“See? It’s not that hard. Want to try the hair?”
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his arm not-so-accidentally against the side of my breast.
I manipulate his hand again, adding a few swipes from the top of the head to a third down. For a moment, we’re quiet, the only sound in the room the strokes of the pencil on the paper.
It’s nice.
Peaceful.
Slowly but surely, just like the figure that’s taking shape on the paper, we’re building that something I thought about earlier. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.
A surge of gratitude washes over me. I’ve never had anything I could call my own—not like this. I don’t know if it’s the sincere praise or the how he opened up to me, but the words tumble from my lips before I can stop them.
“When I was ten, Gus shot a man in front of me.”
His hand stills under mine, halting the pencil, but after a second, we continue to draw.
“He took me to a warehouse outside of town. The man was on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. He was bleeding badly from his chest. I’ll never forget the stench of that place. It smelled like rotten meat and death. I knew he was going to die. It wasn’t the smell. It was the way he was posed, like a man waiting to the executed.” I take a deep breath. “And I didn’t do anything.”
He kisses the top of my head. “There was nothing you could do. You were ten.”
“I never told anyone.”
He lifts his hand from my shoulder to cup my chin, lifting my face to meet his gaze. “You’re telling me now.”
“I mean back then.”
His jaw hardens. “How could you? You were a child. It wasn’t your responsibility to save that man. Your responsibility was keeping yourself safe.”
“I could’ve told my teacher or the school principal.”
He rubs a thumb over my lips. “You would’ve gotten them killed. You did the only thing you could. You kept your mouth shut. Sometimes, darling, you have to be patient and bide your time until you’re old and strong enough to fight back. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I swallow. “Does that make me a bad person?”
A soft light invades his dark eyes. “No. That doesn’t make you a bad person. That makes you a victim.”
Sagging against the back of the chair, I let out a tremulous breath. “I’m tired of being a victim.”
“Then don’t be.”
And miraculously, those are the words that set me free.
As easy as that.
Because he’s right.
I have power.
I have a choice.
He leans down, brushing a soft question against my ear. “Do you want me to kill him?”
I look into his eyes and see the seriousness there. Stretching my arms above my head, I wrap them around his neck and pull him to me. His stubble grates my cheek, his heat seeping into my skin.
“No,” I whisper.
He grazes his lips over mine, the upside-down kiss barely there, his reply scarcely audible. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to make a killer of you.”
Cupping my jaw in his palms, he tilts my face back farther. “You know what I am.”
“It doesn’t matter. You won’t do it for me.”
“Why?” he asks again, his tone deep and insistent.
The darkness between us is filled with secrets, but I don’t want to keep mine any longer. He doesn’t pity or judge me. He accepts me for who I am. I want to pull him into my soul and let him guide me to his heart, so I give him the truth. “Because I care too much about you.”
Something shifts in his gaze. It’s minute, yet profound. Bending over me, he swipes his arms over the desk. The sketchbook and pencils and his stationary go flying. The violence pins me to my seat. He brushes a few stray pens and erasers out of the way and hooks his hands under my arms. Lifting me, he turns me around and deposits me on the desk. The chair wheels to the side as he pushes it out of the way. I watch with fascination as he peels out of his clothes. He makes quick work of undressing me, dropping the garments in a heap at his feet.
Taking my hands in his, he interlaces our fingers and stretches my arms above my head while gently lowering me onto the surface. He doesn’t let go of my hands as he settles between my legs, positions his cock, and surges forward.
His lovemaking is unhurried and uncoordinated. He’s not meticulous. He’s losing himself, allowing myself to lose myself in turn. I lift my hips as he rocks his, coaxing him deeper. He doesn’t look away from my face. He chases truths in my eyes as he pushes me higher, seeing everything I want to show.
Seeing that I’m falling.
Seeing that I’m breaking.
Catching me with our hands intertwined like a parasite growing around a vine.
Mending me with the gentlest kiss.