Page 61 of Bad Influence
I feel his bare feet against mine, his shirt, brushing the silk of my robe. His breath fans across my neck as he leans down, his lips brushing my ear.
“You’re just for me, butterfly,” he whispers. “For my viewing pleasure. I’m not willing to share.”
A shiver chases down on my back. I want to lean back into him and let him do whatever he wants with me.
“How can you say that and expect me to keep my sanity?” I ask breathlessly.
“The same way you can look like that and expect me to keep mine,” he replies. He plays with a strand of my hair, his fingersconstantly brushing my skin. I know he’s doing it deliberately, and my body reacts instantly. My nipples pebble under my robe and because I’m not wearing a bra, it’s obvious to see the state of my arousal.
“So, we’re just going to live in the same apartment and torture each other?” I ask, my chest rising and falling heavily.
“Why do you think torture isn’t fun? Never heard of delayed gratification?”
I turn to face him, lightly resting a hand against his stomach. I can feel the hard ridges of his muscles through his T-shirt.
“You and I both know this isn’t something new,” I say. “And we have already been awaiting gratification for a long time.”
Taking my hand, he leads me to the chaise and makes me sit down. I set my back against it, one arm raised to rest on the armrest. The robe fans open, revealing my bare legs. They are tucked up, the bottom one slightly straight.
Killian adjusts me how he wants, touching my body freely. His touch isn’t innocuous. It’s heated and possessive. Each time he touches me and his eyes meet mine, it’s like he’s telling me that this is just the beginning.
Once he’s satisfied, he walks back to the easel, bending to pick up his brushes. His touch has left me aroused, and I think that’s exactly what he wanted. My breaths are rapid, my cheeks heated, my body aflame. The fact that he looks like he’s not affected at all and the way he concentrates isn’t helping. If anything, it makes me want to do something reckless and make him react.
But I stay seated, not moving, just watching him paint me. I want to know exactly what Killian sees when he looks at me.
“What happens if you’re not ready for the exhibit?” I ask. It’s a safe topic and I need something to distract myself.
“A whole lot of legal mess,” Killian replies. “The gallery doesn’t have anything to showcase. They lose money, I lose money, and then they sue me.”
“You don’t sound worried,” I say.
“I’m more worried about the fact that I haven’t been able to paint than I am about possibly getting sued,” he says. “My painting is an expression, it’s therapeutic. I can’t sit in a room talking about my feelings with someone, but I can paint. If I’m not even able to do that, then I have all of these thoughts trapped inside me.”
The whole time his eyes remain focused on the canvas in front of him.
I chew on my bottom lip. “Has that ever happened before?”
Killian’s eyes flicker up to mine. “I think you already know the answer to that. When I got to high school I was told to put away my art because that wasn’t my future. I needed to concentrate on school so I could get into the best college and then the best law school. You already know how those years went.”
I was a child back then, but I do remember hearing the whispers. His mother used to complain to mine about how much Killian acted out. If I remember correctly, there were two arrests which never stuck. He was always talking back to teachers. Once, he and his friends stole a bunch of liquor at our parents’ country club and went skinny-dipping in the fountain.
It was what caused my mother to label him a bad influence, and tell Carter and me to stay away from him.
“Is that what I have to look forward to if you can’t paint? Lawlessness?” I joke.
Killian shakes his head. “I know how to regulate my emotions better than I did when I was a teenager.”
“I wish I had that kind of Zen calm,” I say. “I definitely wouldn’t have stabbed someone.”
“Sometimes people deserve to be stabbed.”
I used to think the same, but at the same time I knew, I would never have acted on it. I guess we don’t really know what we’re capable of unless we’re put in the situation to act.
“If you didn’t have art, would you have liked to be a lawyer?” I ask.
I watch as he dips his brush in two different paints to mixthem together. He’s only just started and I’m already curious to know what I look like from his perspective. What does he see when he looks at me?
“Maybe. I already have the degree so I might have put it to use.”
