Page 105 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
“Oh no. I’m not artistic in that way. I’m better with words.”
“You’re brilliant with words. Come on, I’ll help you.” He turns, looks back at me, and smiles.
I’m not prepared for his compliment. “Okay. I’d like that,” I say, getting up and joining him in the kitchen. “How about we sit out on the patio tonight?”
“Of course.”
We dish out slices of steaming lasagna and he puts the loaf of garlic bread onto its own plate. Before we head out to the patio, he changes the music to something less pelvis-pumping. His patio is peaceful with shrubbery that must be twenty feet high. Pulling out cast iron chairs, we set our plates onto the mosaic tilework that tops the table. As we eat, we talk about our trip over to Ponza Island tomorrow and he tells me about a few things we can do.
After dinner, we clean up together and he takes me down the hall past his bedroom to a fully dedicated painting room. Taking an easel from the corner of the room, he sets it up, back-to-back from one where he’s in the middle of a piece. He grabs a blank canvas from a stack and sets it on the easel then walks over to a long table that houses dozens of colors of paint. Taking a paint brush out of a large carousel of brushes and a wooden painter’s palette from a small pile on the end of the table, he comes over and hands them to me.
“Create anything you like. If you get stuck, tell me. I’ll help you. Use any of the paints you want.” He gestures to the table of paints, then walks over to a music tower and turns it on.
I stare at the blank canvas, a little intimated. It reminds me of the days my cursor blinks at me on my screen, begging me to do something. Then the vision comes. I know exactly what to paint. Palette in hand, I walk to the table and squeeze paints onto it: red, orange, yellow, white, black, several shades of blue, brown, and a tan color. I also grab a few more brushes of different sizes.
Though I have no idea what I’m doing, I allow the vision to guide me. He’s busily painting away. As I swirl the paints together on my palette and brush the colors onto the canvas, I get wonderfully lost. More than an hour passes.
Consumed by the scene I created in front of me, I don’t hear him approach me.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, standing close to my back, looking at my canvas over my shoulder.
“It’s the beach from today.”
“Our beach.” A sentimentality washes over me as he says the words. “May I add something?”
“Of course.” I step aside and he takes the palette from my hand, dipping his brush into the black paint.
Delicately, he dabs the canvas, creating two shadows, one taller than the other. Setting down his brush, he stands behind me and wraps his arms around me. “Us,” he says, kissing the top of my head.Ugh, my heart.
“Now it’s complete. May I see yours?”
He releases me. “Of course.”
The image is representative of a female with a large face and huge blue eyes, but no other facial features. Her breasts are lopsided and her torso sensually curves down to her spread, feet-less, legs. Some kind of white ring is above her head.
As I gaze at the picture, he trails his finger lightly down my back. My shoulders squeeze together at his touch on my bare skin. I suck a quiet inhale.
“Does it frighten you?” His breath is hot against my ear.
“No.” I breathe. “It confuses me. My eyes want to see the face.”
He traces his finger back up my spine and again, my body responds, slightly arching, as I close my eyes. He presses his lips softly into my neck, just below my ear. My chest rises and falls with my labored breaths.
I wrap my arms around my waist, he follows with one arm, pulling me to press against him. Laying feathery kisses, he moves slowly down my neck, holding my jaw gently up and away with his other hand, elongating my neck. I can’t stifle my gasp when his hot lips reach my collarbone.
Pulling away from him, I heave an exhale, and try to catch my breath. I glare at him.
“Why do you resist me so much?” He shoves his hands into his pockets then tilts his head down and to the side, looking up at me.
“To teach you that you can’t just take what you want.” My momentary desire shifts to frustration.
“I know you feel something. I can see your body respond to me.” He looks down at my nipples that I’m sure are poking through the fabric of my top without a bra on.
Whether or not I feel something, right now I’m mad. “I’m not a prize you get to win just because you’re intolerably hot,” I bark.Shit. That flew right out.
A devilish grin turns up the corners of his mouth. “So, youdothink I’m hot.” He steps toward me, closing the gap between us, scorching the air.
I don’t move. I want him close. I want him to fully feel my next words. “The only reason you want me is because you can’t have me.” I turn on my heels to walk away.
He grabs my arm, pulling me to him. Holding my shoulders in his hands, he stares down at me, nostrils flaring, eyes boring into me. His eyes move from mine down to my lips like he’s going to devour me. Curling his lips inward, he sucks air in through his nose.
“I’m not one of your conquests, Nicco,” I say softly, holding his gaze.
“I know that. You’re —” He pauses. “You could never be.” He pauses again. “You’re unattainable on every level.” Stifling what sounds like a growl, he releases me.
Going to my room, I close the door and throw myself onto the bed. This is agony. Why did I agree to do this? What was I thinking? While refusing to have sex with him, all I want is for him to consume me in every way possible. Just the thought of having his hands on me, his lips on my flesh, his body pounding into to me is enough to give me an orgasm. And the more we’re together, the more I learn about him, the deeper he seeps into my heart. I’m falling for him. But I can’t. I just can’t.
I won’t.
