Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Am I a terrible person for enjoying that he looks…vulnerable? Yes, that must make me some kind of monster.
I seize his wrist, urge him in, shove him up against the wall. “I’ve missed that mouth.” My hand gravitates to his throat. “You like when I put my hand there, don’t you?”
He quirks a brow. “I don’t mind you doing more than that.”
I’m not surprised, and I apply a bit of pressure before taking the kiss I’ve wanted ever since I saw him on FaceTime. When I pull away, I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent that was just as good to taste on his tongue. “Must’ve taken that mint just for me,” I observe, and he smirks.
“I can think of a few things I’ll take for you.” His gaze lowers.
“You love my cock, don’t you?”
“It’s a decent fit,” is all he gives me, the insincerity in his expression giving away more than his words.
“If that’s all, then you don’t have anything to worry about because that’s not why I wanted you to come over anyway.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says with a slight chuckle, surely confused about why I got him all wound up at work and now have my hand against his throat.
I run my thumb along his jawline, caving to the impulse to move close and bite his flesh. Fuck, he makes me a damn animal.
Focus.
I pull away, and his eyes are wide, eager to see what I have in store for him, but I don’t think he’ll be pleased once I tell him. I release him and give him the tour, motioning with my hand. “Living room, and the bedroom’s back there.”
He heads in, his attention on my workshop area, delineated by the long black tarp covering the space behind the sofa. Finished works lean against the far wall, while cups, paints, and brushes are strung out across the glass table along the adjacent wall.
“I’m creative, not a neat freak,” I warn him.
“Looks cool to me.”
He assesses the pieces against the wall, taking them in, and I notice I don’t recoil the way I did when I first started showing my paintings to Tatum. Could be that I’m getting used to Tatum coming in and seeing them right when they’re finished. Or maybe it’s been the vulnerability of sharing them online. Or maybe it’s because it’s Dax, and after what we’ve shared—him being with me during the panic attack, and our pain around the loss of our moms—I’m more open with him. I know the answer, but shy away from it.
He’s fixated on one particular work, studying it like he’s viewing the piece in a museum. “I really like it.”
I, of course, can see all its faults and the issues I had when I was creating it, so I don’t trust my judgment. “What do you see?”
He’s quiet, pursing his lips before he says, “I don’t know that I see it as much as feel something in my chest—pain, but then there’s something beautiful there too. Something that feels hopeful.”
“The pain…can you describe it?”
“Maybe heartbreak or grief…a bit of longing.” He turns to me. “Am I right?”
“That’s not how art works. It means what it means to you. Fuck what I meant when I made it.”
But maybe I just don’t want to acknowledge how right he is. I’ve let him see plenty about me, more than anyone else, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that much. Not yet.
He returns his attention to the painting, taking a moment before he says, “They’re really beautiful, Miles.”
“People seem to think so.”
“Where do you show them?”
“I don’t. I have this…eh…TikTok account, and Tatum posts me painting.”
“Wait. On TikTok? I wanna see!” Before I can even respond, he adds, “Unless this is one of those things you want to be all cagey about.”
Even in the short time we’ve known each other, he’s getting to know me very quickly.
“Another time. That’s not why I brought you here.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, stepping toward me with this knowing look, clearly thinking the reason is fucking. Still, I don’t deny the kiss he plants on me.
When he pulls away, I say, “Not for that.”
His brows tug together.
“I mean, not that we can’t do that, but I saw you on that call, and I just really wanted to…” I stop myself. It feels so stupid and corny, I don’t want to admit it, but the longer I drag this out, the weirder it’ll be. “I want to paint you.”
His eyes flare. I was right. This was the last thing he’d have considered when I told him to come over. His expression shifts as he bats his eyes dramatically. “You want to draw me like one of your French girls?”
“Yeah, it’s dumb. Never mind. What was I even thinking?”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I didn’t say it was dumb, but you can’t expect to say something like that without someone making a Titanic reference.”