His breathing deepened. “We’ll try. If you like it, great. If you don’t, it won’t matter to me. I’ll give you anything you need, Jane.” He coasted his hands up my thighs. “Doe, I …”
“What?” I curled my hands in his hair, playing with it.
Jamie surprised me by pressing his forehead between my breasts, his breath hot on my skin.
“Jamie?”
His arms bound tight around and worry filled me.
“Jamie?”
He exhaled and then finally lifted his head. The fierceness of his expression made my breath catch. “I’ve never loved anyone like this. It feels too much.”
My heart leapt in my chest. “I feel it too.”
It was scary. Terrifying, even. Yet it was the most exhilarating ride of my life.
“Don’t break my heart,” he growled, his fingers digging into my skin. “Don’t break my fucking heart. You break my heart … and … fuck, I’m afraid what I’ll become without you. Fuck, I shouldn’t say that.” He tried to pull away. “I’m sorry, that’s too much pressure—”
“No.” My eyes widened as I cut him off. Jamie was concerned I’d break his heart? “I feel the same way. Don’t break my heart, and I won’t break yours.” I nodded, pulling him back to me. “Promise?”
“I promise.” He kissed me hard. So hard it almost hurt. “I want you again.”
“Okay.”
“No, we can’t.” Jamie shook his head. “You’ll be sore, swollen.”
I pulsed between my legs. “I need you. I want you.”
His nostrils flared. I found the words Jamie couldn’t resist. Hauling me into his arms, he carried me back to his bed. His hands circled my wrists, holding me down, and I flushed with renewed desire. “And you’ll always have me,” he promised.
8
JANE
Eighteen years old
Art was subjective.
Everyone knew that.
However, if you wanted to make a living as an artist, you had to appeal to a great number of people. If you didn’t, it didn’t make you any less of an artist. It just made you a less commercially successful one.
Every art major at Pomona wanted to be successful in their art. I believed that. No matter if it was digital art, photography, fine art, sculpture, graphic design, or performance. We wanted to shine.
Already, only a few months into my first semester as a freshman at Pomona College, I was discovering new skills and ways of expressing myself that I never thought I’d enjoy. As yet, however, nothing quite eclipsed my love of fine art. Though my small class seemed to think life drawing was basic, I loved it.
As a small group, however, it was too easy to become distracted when you could overhear the professor talking to your neighbor about their work.
Cassie Newman had the easel next to mine.
I glanced from my work to hers.
Our model was a dance student. Lola disrobed with no visible insecurities about her near nakedness and positioned herself like a ballet dancer in repose. Although she wore a nude leotard, she might as well have been naked for all it didn’t disguise.
Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun, her head bent forward as if she was looking at her foot. One leg and foot straight, the other knee bent, her foot en pointe.
Her hands sat on her slender hips, and she wore a thoughtful expression.
Neither Cassie nor I had created a mirror image of the dancer on the paper.
We’d interpreted what we saw in different ways.
My brush strokes were loose, creating movement, as if the young women were about to lift off the page into dance—movement that was incongruous to her expression. As though she felt trapped by the rigidity of tradition and wanted to let loose. I chose soft grays, peaches, and pale pinks with some harder grays. I’d imagined a mirror and barre behind her, and her reflection portrayed her back arched dramatically, arms flourishing, the leg that was bent pushing out, foot straight in the style of a contemporary dancer, not a ballerina.
Cassie’s brushstrokes were even less defined than mine. Much less. Her painting was abstract—that was her style. I knew this wasn’t what bothered Professor Pullman.
“I just …” He tilted his head to the side and sighed. “I question your color choice. The reason behind it.”
It was dark, gothic even, heavy and foreboding.
I liked it.
It had mood.
It was clear our professor did not agree.
Cassie scowled at her work, refusing to look at Professor Pullman. To be fair, he questioned her choices all the time. While he was encouraging to students who didn’t share his particular style, Cassie was a different story. He didn’t seem