Текст книги "Lies Unspoken "

Автор книги: Lisa DeJong

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“DO YOU HAVE PLANS FOR TONIGHT?” Reece asks, coming around the corner to my cubicle.

The sight of her makes me smile. She’s dressed in a white camisole with little black eye glass graphics plastered all over it. It’s a little cute and a lot quirky—reminds me of her whimsical personality.

I shake my head to wake myself up, remembering how much it aches from only sleeping three hours last night. My shift at Charlie’s ran late, and then I had to come into the office. I’m dreading having to shift from here back to waitressing in just a few hours. At least it’s Friday. “I have to work.”

“That sucks. What about tomorrow night?”

She’s pretty anxious for a girl who got shit-faced three nights ago. She was a zombie the next day—going through the motions and not noticing anything else that was going on around her. Yet, the way her eyes light when she asks makes me feel bad about having to turn her down. Her question also reminds me of my impending evening with Pierce Stanley. I still haven’t said a word about it to Blake; things have been so . . . different between us.

Wednesday night he greeted me at the door after work and made me come hard against the wall. Then he fed me a pasta dish he’d made, and got me naked again in his bed. It ended like it always does. Every time, it hurts a little more, because every time, I fall further into him. Maybe, if I sink far enough, I’ll be in his heart, and he’ll feel the same.

He fulfills my physical needs and unravels my emotional ones. I have to be willing to let him go. If he can’t give me what I ultimately want—what I’ve always wanted—then I need to cut the strings and move on. It’s so much easier to sit here and think about how I’m going to do it than it is to actually do it.

He wasn’t home last night, and that’s the difference between us and a real couple. He didn’t mention anything about being gone. I wonder if there’s someone else . . . if that’s why he’s so secretive about everything. And that’s one thing I don’t think I can do—be one of his many.

Reece snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. “Earth to Lila.”

“Sorry, I’m tired. I have an event tomorrow. I’m free Sunday through Wednesday night, though.” Crossing my fingers beneath my desk, I hope she doesn’t ask anything more about tomorrow. I’m not a good liar.

“What event are you attending tomorrow?”

Shit. “A benefit.”

Her eyes narrow in on me. “For what?”

And secrets crumble. “I’m not sure exactly. It’s for work . . . Stanley invited me.”

“As in Pierce Stanley?”

“Yeah . . . that would be the one,” I answer shyly.

Her mouth falls open. “Oh. My. God.”

I place my finger over my lips, doing my best to quiet her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” she squeals. “It’s Pierce Stanley. That’s a huge deal. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” I reply, waving between us. “Besides, it’s not a date or anything like that.”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Drop it.”

“Fine, but I’m calling you first thing Sunday morning, and I want details.”

I raise an eyebrow, giving her a glassy stare. “There won’t be much to tell. Now, when are we going to do girls’ night?”

“What if we make a standing Tuesday night thing . . . you, me, and Dana?” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.

Smart girl. “I like that. I’ll ask Dana about it tonight at work, but we might want to lay off the alcohol a little bit.”

“Yay. Look, I’ve got to get back to work before Mr. Ryan starts looking for me. I think he’s still reeling from the way I acted Wednesday. Text me later.” As she walks away, I notice the red high heels she wears with her black and white ensemble. I have a whole new respect for that girl.

Before my thoughts drift back to Blake, I look back down at the color board I’ve been working on all day trying to decide what I’m missing. I never go for conventional because that’s not what’s going to set me apart. It’s not what’s going to help me achieve my ultimate goal—to become a top designer with a renowned national firm. I’m in the right place. I have award-winning people around me. The rest is up to me, and this is an opportunity I won’t let pass me by.

The phone rings, startling me a few inches out of my chair. For unimportant people like me, the cubicle phone rarely makes a peep. I bring the phone to my ear, expecting it to be a misdial. “Hello.”

“Ah, Ms. Fields, it’s a pleasure to hear your voice.” No introduction needed—Pierce’s voice is as discernible as a church bell on Sunday.

“How was your trip, Mr. Stanley?” It’s not like I’m going to tell him his voice or anything else about him is of any sort of pleasure to me.

“I believe I told you to call me Pierce.”

“And I believe you just used a title before my name. Besides, don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate?”

