I walk to her side as she stares at a photo taken by an eight-year-old boy from the Serengeti of cheetahs playing in a field, and I tangle my fingers with hers. When she relaxes against me and squeezes my hand, that connection I felt from the beginning comes back, and I am one hundred percent sure I don’t want to lose it again.
We spend the next hour and a half walking from one piece to another, marveling at how they have captured their intended idea and made it real. Being here with her, I have found the excitement for this field once again. I had forgotten how much I enjoy the part where I turn something ordinary and unremarkable into something people want to see. Somewhere along the line, it became about the money and the next location, and I forgot my love of expression. But standing here beside her, watching all of the emotions cross her face as she takes in the next thing we are looking at, all of the passion has returned and not just for the art.
No longer able to stop myself, I pull her arm and swing her into my arms. “Liam?” She questions. I can’t speak right now. I just need to continue to feel, and she is the key to that. Slowly but with intention, I lean into her, giving her a chance to stop me. When she doesn’t, my mouth touches hers, and I hear fireworks. Her mouth is so soft and warm pressing into mine, and when she moans, I lick her lips, coaxing them open with my tongue. Jesus, she tastes like Cinnabon’s.
“Why are your lips so fucking sweet?” I groan into her mouth before devouring her against the portrait of a family from a reservation in Idaho. She kisses like an untouched angel, and my fucking cock wants to sully her in the filthiest of ways. Her body begins to shake, and then I hear laughter far off in the building. Remembering where we are, I kiss her once more and pull back. “Fuck baby, I‘m sorry.” I lick my lips and close my eyes as her taste permeates my tongue once more. “What do you say we go get something to eat?” I move her hair from her face and take in her pink cheeks and slightly swollen lips. Her eyes are glassy and shining up at me, and something in my chest shifts. She is meant to be yours. Everything in me is telling me this. How do I make it happen?
Walking down the street, I find a cafe serving sandwiches and salads. We sit, eat and talk. I learned during this time, how she has always been an avid reader and never really had a plan. When I asked her if she had one now, she ducks her head and changes the subject. I get the feeling she is embarrassed by her dream, but I need to know everything. Paying the check, we walk out of the cafe and turn to look at her. “Shit, Orla. I don’t want to take you home yet, baby.” I tell her the truth and watch as her eyes soften. She puts one of her hands on my chest and seals her fucking fate.
“Then don’t, Liam.” My body reacts to that statement as only a man’s cock can, by thumping in my pants like a fucking dog in heat, but I can’t do that. At least not yet. We take a stroll through the park across the street, spend entirely too much money on ice cream from a truck which is awesome, and hold hands, laughing and being silly. I haven’t had a carefree day like this in a long time. Watching her throw her head back and laugh makes me question everything I thought I knew. Now how do I keep it?
Chapter Eight
Orla
Today has been perfect. I was so stunned to find an exhibit named after him, and then to learn he is trying to start a foundation made him more irresistible. Walking around looking at the pictures and paintings with him, it felt like we had been doing this our whole lives. I am beginning to think he is misunderstood, not just by everyone else but also by himself. Someone who would do this for children he has never met has to want to do something more than the life he has. Right? I don’t know; maybe I am just grasping for anything to make sense of why I keep allowing things to grow between us.
When he looked at me and told me he didn’t want to take me home, hope fluttered inside of my belly, and I reacted. I told him not to, which is how we are now in the middle of the park, at an ice cream truck in the middle of winter, eating ice cream, only in New York. Walking back with our ice cream in our hands, bundled up like idiots, I can’t help but smile as we look at each other, giggling because we know we look like morons. His hand grips mine as we walk along, and even though we now have on gloves, I still feel the tingle from him touching me. “Tell me something, baby. Anything. What did you picture yourself doing at this point in your life?” Why did he have to ask me that? I don’t want to answer it, but at this point, I might as well be honest.