I have never been so invested in the oxygen exchange of another person. Not like this. My awareness of her supersedes every past focus. I would have sworn there was nothing more heightened than waiting for the sound of footsteps outside a locked door, but there is, and it’s watching Daphne Morelli breathe. It’s watching the light play in her huge, dark eyes. More intense by the minute. She goads all the emotions I keep far away. Goads them into becoming something real, something in motion. She’s been standing so close, for so long, the scent of her in the air and her voice in my ears and her fluttering heartbeat. I swear I can hear it.
The only thing to do when confronted with this much sensation is to walk away. Get back into the familiar exchange of a purchase. And leave, at the end. Leave and never come back. Stay detached. That’s the way to stay alive. Keep your eyes on those slices of light at the door. They’re a warning. Something more dangerous than you is coming.
She could wreck me, out in the world like this. Better to keep her where I have control.
But Daphne isn’t something to acquire.
Not yet.
She’s much more than a statue. I can’t picture her in marble. She’s too warm for that. Her emotions play across her face like shadows on a hillside. Humiliation and curiosity. Anger and fear. Understanding, when I say the bit about other people seeing the sunset, which has the benefit of being true. But then a wariness creeps into her eyes, and I can’t stand it.
I can’t shove this emotion, this want, away from me. It won’t go. She’s so near. So warm. So alive. The air between us feels like an insult. The fact that I’m not touching her is a grave mistake.
Her huge, dark eyes skip down over me, the glance involuntary, and when she looks back into my eyes—
Longing. Her face is filled with longing. I recognize it from the photo in my report. Flushed cheeks and wide eyes and a set to her mouth that begs for something, anything, other than standing here like two pieces on a chessboard.
One step toward her, and Daphne freezes in place, a deer caught in headlights. Another step, and she’s alive again, anticipating me. Responding. A flash of fear, but she doesn’t run. She lets me back her into the far corner of the gallery. She lets me trap her there.
My shadow falls over her, but her eyes stay bright. Catchlights flicker like stars. She’s breathing fast and sweet.
One of her hands comes up to the front of my jacket. A test, I think. To see what I’ll do. I’d bet anything that Daphne Morelli isn’t this cautious when she’s at her canvas. It’s the smallest connection between us. Slim fingers between the buttons. Not to pull me close. Not to push me away.
I want to pin her to the wall. That need surges through my veins, skipping out of bounds. But that would mean losing control. That would mean giving it up entirely.
I can’t do that with Daphne.
She’s more birdlike than ever, touching me like this. It’s an opening move. An invitation, really. Her breath hitches. I press one palm flat against the wall to keep from looping it around her throat. Her eyes follow the movement, but she’s quick about it, as if she thinks it’s dangerous to look away from my face for more than a glance.
As if she doesn’t want to look away.
Fuck me, I want to be touching her. More than this. Her knuckles burn a hole in my shirt, straight through to the skin. There are a thousand positions I’d like to see her body in, a thousand sounds I want her to make for me.
But.
For as much desire is in the air around her, as much sweet, innocent desire, she’s also skittish. The way she flinched at the beach told me more than she wanted. My heartbeat slows. It beats harder to compensate. Like a tolling bell. My mind hurries through all the available options, all the ways I could touch her. No and no and no.
I put my hand over hers instead.
A short breath escapes her at the contact. Her fist closes tighter around the seam of my jacket. A moment of tension. The air is strung on a wire. It could snap any second. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. The wait is killing me, but I do wait, I do fucking wait. I am extraordinarily practiced at waiting.
Daphne’s hand relaxes under mine. I feel the rest of her body go with it, leaning in a fraction of a degree. I brush my fingers over the back of her hand, her wrist, to the sleeve of her dress. Over her slim forearm, her elbow. Deliberate. I have never been so deliberate in my life. Her upper arm. Her shoulder. She holds herself still but she can’t hide the trembling any more than a bird could stay in flight without beating its wings. I toy with dark curls on her navy dress, push them carefully out of the way, and then I touch her skin. My hand around the side of her neck, my thumb on her jawline.
“Oh,” Daphne says, and the heat in her voice is permission to tip her head back—not far, just enough—and kiss her.
It’s like being hit with an ocean swell. The inverse of a swell. She’s not force and salt. She’s sweetness. Warmth. But then—yes. A dark mystery, too. Depths. She opens her mouth like she’s been starving for me. Her pulse goes wild under my palm. An invisible timer ticks down. Too much longer and I’ll be lost in her, in the delicate lips and tongue and teeth. In the exploration of her, which could go on and on and on. If I had more time. If I could let go.
Can’t—can’t do that.
Not now. Not with her. The tip of her tongue darts out to meet mine and she tastes me back.
Enough. Enough. Enough.
I push us away from the wall with one hand and bring her along with the other. Back to the light. Back to her painting. The timer runs out. It hits zero and the only way I can bring myself to stop is to turn her around.
But I can’t let go.
I keep her body against mine. Daphne can’t resist this. She’s gone weak in the knees and she leans into me like I’m a structural piece in her life and not a stranger who lured her to the beach. No doubt she can feel how hard I am, but she doesn’t pull away. We could be a couple at an art gallery. If anyone walked by the window, that’s all they would see. Me, holding her close, one arm across her chest. She hooks both hands onto that arm like she’s not sure of her balance.
Focus. With my other hand I find one of her wrists and trace the same path to her elbow, to her arm, up to the side of her neck. She’s so afraid, and she wants this so much. She lets out a little sigh when I touch her again in the same way. Same pressure, same place on her neck. Daphne’s struggle for composure is so beautiful like this. With her face hidden, it’s all movement. All touch.
“Tell me, little painter. Why did you choose that perspective?”
She swallows. I keep the pressure on her neck light and even, hardly moving. “Because.” A long, slow breath. “Because I saw a man surfing. It was a new angle. I hadn’t painted it before.”
“What was your inspiration? Before you saw that man. Why paint the ocean?”
Back down her shoulder, down her arm. To her waist. She’s shorter than she appeared in those photos. Daphne leans into this touch, too.
“I can’t stop,” she admits. It sounds like something she hasn’t told anyone else. A secret she’s been struggling to keep, perhaps. “At first it was some commentary about how the water hides things, and how it’s never the same twice. How it’s the last frontier and everything. Now it’s more than that. It’s in my head.” Her fingers press against my arm like she’s remembering the keys of a piano, and I want more of her. Want it so much that I take the risk of sliding my hand up and up until I meet the curve of her breast under her dress. “It’s—” Daphne shivers. “It’s all that ends up—”