“I didn’t realize you had so much fire in you when I offered you the job.” His voice tells of an obvious smile. Even though I’m not with him, I can practically see his dimples and the creases around his eyes when his lips curl.

“Hmm, was my hair color an oversight?”

He chuckles—deep and reverberating. It’s enough to make me sit back in my chair and enjoy the banter-filled ride. “Nothing about you escaped me. Trust me.”

“So, what can I do for you, Pierce?” I keep my voice low enough not to garner any stares or spark the office rumor mill. In five days, I’ve learned that it’s not much different from high school as far as that goes.

“Come up to my office before you leave today. I have something for you.”

My mind immediately wanders off to what it could be. Instructions for tomorrow? A new assignment? Then it dawns on me that I’m not rattled because of that little question; it’s the thought of going up to his office. The way he looks at me. The tension hangs in the air like a thick fog. It’s hard to concentrate, hard to form words or even think. Tomorrow night is going to be very interesting.

“Okay,” I say nervously, “I’ll be up in a little bit.”

“I look forward to it.” He’s still got the smile . . . I hear it.

As I put the phone back on the receiver, the only smiling face I see is Blake’s. Why should I feel guilty about this when he doesn’t let me in? I know so little about him; he’s too complicated to figure out.

Noticing that it’s already half past three, I tuck my color board underneath my desk and head to see Pierce.

The elevator is empty, and the ride up to his floor lasts only seconds. I smooth my red pencil skirt and straighten the tuck on my black blouse before stepping out.

“Good afternoon, Lila. Go right back to Mr. Stanley’s office. He’s been waiting for you,” Jane greets, smiling behind her well-appointed desk.

“Thank you.” I smile back, and quickly make my way down the hall before I change my mind. My heels click against the marble, alluding to anyone around that I’m here. Click. Click. My heart pounds right along with it.

His door is open just enough that I hear his voice. Peeking inside, I see he’s on the phone. I step back to give him privacy, but he waves me in.

I bite my lip in an attempt to extinguish my racing nerves. They speed even more so when he motions for me to close the door. When I turn back around, he’s watching me with such interest—like a rare, classic car or an even rarer piece of art. I don’t know what to make of it, but then, I don’t know what to make of him.

I sink into one of the leather chairs in front of his desk and focus my attention out the window toward the cityscape. It’s hard to see anything from where I am, but I pretend it’s the most enthralling thing in the whole world. Anything to keep my eyes off him.

“Yes, we should have the deal done by next week,” he says with such confident authority. Just because I’m not looking at him doesn’t mean I’m not listening. His voice commands it.

“I’ll be making a trip to New York next week to wrap it up,” he adds, tapping his fingers on his mahogany desk. His eyes are still on me. I feel them.

“You too. We’ll touch base next week.” The phone clicks, my signal to look to him.

He leans back in his chair, loosening his tie just enough to undo the button on his collar. “You kept me waiting, Lila.”

“I was working on something,” I answer. His green eyes have a gray tint to them, accented by his suit.

“Maybe I have to rework the apprenticeship program to free up your time.”

I cross and uncross my legs, not quite able to get comfortable under his stare. “I like being busy. It makes the day go faster.”

“That it does,” he quips. He pulls his desk drawer open and holds up a white envelope with my name scrolled at the top. “Since the benefit is a work function, I have a couple things for you.”

He slides it across his desk, his eyes never leaving me. I hope he doesn’t notice how my fingers tremble when I pick it up. The silence indicates that he expects me to open it right here in front of him. Maybe it’s just a ticket or a copy of the invitation, I think as I slip my fingers inside. What I come out with leaves me gasping.

“It’s a black tie affair,” he says simply as I slide the black American Express between my fingertips.

“I can’t—”

“You will. I invited you. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I’m assuming you weren’t quite prepared for this kind of event.” He raises an eyebrow as he surveys me.

“No,” I whisper. I suddenly feel out of place and extremely uncomfortable. I hadn’t thought that far into it—what I will wear, how I’m going to do my hair. I might have to call in Dana for this one.

“So we’re set. I’ll pick you up at seven.” There’s a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m not going to use this.” I toss it on his desk, but he slides it back toward me.

“I insist.”

“Pierce—”

“Lila.” He grins, rising from his chair and coming around the front of his desk. The woodsy cologne he wears overtakes my senses, practically making me forget what I was fighting for.

“We’re all set,” he says again, crossing his arms over his muscular chest.

