with an apple?
“It wasn’t a still life.”
Understanding flickers through those twins storms, and he takes a half step forward. “That piece is part of a restricted collection.”
“It’s there for anyone to see.” This isn’t strictly true. The cupboard doesn’t have a sign that says please definitely look in here. It’s part of the wall. It’s meant to be hidden. “And… and if you want to sign up for an independent study, you’re allowed to look in the collection. All of the collection.”
“Jesus.” I can see the painting reflected in his eyes, as clearly as if it’s sitting on the easel right now. “You saw that painting, and you still wanted to come here?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“I was terrified.” I stood in that room, the canvas in my hands, and shook. The hairs on the back of my neck pulled tight. But so did my nipples. The shame came next, hot, choking, and for a long time, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything. Holding that painting felt like Erich was standing in the room with me, hidden in the shadows, waiting for me to notice him. “I was so scared, and I—”
A smile, dark and deadly, plays at the corners of his lips. “And you liked it.”
“Yes.” The admission hurts. Hurts, because I’m supposed to be good. My parents raised me to be good, my parents raised me to be pure, and they raised me to go to college and find a husband. They did not raise me to go to college and become obsessed with a reclusive art professor the last semester of senior year. They were afraid enough to send me to a city where there are rumors about a man who buys and sells women in a building so fancy that even senators and mayors pay visits when they’re bored and lonely.
They made me promise.
And I broke that promise.
Because once I saw that painting, nothing could stop me from coming here. Nothing could stop me from being in this room. The only thing that can stop me is Erich, and from the look on his face, he’s not going to.
Those silver eyes darken. A shiver moves up my back. It’s the same sensation as being outside when a storm is set to roll in. Everything in me screams to find shelter, to get inside, but I’m already here. The door is shut firmly behind us. The storm is him.
“If I touch you...” So measured. So anguished. What makes him this way? What makes him paint the things I saw in that painting? Surely, it’s not the only one he’s done. You don’t get that good without practice.
“If you touch me again,” I correct.
Another wolfish smile. “If I touch you again, I won’t be able to stop.”
It lights me up from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, every single nerve in flames, nipples jutting against the flimsy fabric of my bra. He can see them through my shirt. I know he can. I know by the way his eyes flicker downward from my face and back up. I know from the way his hands ball up in his pockets.
It’s time to be brave. There’s not a second to spare for anything else.
“I want what I saw in the painting.”
Erich draws himself up to his full height, and it hits me all over again—he is very, very tall. Too tall for this studio. Too tall for this room. Too tall to be only a painter. There’s something else lurking in him. Something dark. And I want to see it.
“Be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He closes the distance between us and takes my chin in his fingers, tilting my head up so that I’m forced to look into his eyes. I can’t see anything but his eyes. And I don’t want to. “Be sure.”
I’m not sure. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for a stiff breeze to push me one way or the other. All I can smell is him. Paint and alcohol underneath soap, clean soap. Like he’s spent all his life scrubbing his calloused hands. And man. He’s an artist, not a contractor, but there’s a hint of sun and roughness here too. What has he spent his life doing? It’s not just this. It can’t be. My mouth has gone dry. Completely dry. Can he feel how hard my heart is beating at the sides of my neck? It’s like my pulse is trying to become one with his. “I’m sure,” I whisper.
He drops his