Page 17 of Beautiful Monster

I wish I could read his expressions. He's not staring like he's hungry for me, like he'll devour me, but there is something going on behind his eyes. He's thinking. Racking his brain. And I wish I knew what was going on in there.

Finally, he looks away and I go back to my sketch. He stands from the couch and walks back to the kitchen, but he doesn't get to work. He just stands there and takes deep breaths like he's thinking or deliberating something.

I only wish I knew what.

After about an hour, I have the sketch done. When I show it to him, he reacts the same way he did when I gave him the portrait. His lips don't reveal much as he stares at it, taking a long look before he smiles and admits he loves it.

With that, I pack up my stuff and write down the colors I need for the paints. "I'll grid it out tomorrow," I say as I get ready to leave.

"Perfect.”

With his back to me, I stand in the doorway and allow my eyes to swallow up his form. With his T-shirt stuffed into his back pocket, he hefts a box off the countertop and drops it on the floor by the wall.

He looks up and catches me watching, probably wondering why I'm still there. It's only the early afternoon, and I don't want to go back to my house—if I'm being perfectly honest. I can't stand the idea of what my mother has gotten into her head now. She knows I'm painting the mural, but her mind will go other places.

Like mine does.

He smirks at me. "Well, if you're not leaving, you might as well get over here and make yourself useful." Nodding his head toward an open bucket of what looks like white dust, he hands me a trowel, or at least that's what I think it is.

"This is like painting," he says with a smile.

The music has changed to something faster but still as sexy as before. I find my shoulders twisting with the music, and he laughs at me. Holding a large pitcher of water, he starts pouring it into the mixture.

"Grab that drill with the mixer and start blending this up. Until it's like pancake batter."

I pick up the drill with the long mixer attached, and I stick it into the mixture, carefully pulling the trigger. The metal spins loudly and almost gets away from me for a moment. I have to bite down a laugh as I struggle. I don't want him to think I'm an immature kid who can't handle a simple task.

"Hold on to it," he bellows as he pours more water. Bits of gray sludge fly up and cover his hands, and I manage to get the mixer under control. It starts to blend up nicely when I feel his eyes on my face again.

"Good job," he mumbles.

Being under his stare is like sitting under a heat lamp. I could burn here for hours, but to ease some of the tension, I shimmy my hips with the beat of the mixer and the music. The corners of his mouth lift in a smile.

"You like the Rolling Stones?"

I nod. Just then the sludge in the bucket gets away from me and the whole thing starts to wobble under the momentum.

"Jesus, Sunny," he barks as his arms reach around mine to grab the shaking can. He quickly pours more water, thinning the mixture. He stands behind me and holds the drill in place with his hands over mine.

"Control it with your body, not just your arms." His hands press down on mine, sending tingles through me from the tips of my fingers. The scent of cologne and sweat drifts up to meet my nose, creating a scorch deep in my belly.

His breath is in my ear, and I can feel the muscles of his upper arms against my shoulder.

I lose focus on the mixer, beating against the side of the tub in a rhythm that makes my thighs clench. Biting my lip between my teeth, I wonder what would happen if I kissed him. I could turn my face and meet his mouth with mine. Would he kiss me back? Would he touch me like he touched that blonde woman yesterday?

My grip loosens on the drill, and his hands tighten to pick up my slack.

Quickly, I recover, squeezing the drill as the mixture in the bucket swirls. "Good girl," he whispers, and my breath hitches. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

I don’t even realize I’m staring at him until he turns his head and his eyes land on mine. For a moment, it feels like I’m drowning in the intensity of his gaze.

I know what I’m doing.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

Holding his gaze, pressing against him, searching for a reaction, a touch of attention, proof that I affect him in some way.

This isn’t me. I’m not like Cadence. I don’t care about attention from men or manipulating boys with my looks and charm.