I nod, swallowing down the other questions that threaten to escape my lips. Why are you taking me? Who’s going to be there? Can you please not wear that cologne?

“Good.” He holds his hand out to me. I just stare at it for a few seconds, uncertain, and then place my hand in his. His skin is warm and soft against mine as he helps me from the chair and leads me to the door.

“I hate to cut this short, but I have a dinner I need to attend.” He uses his free hand to open the door, and I don’t miss how the thumb on his other hand brushes over my knuckles. It feels uncomfortably sensual, yet I can’t pull away.

Before letting me go, he stands in front of me, brushing a strand of loose hair from my eyes. “Black looks nice on you, but I’d like to see you in green. See you tomorrow night, Lila.”

My mouth hangs open as he releases me. He guides me out the door by placing his hand on my lower back. The whole walk back to the elevator is a blur. This whole city and the men in it are throwing me for a loop.

MY WHOLE LIFE IS A SERIES of complicated predicaments lately. I find myself questioning it more than I’m actually living it. Given the way things ended with Derek, I promised myself I wouldn’t get in that position again. Not that I have that much control over it. Love is the greatest risk, but yet, it’s the greatest euphoria one will ever feel. That’s what makes it so hard to stay away from. I want to feel that way—like nothing else matters but that one person. Riches, beauty, prosperity . . . it all pales in comparison.

I’m not in love at the moment, but my choices are putting me at risk to fall back into it. Blake’s not going to reciprocate, so why do I keep doing this to myself?

“Okay, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Dana asks, standing next to me at the end of the bar. It’s almost closing time and the crowd has thinned out.

“You’d think I was crazy if I told you.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re as normal and boring as they come. Spill.”

I focus on the old bar top, tracing my fingers along the grain of the wood. It’s mundane, but I need something not so exciting in my life. “You know how I asked for tomorrow night off?”

I glance over at her, waiting for her to nod. She does.

“I kind of have a date, or at least, that’s what it feels like.” Her eyes narrow in on me. I see unasked questions there. I try to silence her by guessing them. “He says it’s not a date, but his actions tell me something completely different. Anyway, I don’t know what I should tell Blake or if I need to tell him anything at all.”

She’s quiet for a little bit, marinating on my words. Then she says, “This is perfect.”

“What?” I ask, surprised.

“He’s going to be jealous. If he really wants you, you’ll know it after this.” She waves for Charlie to come over, which he does quickly since there’s no one to serve. “Lila needs a shot. Actually make that two.”

“Wait,” I say, putting my hand up. Charlie pauses, thinking I’m talking to him, but I wave him off. “That’s not why I’m doing this. The guy’s the CEO of the company, and he says it’s just a work thing, but the way he acts around me—”

“Stop! Will you quit thinking so much?” She shakes her head, grabbing the shot glass Charlie sets on the bar.

The image of Pierce in a black tux flashes in my mind. My breathing accelerates just imagining it.

Dana notices, passing me a shot. “Drink this, and I’ll get you another one. You’re going to need it.” I down it, realizing just how much I do need it. I’ll be lucky if I sleep at all tonight.

“What am I going to do?” I ask, putting back another shot as soon as Charlie pours it.

“You are going to go out with your boss. It’s not like Blake gives a shit anyway, and if he does, this will wake him up. I can’t believe this,” she says, practically dancing at the end of the bar. One of the two guys still inside whistles, drawing a sneer from her.

“I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“Enjoy the ride, Lila. Most women would line up to be where you are right now.”

Maybe she’s right. This should be fun, or at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself to get through it. This is about fun and nothing more.

The whole ride home I ponder how I’m going to tell Blake. If he’s home tomorrow night, I don’t want it to be a surprise. I’ve witnessed his temper, and I don’t need him swinging at my boss. Besides, I’d want to know—not get hit in the face with it.

When I walk into the apartment, I don’t see Blake, but the light in his room is on. I set my purse on the kitchen counter and stare off at the wall, trying to decide what I should do next. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday night, but I know if I go in there, I’m going to feel guiltier about accepting Pierce’s invitation. Deep inside, I know it shouldn’t be this way. What Blake and I have is an understanding, one that includes lots and lots of hot sex; it’s getting weird, though, because I can’t even think about him with anyone else, touching another woman the way he touches me.

