Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
He wants it. Needs it. He’s been begging for it. And I’m done playing games.
“I’m yours.”
Our naked bodies collide and tumble to the floor. He enters me with a sigh, and I squeeze around him. He’s on top of me and inside me, fucking me drunkenly as he struggles to maintain the connection between our eyes. But he isn’t just fucking me this time.
He’s making love.
I nurture his affections, peppering him with kisses. Whispering words meant only for his ears. I beg him never to stop. I beg him over and over to keep me. He begs me over and over to tell me again that I’m his.
We shatter, and we nap, and we wake up, only to do it all over again.
My fingers hover centimeters away from the painting, breath absent from my lungs. It’s beautiful and horrific. A violation. An obsession. An open window to my psyche. And I can’t look away.
Nikolai wipes away a tear I didn’t even realize I’d shed before he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck from behind. “Tell me what you are thinking, zvezda.”
“Why?” I whisper.
Why did he choose to paint the worst moment of my life? And how did he get inside my head? How did he know me so intimately at that moment? The shattering loss that rendered me immobile. The deep, violent despair. Every emotion is so tangible that it feels more like a memory than a painting. Fall from Grace, he calls it.
“How could I not?” he answers. “It’s not every day that you witness the fall of an angel.”
I sob, and he holds me. It’s ridiculous that I’m so emotional over a piece of art, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the realization that, from the beginning, he has seen me. He has known me.
The truth is painted on as many canvases as I can see. Each one is different, but in many ways, they are the same. They are all me.
“I can’t believe you made these,” I say. “I can’t believe your talent.”
“It’s not so difficult when you have a beautiful muse.”
He allows me time to process each piece. Until every detail has soaked into my brain and become a part of me. And then we find ourselves on the floor again, touching and kissing, but too spent to take it any further than that.
Side by side, we stare up at the ceiling, his palm skating the curve of my hip as he lights a cigarette.
“You should quit,” I tell him.
“I will.” He exhales. “Eventually.”
I smile and shake my head. “Isn’t it bad for the art?”
“Very,” he answers. “But now there will be a small part of me in your paintings. A signature, if you will.”
My paintings. He says it as if they belong to me, but I know they won’t be coming with me when I go. I imagine them a hundred years from now, gathering dust in a collection somewhere. What will people think when they look at them? Will they know that girl even existed, or believe her to be a figment of the artist’s imagination?
“What else do you paint?” I ask.
“Forgeries, mostly,” Nikolai answers casually. “But they are not all paint. Some are other mediums.”
“So that’s why this room is so heavily locked down?”
He smiles. “I am a thief, zvezda. As such, I’ve been known to steal a few valuable pieces now and then.”
I’m surprised to find how much I don’t care about his admission. He is honest about himself, at least. And in my mind, I like the idea of being bad with him. I reach for the cigarette and swipe it from his hand. He turns to me, curious, watching as I bring it to my lips.
His lips tilt at the corners when I inhale just a tiny bit and start to cough. “That’s really good,” I sputter.
He laughs, and his eyes are the lightest I’ve ever seen them when they move over my face. “My little doll wants to be wild?”
I nod.
“First of all, you’re holding it like a joint.” He repositions the cigarette between my fingers. “Now inhale, but only a little bit. Let it cool before you inhale.”
I do what he says, and it goes a little smoother this time.
“We won’t be making a habit of this,” he says as fair warning. “But for now, stay just like that.”
I watch him curiously as he rises and takes to another blank canvas, repositioning it so that he can see me. When his intentions occur to me, it makes me nervous.
“Pretend I’m not here,” he says.
It’s an unmanageable task, considering he’s naked. But I find it easier to watch him than to worry about my fears. The way his thighs clench as he tucks a paint brush between his fingers. When his arm sweeps over the canvas, his ass flexes too. I take another inhale, and he pauses to come fix the sheet that’s half covering me. Pulling out my leg and revealing the curve of my hip, he gathers it just beneath my breasts. Now it’s draped over me almost like a toga, and he’s back to his canvas.