The Girl in the Painting

I smile at her words, half of which I don’t understand. But I figure that’s on par for drunk rambling. It’s best if I encourage her to sleep.

“Good night, Indy,” I whisper, and because I can’t fucking help myself, I gently brush my lips across the soft skin of her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I know I’m crossing a line, but this girl, this beautiful fucking girl, affects me in ways no one ever has.

I start to stand up and leave the bedroom, but she wraps her arms around my neck and doesn’t let me go. “You know what?” she asks, and I tilt my head to the side.

“What?”

Without warning, she presses her full, pink, perfect lips against mine.

Shock electrifies every inch of my skin, and my eyes widen, but she doesn’t stop or pull away.

Soft and slow at first, her mouth just barely explores mine, and I let her. I’m a bastard for not being the sober, responsible adult, but it feels so fucking good.

Her inhibitions left unchecked thanks to her lack of a clear head and reason, her lips turn needy and hurried, and she slips her tongue past my lips to take a taste.

A groan starts in my chest and rattles seductively up to the top of my throat.

Indy moans against my mouth and slides her hands into my hair, her arms digging into my shoulders and neck.

It takes everything inside me not to coax this kiss into something more.

Because, fuck, I want to.

But she’s drunk…

Fuck, you need to stop this. Right now.

I let her keep the lead for another moment or two until I finally find the strength to take control and slow down her momentum. Once, twice, three times, I gently press my lips to hers and end the kiss before anything more can happen while she’s this intoxicated.

Silence stretches between us as I hold her in my arms and let her search my eyes.

Eventually, she releases her arms from my neck and snuggles into the covers, dropping straight into the deep sleep of a woman who’s had too much to drink.

At least, I think she does. Just before I reach the doorway, her voice stops me in my tracks.

“Ansel?”

“Yeah, Indy?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

“Do what?”

“Kiss you.”

I know she’s drunk and I know she doesn’t know what she’s saying and I know she probably won’t remember any of this, but like a bullet, those two words hit me straight in the chest, and I don’t bother to guard my words.

“I’ve been wanting to do it a hell of a lot longer than that.”

Indy

Sleep pulls and pushes, clawing me closer to the sweet sounds of my dreams and then releasing me to drift back into reality. The cycle is long and my eyes are heavy, but after several attempts, I finally overturn the magnets on my eyelids.

Music soothes and rolls, much like it did in the depths of my dream, but the cold of the room around me feels much different from my fantasy’s warm womb.

Who’s playing music in my apartment?

I blink a few times to moisten my eyes and focus on the squares of the coffered ceiling.

Wait. When did I get a coffered ceiling?

Abruptly, I sit up, and as soon as I do, the truth is obvious.

I’m not in my apartment. Not in my bedroom. Not even in my own bed.

Holy shit.

Although this is the first time I’ve seen his bedroom, it doesn’t take me long to attribute ownership to Ansel. Two leather club chairs face a fireplace in the corner, a glass-and-gold side table filling the space between them. Exposed brick runs the length of the back wall, and the sleek king bed I’m in is low to the floor and beautiful in its simplicity. A white comforter covers my body, and a cream throw rests on top of that for good measure.

Oh my god, did I sleep with him?

My hand creeps up to my mouth, an involuntary reaction to the shock of my poor decisions, and I try like hell to recall all the details of the last twelve or so hours.

Ansel picking me up at my apartment.

Meeting New Rules. The concert. Dancing. Drinking.

I grimace and move my hand to my forehead as the pounding in my temples puts another tally mark next to the drinking.

Fuck, why did I drink so much last night?

I scrap and jockey, trying valiantly to cut through enough of the fog from my hangover to remember what happened next—what happened that made me end up here in his bed—but the effort is fruitless.

The last thing I remember is being backstage after the concert.

Surely, I didn’t sleep with him, right?

I slide the covers off my body, and I’m relieved to find I’m still fully dressed in last night’s clothes.

Okay, that’s a good sign. In order to have sex with someone, clothes have to be removed. There’s no way I had more than one wrestle with my clothes last night, so the fact that they’re on must mean I never took them off in the first place.