Deciding I can just tell him tomorrow, I take a quick shower and slip into my flannel pajamas. My long red hair is a matted mess from being wrapped in the towel so I comb through it carefully, letting the damp strands fall onto my back.

“Hey,” Blake says, surprising me by stepping in behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, burying his face in the crook of my neck. It feels so intimate—so opposite of anything we’ve let our hearts be. It’s impossible to stand here and not relax into it.

Looking up, I catch his reflection in the mirror. I can tell he’s been painting. His hair is messed up, and his black T-shirt is covered in specks of red and blue.

“Hi.” I smile, leaning even further into him.

His lips press to my sensitive, damp skin, moving from one shoulder blade to the other. “I didn’t hear you come home.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you.” I cover his hands with mine, relishing in the feel of his lips.

“I’ve been waiting for you, actually. There’s somewhere I want to take you if you’re up for it.”

“Tonight?” I have no idea what time it is, but it was after three when I came in.

“Or we can go tomorrow night,” he says between kisses.

That brings what I have to tell him back to the forefront of my mind. I quickly push it away, wanting to stay like this a little longer. “Tonight works.” Not like I was going to sleep anytime soon anyway.

He squeezes me, feathering my neck with more kisses before pulling away. “I’ll give you a couple minutes to change. Wear something comfortable.”

As he walks away, I can’t help but think that this is the Blake I like. Sweet. Charming. The one who shows me that there’s more to what we have than just meaningless sex.

There’s no way I can tell this Blake about tomorrow night.

I quickly throw on a pair of faded blue jeans and a worn gray hoodie. Morning will be here before we know it, so I tie my unruly hair into a tight knot at the top of my head, anticipating the possibility of running into the early morning crowd. Before going to find Blake, I pull my jacket from the closet and slide my feet into my chucks.

I don’t have to go far. He’s leaning against the counter with his hands tucked into his jean pockets. “Ready?” he asks, smiling.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.” He looks edible in an oversized gray sweater and charcoal beanie. Preppy was my type through most of high school and college. That’s not the case anymore. My new type is sexy-just-kind-of-pulled-together bad boy.

When he wraps his fingers around mine, I hide my bulging eyes by looking down at my shoes. Something is different. This is a different version of us.

He leads us out of the building, not stopping until we’re alongside an older, dark-colored car. “Lila, I’d like you to meet Frank.”

I’m stupefied. It might be the vodka, or the fact that I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours.

“The car, Lemon Drop. It’s the only thing from high school that’s still with me so I thought he deserved a name.”

I slept with Blake before knowing what kind of car he drove, or that he even had a car. Nice, Lila.

“Are we taking him somewhere?” I ask, running my fingers over the smooth paint.

“Fuck yes.” He places the key in the passenger side door, then opens it for me. “Get in.”

After I’m safely inside, he runs along the front of the car and jumps in the driver’s seat. The whole car vibrates when he turns the key.

“What kind of car is this?” I ask as he peels out into the street.

“1969 Pontiac Trans Am. I usually keep him in my parents’ garage for the winter, but I missed him.”

I laugh when it dawns on me that he’s talking about the car the way I wish he’d talk about me. For the first time, I wish my name were Frank. “It’s nice.”

“Damn right it is.”

The car purrs loudly as we make our way down deserted city streets. The farther we drive, the more curious I become about where he’s taking me. I know he won’t tell me, but I trust him.

A couple minutes later, the car comes to a stop in front of a row of old warehouse buildings. It’s dark and quiet, a little scary actually. “Is this it?” I ask, running my palms over my blue jeans.

“Maybe,” he replies before climbing out of the car. I watch him round the front then he’s at my door. Without question, I stand up next to him, letting him pull me against his strong, warm body. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

He guides us through the darkness, not once letting go of me. This isn’t a neighborhood I’d go to alone, even during the day. There’s one streetlight about a block away and not a house in sight. A creaking sound repeats in the distance, like an old wrought iron gate opening and closing. Definitely creepy.

Blake lets go of me just long enough to unlock an old metal door to one of the buildings. He looks back at me before opening it. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

My mouth gapes. Under the faint streetlight, I see vulnerability. A man who always seems to know exactly what he wants doesn’t look so sure.

“Why not?” I finally ask, not even sure where we are exactly.

He shrugs, tucking his hands deep in his pockets. “It’s the diary of a mad man.”

