Page 96 of Thirst
“Unless you want me to stay?—”
She looked up. “Only if you let me sketch you.”
I blinked. “Sketch me?”
“Mm-hm. I prefer a live model.” She was already reaching for her pad.
I dropped into the armchair across from her. “This feels like a setup. Tell me you’re not going to give me horns and a tail.”
She glanced up, eyes gleaming now, and I wanted to high-five myself for putting that playful spark there. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how nice you are.” Her voice had a huskiness that slid over my skin like a slow, hot lick.
I slung an arm over the chairback, pretending I wasn’t reacting, that she hadn’t just flipped the power between us with a single line. “How nice do you want me to be?”
She cocked her head, a subtle challenge that made everything masculine in me go tight. “Nice enough to sit still. Nice enough not to ask to see what I’m drawing.”
“Done,” I said immediately.
Her lips tilted up, like she hadn’t expected me to fold that fast. But she flipped open the pad and took out what looked like a black piece of chalk, although it was rectangular, not round.
“Don’t move,” she muttered and started sketching.
I watched her watching me, long glances from beneath thick lashes. From anyone else, it would’ve made me edgy. But when it was Nyx, I wanted to preen like a peacock, give her something worth looking at.
The primitive creature in me growled.
Go ahead and stare, firefly.
This attraction—this electric pull—between us wasn’t one-sided. I could work with that.
“When I make a picture,” she said, “I tell myself stories about what I’m painting.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “It’s part of my process. You’re definitely a prince, maybe a faerie royal with those blue eyes and platinum hair. You’re on your throne, your court around you. But you’re bored.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Bored?”
“That’s right.” A corner of her mouth lifted. She was teasing—and yet she wasn’t. “Restless. You can have anything you want, but it’s never enough.”
Her strokes grew sharper, more deliberate. The gray chalk left smudges on her long, elegant fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re powerful,” she continued, voice dreamy. “But something’s missing. You’re waiting for something.”
I held still, willing her to go on. She wasn’t talking about the sketch anymore, and I wanted—no, needed—to see what she’d say next.
“Maybe someone,” she added, eyes flicking up to meet mine.
Something in my chest kicked hard.
“Maybe I’ve already met her,” I said. “Maybe I’m waiting for her to catch up.”
26
Nyx
