just short of being the real thing.
I want the real thing.
I want Grace.
I want to touch her, to explore her body from head to toe, discover everything hidden to me, lose myself in the way she’s put together. She’s art, I know she is, and if I can’t have her, I need to create her. She inspires me to no end.
Slow down.
I stare at my reflection, at the dark eyes peering back. I can’t let my mind run away on me because if it does, my body will follow.
I decide against the tie, tossing it on my bed.
Rake my fingers through my hair, adjust my cufflinks. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. I know I look good. But there’s only one opinion I care about.
I grab the keys to the Lusso and leave my room, closing the door behind me.
Out in the hall, Grace is doing the same thing.
I stop, air seizing in my chest.
Grace is wearing a dress that would be fitting in a Dolce and Gabbana ad. White with a bright floral print—the top is like a bustier, with skinny straps and cups that push up her breasts, dangerously close to overflowing.
When I tear my eyes away from her chest, ignoring that persistent pang of need in my dick, I’m taken by her face, the red on her lips, the smoky eye, the way her dark hair shines, cascading softly over her shoulders.
“It’s not too much, is it?” she asks, her voice quiet and anxious.
It’s too much for me, I want to say. Far too much for me to handle.
I don’t think I’ll survive tonight.
Somehow I manage to speak. “You look beautiful.”
I want to say more. She looks more than beautiful. There are no words in my vocabulary to describe her. She’s the writer here, not me. I just know that if I were to sculpt her, people would be fighting over themselves to own her, to display her beauty forever.
In the back of my head, a risky proposition rears its head.
I ignore it for now.
“Okay, good,” she says, eyes downcast so all I see are her lashes. “I was worried that I’d either be too overdressed or too underdressed.”
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, licking my lips. If only I could get her to believe it.
I clear my throat, trying to regain some composure. “And me? No kind words for me?”
“Do you need me to tell you you’re handsome?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “How else will I know?”
She breaks into a smile that lights up her whole face. At least she still finds me funny. That’s something. Maybe it’s everything.
Last night was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. It wasn’t just that the show was amazing. It’s that I finally felt Grace becoming undone. She wraps herself so tightly, afraid to let go, afraid to feel because her feelings seem too big for her body. She’s consumed with her darkness sometimes, as I suppose it can be for writers. And I can’t blame her, because she seems to have gone through so much.
But she let herself be free with me last night.
It’s probably too much to ask for it again.
I jerk my head to the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
I head down the stairs and see Vanni lounging on the couch, reading a book. When he sees us, he sits up straighter. “Are you sure I can’t go with you?” he asks with pleading eyes.
“Was the concert not enough?” I chuckle. “And you have been before. You remember? Lots of adults, no kids. You’re not allowed to touch anything.”
“That’s okay.”
“No eating either. I don’t trust you not to get cheese on all of my statues.”
He nods at that, understanding. “Okay. At least here I can eat.”
“Where is Emilio?”
He shrugs. “I think he’s cleaning the pool.”
“Okay, well you listen to your uncle,” I remind him. Not that Vanni is ever a troublesome kid, but I know one day he’s going to give me a run for my money.
Grace gives him a little wave. “Ciao, Vanni.”
“Ciao, ciao, ciao,” he says with a dismissive wave, then with a heavy sigh, picks up his book again and goes back to reading.
We head down the outside stairs to the Ferrari parked below. I open her door for her, and a vicious thrill runs through me, the sight of her, in that dress, getting in my car. Too sexy for words.
I shut the door and swallow hard, needing to compose myself yet again. Thankfully once we get to the gallery, we