I want to give myself a moment, too. Having her inside the threshold is a relief. Daphne is the living embodiment of pure emotion, and emotion like that—dark, alive, entrancing—is dangerous. Deadly. It’s better for both of us if she becomes a gallery piece.
Next, I take her phone out of her coat pocket.
My little painter doesn’t have a security code. That makes it significantly easier to wipe the location data from the last two hours. Her iPhone hasn’t uploaded to the cloud yet—she hasn’t been connected to wifi. I disable the location services. That takes a password, which Daphne stores in her Notes app. It takes less than a minute. When I’m finished, I put it back into her coat pocket. It’s unlikely she’ll come looking for it tonight, but if she does, it will be here.
I line up my shoes next to hers. The sight of them side by side.
Daphne is in the den, looking up at the wall.
At her own painting.
I want to touch her so badly. I want to put my hand around her throat and tug her back against me.
I do not.
“How did you get this?”
I hang back a little. It’s getting more difficult to keep my distance. “I bought it.”
“It wasn’t for sale.” The first hint of suspicion crosses her gorgeous dark eyes. “I donated it to the department.”
“They were willing to make a deal.”
She keeps looking.
“Daphne.” Her eyes snap to mine, and not for the first time, I am bowled over by how beautiful she is. How delicate. How innocent. “I didn’t bring you here to visit my den.”
Curiosity burns to life with another heat behind it. “What, then?” Daphne tries to sound casual, but she doesn’t.
I gesture to the door. There’s a tearing sensation in my chest. I need to touch her, and I need to push her away. I need to fuck her but I need to put her in a frame and bolt her to the wall before I lose myself completely.
Not now.
Not yet.
For the moment, I allow myself to feel anticipation.
We reach the landing at the top of the stairs and she hesitates again. Half of the upper floor is the master suite, the layout mirrored on the other side. Between the two suites is the room I need Daphne to see.
“Through here.”
I take her into my bedroom. Daphne’s eyes light up at the windows. I reach behind her for the switch that turns down the lamps. The ocean springs into view under the moon. She can’t decide where to look. My bed? The hallway leading to my closet and bathroom? An enormous shaft of light falls from the open double doors in the left-hand wall.
Daphne’s drawn to it. I knew she would be.
It takes only the gentlest touch to send her into motion toward that light. It falls over her face first, then her body. Her perfect lips part. And then she steps into what I’ve made for her.
“Emerson,” she breathes.
In its former life, this was a living room of sorts. An oversized den with a wall of windows.
Now it’s an art studio. New hardwood floors. White walls. Windows upon windows. And shelves full of anything she could dream of. Canvases. Paints. Brushes.
A few more steps into the room.
A single canvas waits on an easel near the windows. A small table rests nearby for paints and brushes. A stool, too.
“This is huge.” Daphne’s astonished. “This is so lovely.” She cannot help herself. She goes into this space I made for her and paces around it. Circles the canvas. She goes to the shelves on the other side of the wall and skims her fingers over the paints, the brushes.
“There are more supplies in the drawers,” I tell her.
Daphne bends and opens one, then another, her face lighting up again and again. They are all arranged in neat rows. They are all pristine, untouched. Waiting for her. The studio can never surpass her loveliness. This moment is so poignant that I push the throb in my heart away gently.
My little painter gets to the last shelf and straightens up. “It’s like…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. It fades from her lips at the same time her smile does. Daphne’s eyes go back to the easel. To the shelves on the opposite wall.
“It’s bright in here,” she mentions, a quaver in her voice.
I’m close enough to reach the panel of switches on the wall. Most of the lights fall, but one remains. It shines down directly on the easel.
This doesn’t make things better for Daphne. Her eyes get wider, and she backs up a step. It looks involuntary. She hooks a hand into her collar.
It’s right there, on her face. In those luminous dark eyes.
Worry. Verging on fear.
“We’re not together,” she says. “But you made this for me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s like a pedestal. Where you’d put a sculpture in a house. Where you—where you could look at me.”
Enough waiting. I cross the room to her and take her face in my hands, tilting it up so she meets my eyes. “When I look at you, what does it feel like?”
Daphne’s lips press together, then part again. Jesus Christ. “It’s intense. And I like it.”
“It makes you wet. Are you wet right now?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Are you afraid?”
“Why am I here, Emerson?”
I run a soothing hand over her hair and her shoulders relax. “You wanted to see me. You asked me to come get you, and I did.”
“No.” She straightens her spine. “Why am I here, in this room?”
“You already know that, little painter.”
Daphne looks into my eyes. I see the desperate search there. I want her to turn her face away, to stop looking, but I know this is a necessary step. She will need to see that I want her. She will need to remember, all on her own, the conversation we’ve already had.
“You want to watch me paint the ocean,” she murmurs. “You brought me here to paint?”
“While I watch.”
I deliver this low and soft, because this is a crucial moment. Daphne’s eyes are locked on mine. It’s very nearly unbearable. I’m turning it into art second by second. Frame by frame. It feels fucking filthy to do it. Resentment flashes through me. Hurt. It’s been chipping away at my resolve. What that bastard said cut into me, though I’ll never admit it. It’s shaken something at the foundation of me. The world keeps breaking through, breaking in.
No. None of that now. Only Daphne. Focus on her eyes. On her face. The shadows playing there, the light. Her expanded pupils. Trust me, little painter. Don’t look too close.
“I think—” So tentative. “I think I would like that.”
As if she’s asking me. As if she wants my permission for her to like it. Jesus fuck. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be formed to me. Commissioned for me.
“You don’t think, little painter. You know.”
“I know you want more. You told me you want more.”
“I’m going to take more.”
At take, her lashes flutter closed for a split second, her chin tilts up, and her balance shifts ever so slightly toward me.
“I want that,” she says. “I want you to take more from me.”
I lean down and kiss her. Daphne’s tongue meets mine. She lets me in. It feels like falling. I have to arrest the drop. Just a little longer now. For her. So she won’t try to escape.