It’s hard to know what to say to that so I say exactly what I think. “I can’t wait to see it.”

He reaches up, caressing my cheek with the back of his fingers. The night sounds are the only thing I hear. He the only thing I see. Then his fingers fall away . . . the spell between us broken as he pushes open the door.

I’m not sure what to expect as I step inside, but as soon as he flicks the lights on, the air leaves my body. There are paintings everywhere. Large. Small. Hanging. Resting against every corner and on easels. Some covered, some exposed. Every color imaginable is displayed within them.

“These are amazing.” I’m awestruck as I circle the expansive room. I got a small peek at his work once, but nothing like this . . . this is the Museum of Blake in full display. I pay more attention than I normally would, concentrating on every detail in hopes of drawing a piece of him from it. Abstract art is my favorite, but I don’t like it on him.

I want to understand him.

To know him, not just every ridge of his body.

He’s my personal Loch Ness. I know he’s here. Sometimes I see him, and then I don’t. When I do, only parts of him are exposed. He’ll never let me see all of him at once.

Glancing over my shoulder, I notice him staring at me from just inside the doorway. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the confident man I’ve come to appreciate is a nervous mess. His hand continuously combs through his hair—like what he looks like matters or something.

“How long have you been painting?”

He looks sheepish, as though what he creates here is nothing. “Since high school. My parents wanted me to take physics and calculus. I picked art instead.”

“I’d say your rebellion worked to your advantage.”

He grins. “I’m close to ending the argument. If Mallory would stop being so damn successful at everything she does, it would be a lot easier.” Since I’m an only child, I can’t even imagine.

I continue my walk around the gallery. Most of the pieces are colorful arrangements—swirls, lines, geometric shapes—painted to look like people, trees. He’s brilliant; I’ll give him that.

At the opposite end of the room from where we came in is a little nook. The one painting within it is different than the rest. It’s as real as a portrait. A beautiful woman with dark, cascading hair, dark brown eyes with a speck of green, and porcelain skin. She’s about my age, or she’s painted to look that way. The way she’s portrayed, like she’s lying sideways in the bed with her arm twisted above her head, gives the impression that’s she’s staring at whoever is in the room. It’s creative and terrifying at the same time.

Blake stands next to me, tugging my fingers between his to lead me in another direction. This time, I don’t let him. “Did you do this?” I ask, still in awe.

He ignores me, changing his game plan so he’s standing right in front of me, successfully blocking my view. He cups my face in his cold hands and presses his lips to mine. With that one move, he pulls me away from everything but him. He does that a lot—changes my frame of thinking.

“Come,” he says, “There’s a reason I brought you here.”

“Can I ask about the painting?”

“No.” He doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls me along into another room. In the back of my mind, I know he painted that portrait. I also know that she must have meant something . . . something more.

“Close your eyes.” The front of his body is pressed to my back as he walks us forward. He fits perfectly against me . . . every curve, every hollow. Just being like this is enough.

I hear a door creak and the flicker of a switch. On instinct, I open my eyes to get a look. This room is much smaller than the first. It shows like a blank canvas—bare white walls, a drop cloth of the same color covering the floor. It’s a room without clear purpose. “What’s this for?”

When silence is the only response, I look back over my shoulder. Blake stands like the statue of a god, brushing his thumb over his lower lip. He looks down, then up again, one side of his mouth pulling up along the way.

“What?” I smile back at him, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe I’m just looking at him differently. The guy who always has something to say has nothing.

He lifts a finger to my mouth, using it to draw my lower lip down. He doesn’t stop there, trailing his knuckle down my throat, then between the swell of my breasts. My eyes hold his like my life depends on it. “Do you trust me?” he finally whispers.

I nod, because I do. He might be the last person in this city I should attach myself to, but it’s too late. He has me even if I don’t have him.

“Take off your clothes.” His voice is low and breathes of bottled up sexual desire. There’s absolutely nothing he couldn’t convince me to do right now.

My sweatshirt goes first, leaving me standing in front of him in nothing but a black lace bra and blue jeans. He swallows visibly as I slowly reach behind my back to unfasten the clasp. This is fun—teasing and tormenting him, daring him not to touch.

He watches me as I slowly slide both straps off my shoulders. His fingers ache . . . I can tell because he keeps combing them through his hair, over and over until it has that sexy, mussed up appearance. Until it looks exactly like it does each time we’re done having sex.

