into mine once again.

My heart thumped in my chest as he held me in his tattooed arms. He was ravenous, and his need awoke mine. My body was on fire. All I could think about was getting my clothes off…except. I pulled away from his luscious mouth and muttered, “Is Spiridon home?”

“My grandfather’s out back reading on the deck. He won’t notice.”

I suddenly felt like a fumbling teenager and couldn’t decide if the tension of getting caught by his grandfather was thrilling or a turn-off.

Christos gazed at me with his blazing blue eyes.

I forgot about everything else.

My eyelids fluttered and I lunged for Christos’ mouth. I needed more of him. Memories of having sex with Christos flowed through me, spinning my body in a maelstrom of remembered sensation. Passionate, overwhelming ecstasy.