in view for whatever reason he has. And, if I have to be honest, I think somewhere deep down, I was hoping he would do this. Not that I can admit it aloud. Doing so would feel like surrendering.
The music keeps pumping in my ears, the singer’s voice haunting me as I take a quiet step back to keep from drawing attention.
This is the first time I’ve had a chance to study him when he doesn’t know I’m watching, a momentary pause when I can look my fill, allow my thoughts to catch up to the impact of his presence.
Ari is sitting on the same stone crypt where he’d touched me for the first time. Dressed casually in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, the sleeves hugging his biceps, struggling against the chiseled bulge, Ari leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped where they meet between his spread legs, his head angled up so that I can follow the line of his throat, the knot of his Adam’s Apple a temptation I want to lick and bite.
He truly is beautiful, but in a sad way that’s difficult to interpret. And although I’d never define him as tragic - he’s far too powerful for that - I still see fractures splintering inside him. Mistakes. Flaws. Hollow crevices that speak of dark thoughts and the type of aching cold that sinks inside the bones until nothing can warm you again.
It makes him more captivating to look at, something I can’t quite name that whispers against the ear and strokes dangerous fingers against your nape, entwines in your hair with the decadent promise of pleasure...and pain.
Beyond a muscular body that moves like liquid, Ari has a face that should be impossible. No person has such symmetry to their features. Yet he has a bone structure that makes me want to run my fingers down it, skin that is warm despite how cold he looks.
He’s a shadow within the space, his hair and dark clothes helping him blend into the somber setting. I can’t see his eyes because his face is turned away, but I know they’ll flash silver beneath the scant light, that hypnotic gaze with the ability to see everything.
He’s not smiling, because he never does. I find myself wondering what that face would look like if he lost control, how his cruel mouth would curve into a blinding smile if he ever experienced the radiance of pure joy.
I bet he’d be beyond beautiful then. So damn mesmerizing that I would never want to look away. In a way, I’m almost relieved he never smiles. Seeing it would undoubtedly trap me even more than I already am.
Slowly, I reach to stop the music and pull out my earbuds, allowing the cords to hang over my shoulders. And while he’s lost in thought in a moment that’s so utterly human, I lift my camera for a candid shot. It’s a picture I want to keep, to study, an urge I can’t control to capture this still frame as proof that there is a person hidden behind the impenetrable walls he’s built.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
My finger hovers over the shutter button, my breath held as his deep voice echoes through the stygian space. He never turns to look at me, never moves.
“How did you know?”
Only the corner of his mouth curls in a tease of a grin. “I always know what’s going on around me. Unlike some people.”
I go to press the button in an act of rebellion, but he looks down at his clasped hands, a lock of midnight black hair falling over his forehead.
“I’m not kidding. What would Grant say if he sees the photo and wonders why you were alone with me to take it? You should be smarter about the things you do.”
A bark of laughter shakes my shoulders as I pull the camera from my face. “Grant would never see it. He couldn’t care less about my art. He’s only letting me do this to impress you.”
Silent for a few seconds, the tilt of his lips turns down into a scowl. “It’s sad that what you just admitted doesn’t bother you as much as it should.”
It’s a knife to the heart, his next words twisting the blade until there’s nothing left but pulp.
“How does it feel to be in a marriage where your husband has no appreciation for who you are?”
Anger rushes in to replace every good feeling I have about