My bra falls to my feet, and then I slip my fingers into the band of my jeans, working the buttons.

“You’re going to make me crazy.” He groans, stepping into my personal space. He traces a circle around my breasts, using the side of his thumb. My breath hitches, my knees weaken. My panties were already damp simply from him watching me like he does.

He whispers above my ear. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, but I will make you come.” Oh, shit. And the pool in my panties just got deeper. “Work those pants off, Lemon Drop. I’ll be right back.”

As he steps around me, he trails his fingertips across my bare stomach. The screaming voice in my head begs me to grasp on to him and never let go. His promise resonates in my mind, and I wonder if it’s one he’ll be able to keep. I want to know if it’s a form of magic he’s capable of.

Without him watching me, my jeans come off quickly, leaving me in nothing but lacy black boy shorts. When he’s with me, I can be like this and feel comfortable with who I am. His stare dresses me in confidence and sensuality. It gives me a courage I’ve never felt before.

The door opens and closes behind me, but I keep my eyes trained forward, to keep his surprise a secret a little while longer. Metal clinks. The plastic under our feet shuffles with him. My heart races. My fingers curl. I need him . . . I hate admitting it, but I do.

He presses his cold hand to the top of my spine, slowly trailing a finger down until he hits the edge of my panties. “Ready for your surprise?”

I nod.

“Turn,” he commands, letting his hand fall away from me.

After taking one last deep, cleansing breath, I pivot to get a better look at the man who’s putting my senses into overdrive. His shoes and socks are gone, as is his shirt. He’s every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had wrapped in one.

“I don’t do well with surprises,” I announce quietly. His eyes burn, and words are the only way I can extinguish it.

He bends to pick up a paint palette from the floor, then closes all but a few inches of space between us. “Close your eyes.”

I do, parting my lips to remind myself to breathe. When I was younger, I’d shut my eyes on the fair rides because I didn’t want to see the world go by. I’d pretend it was just me on an epic adventure. It was my way of being anywhere besides where I actually was.

Tonight is different. I want to hear, see, and touch Blake. I want to press my nose to his skin and breathe him in. I need his lips on mine, to taste him.

When something cold makes contact with the skin between my breasts, I flinch. It shocks me . . . then it just feels right. The contrast. The wetness. “Keep your eyes closed while I paint this gorgeous body of yours. Can you do that?”

I swallow hard, because that’s all I can do. This is different—challenging me, exposing inhibitions I didn’t realize I had.

“I want you to listen and feel. Nothing else.”

Rolling my shoulders back, I try to relax, to sink into the moment as if it were a soft place to fall. His paint-covered fingers trace the underside of my breast. I know he’s probably watching me, waiting for a reaction—a moan, a buckle, anything.

“I used to think these were the best part of a woman’s body,” he breathes, continuing to circle my breasts. “But they’re not . . . not even close.”

The pads of his fingers trace a line down my stomach, past my belly button, before gliding across the top of my panties. Warmth builds between my legs. I need him to touch me there, to feel the pressure of his fingers against me. To make me climb the stairway until I’m calling out his name and nothing else matters.

His feet shuffle against the plastic-covered floors. His fingers curve around my hip, traveling around to the small of my back. It’s sensual—a mere caress—and if it weren’t for the paint he trails with him, it would be difficult to make out.

The more he paints, the more desperate I become.

Desperate for him, and the way he makes me feel.

Desperate for us, and how everything else fades away when we’re fitted together.

One stroke, and I’d be done. I’d be his.

The cold paint he leaves in his wake makes me shiver, the coolness contrasting with the warmth I feel inside.

“And I think . . . no, I know I could slide right into this sweet little body. I can practically smell how wet you are. Am I right?” He brushes across my other hip, completing the perfect circle.

I nod, biting down on my lower lip to hold back a moan. I’m dripping for him . . . in need of him.

When he’s standing in front of me again, the heat of his body warms mine. His hand falls away long enough to be coated in more paint. I wonder what color it is. If it has anything to do with me, how he feels, or how he sees me.

When we reconnect, his whole hand is splayed across my stomach, covering almost the entire width of it. He keeps it there long enough to warm the liquid pigment between us. It’s sticky, causing friction as he slides back up between my breasts.