The Sinners - Ruby Vincent Page 0,17
must have hundreds between his dorm and apartment.
I spoke up. “Can I have that one?”
“You asking this time?”
“You lost the right for me to ask the first time.”
Royal grunted, not half pleased. “If you want more of my art, you’ll have to take them, princess. I’m not handing them over.”
“Fair enough.” I leaned back on the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “I kind of like my new nickname. You called me that the night we made love.”
“Made love?” A tinge of derision laced his reply. “Is that what we did?”
“You know we did,” I said calmly. “It doesn’t have to scare you.”
Royal said nothing. I didn’t have to look at him to see the clenched jaw and maelstrom of desire and frustration in his eyes. His raging battle made me think of something.
My mother didn’t give me much advice, or attention, growing up, but once after a fight with Dad, she told me I had to seek love with just a tiniest bit of hate mixed in.
“Find someone that challenges you. Pushes your buttons. Ignites your anger like no one else. Because in that frustration is passion. The artist doesn’t paint because he wants to. He paints because he has to. Even when he despises his creation. Even when he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together and art demands his last one. Even when the world tells him he’s no good. His passion for painting is obsession, and that’s what love is at the end of the day. It has to be you and only you. Their passion. Their obsession.”
I remember thinking that sounded murder-suicide crazy. My next thought after that was I didn’t know two people more in love with each other than my mom and dad. My thoughts after they ran off with the money were the con was likely my mother’s idea, and my dad was so out-of-his-mind crazy for her it didn’t occur to him to say no.
Maybe their kind of love wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I peeked at Royal.
Maybe.
Royal finished his food. The plate lay on the table and his hand returned to his natural task, transforming a blank page.
“Have you ever thought about doing something with your art?” I asked. “Going to college for it? Selling it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You can love sex and not need to get paid for it.”
“Huh. That was actually really well put,” I mused. “It’s fine if sketching is enough for you. But you should know that if you want more, you can have it.” My eyes swept over the art papering the walls. “Your work is incredible.”
“Shh.”
The telltale wrinkle marred his brow. Royal worried his lip, eyes flicking from me to the page.
I set my half-eaten food on the carpet. “Are you drawing me?”
“Yes. Hold still.”
“No,” I cried. I looked at my oversized red Arsenal shirt, clashing orange pants, and damp spots from my dripping hair. “Don’t draw me looking like this.”
His amusement saved me from being hushed. “You don’t have a choice.”
“That’s not true.” I trapped his gaze as I stood and wriggled out of my shorts. Kicking them in his direction, my panties went flying after. His flicker of surprise disappeared between fabric. I languidly drew the shirt over my head and then tossed it on the growing collection at his feet.
“Better,” I purred, biting my lip. “So, how do you want me?”
His charcoal pencil nearly broke in his grip. “Twice on the couch and three times on your knees.”
“We can make that happen.” It’s amazing how I went from staring death in the face to flying high on lust and happiness in one day. There was nowhere I wanted to be more than here with Royal.
I draped my legs over the arms of the chair, opening up to him. His hardening ridge had me damp before I slid a finger past my folds. “I’ll let you keep this sketch.”
“You would’ve had to pry it from my cold grip before they closed the casket,” he growled. “And I still wouldn’t have given it up.”
I giggled. I was drunk on sex, arousal, and pulsing excitement running through my veins, awakening every corner of my body.
The true term for goose bumps was piloerection. The involuntary act of your body responding to heightened emotions. That was me with Royal always. Responding to him outside of my control. Sensing him before I step into a room. Hearing him before he speaks.
I went deeper, finding that spot. A moan slipped out of me. “You’re not drawing,” I whispered.
Royal