Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Usually, I'd agree with her. There's nothing inherently sexual about the human form. And there's certainly no reason to keep a young person from seeing other humans relax in the buff.
But the thought of Opal's eyes on another man—
Fuck, I'm already out of my mind.
What the hell is wrong with me?
"I thought it would be fun for me too," she continues. "Art was my favorite class in high school, and I loved to doodle in the margins of my notebooks, but I saw it as a problem, not a pursuit."
"Teachers wanted you to pay attention?"
She nods. "I struggled, especially during lectures. Somehow, drawing hearts or flowers helped me focus. I wasn't actively listening, but I still absorbed some of the information."
I haven't been in school for a long time. Teachers don't criticize my inability to pay attention, but others do. "I've gotten dirty looks in meetings."
"Were you doodling hearts and flowers?"
"Naked women, usually."
"Really?"
"Sometimes."
"Me too." She smiles. "I guess I see the teachers' points. I listened while I scribbled flowers. But when I started to really craft a drawing, to follow my thoughts through my pen… that became my focus."
"What did you draw?"
"Women in different places, poses, outfits. Usually they represented me somehow, but not always literally. It was like I was trying on different identities. Or trying to examine my mood from outside, deciding which shape or color best captured what I was feeling."
"That's normal."
"Is it?" Her cheeks flush. "My family isn't very artistic."
"They're all in business?"
She nods. "They don't even collect art. Well, my brother Adam does now, but only because his girlfriend is an artist. A photographer. And, well, her work is hot. She's always trying to find the line between erotic art and porn and, uh, straddle it."
"Is that how she describes it?"
"No, she's very high-minded."
"You don't respect that?"
"She's talented. And she's good at finding the line. It's just… kinda weird, knowing that's my brother's girlfriend. Knowing… her male model is probably my brother."
"Are the pictures explicit?"
"Have I seen his dick?" Her cheeks flush. "No. But somehow… what I have seen is just as erotic."
Fuck, I need a new topic. "He only collects her art?"
"Or art she likes. My other brothers… they wouldn't know good art if it slapped them in the face. Well, Bash did, but… not Simon and Liam. You should have seen Simon's place when I moved in. Beige. All beige."
"Maybe his life was beige."
"And I finally brought color to it?"
"You doubt that?"
"It's one thing for you to say it." She smiles softly. "If I say it, I sound like a raging egomaniac."
"You think it?"
She shrugs, caught. "It's true."
"Lean into that."
"Lean into being an egomaniac?"
"Yes."
"How rich are you?"
"What's that matter?" I ask.
"The more money and power you have, the more people tell you yes, no matter what."
"They're afraid you won't take no well?"
She nods. "And you get so used to that, you don't take it well."
"It happens."
"I've seen it."
"With your brothers?" I ask.
"Sometimes. They're not as bad as most, but they're not as reasonable as they believe they are."
"Brothers never are."
"You have one?" she asks.
"Two."
"Older or younger?"
"One of each," I say.
"Really? You seem like an oldest brother?" Her eyes flit to mine. "Are they still in California?"
"One is. One is in London."
"How'd he end up in London?"
"Work."
"What's he do?"
"Finance." I pick up a sketchbook of my own, sit next to her, place it carefully over my pelvis. I can handle this conversation. But when she starts showing off her pictures? "Tell me more about your project."
"Where was I?"
"The art class you took to annoy your brother."
"Right. My family is old money, but I'm not. I'm… in a unique position." She doesn't mention the reality of her father denying her parentage. She knows I know.
"You grew up with your mother?"
"I did."
"What was her relationship to art?"
"She loved art, but she didn't have a lot of taste. We'd go straight from free Fridays at the MoMa to a night of CW shows. The soaps where everyone has sex with everyone else."
"I'm familiar with the concept."
"Have you ever watched any?"
"I've dated women who did."
"Really?"
I raise a brow.
"You seem… like you wouldn't be interested in women with low brow tastes."
"I don't date based on taste in TV."
"Reasonable."
It's other tastes. Not that I've indulged often. My ex-girlfriend didn't enjoy this kind of thing. We compromised. I believed the compromise was enough.
But it wasn't. I asked too much of her. She asked too much of me.
We were on the rocks for a long time, strangers, living separate lives in the same three-bedroom condo.
Then Raul—
When I packed for New York, I told her this was the end. I had no plans to return.
Cassie protested, claimed she wanted to be there for me, but she seemed relieved when I said no. She's like me, too much like me. We're both bound by duty. Neither of us wanted to end the relationship.