Something keeps me from climbing the scaffolding or getting a ladder from the equipment out back. Instead I work with the putty on the ground, keeping one eye trained on the door in case I have another late-night visitor.
It gets to be so late that I doubt he’s coming, and then I have to face the hard lump of disappointment in my gut, the proof that I want the man I shouldn’t.
As if the cute little dress I’m wearing tonight didn’t already prove that.
It’s with those disheartened eyes that I look at the putty I’ve been working with, surprised to find it’s actually pretty good. It’s a more abstract piece than I usually make—geometric shapes unfolding, like an idea being peeled away. Or maybe skin flayed open, in a purely conceptual way. That would be an interesting addition to the wall, exposing what’s underneath. Not in a literal sense, because there’s only shadow and studs back there, but symbolically.
What is behind the wall? I’m not sure I know the answer. Industry is on the surface. Muscles and iron and longing. What’s underneath must be darker. It always is. The opposite of industriousness… well, that’s being stationary. Being stuck. Maybe even failure.
The opposite of longing is despair, the certainty that what you want will never come.
“It’s not your usual style,” comes a low voice from behind me.
Christopher steps through the archway, wearing black slacks and leather loafers, a stark contrast to the dusty disarray of the library. He’s unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt, but it still looks crisp. His jacket straight. Every black hair on his head neatly in place.
He looks around with a hard expression, as if the building’s being inspected by him and failing to impress. As if he still owns the place. That makes me frown. “How did you get in through there? The doors back there are locked.”
“It’s possible I didn’t send all the keys to the commercial realtor,” he says, not sounding very remorseful. He also doesn’t offer to give me the secret key, and for some reason I don’t demand it. The library is about open knowledge, not locked doors, and Lord knows Christopher isn’t going to vandalize anything. I’m more likely to do that than anyone else.
But I think the real reason is that I want him to come back.
“Why are you here?” I ask softly.
“To make sure you don’t fall and break your neck. It’s a habit of yours.”
“Only when you’re around. And I don’t mean the library. Why are you here, in Tanglewood, developing the land I didn’t buy from you? You could have sold it.”
He shrugs. “You know me. For money. For stepping on the backs of the common man.”
For the first time since I met him, his words ring false, as if he spoke a lie. As if everything else he said to me has been true. “Be careful,” I whisper. “I might think you want to stay near me.”
He takes a step closer, and I’m suddenly aware that my hands are caked with putty. The world of art shows is glamorous with wine and chandeliers, but the reality of creation is much more messy.
And a little more dangerous.
At one point I was so engrossed in my work, so vehement with a sculpting tool that the metal detached from the wood handle and plunged into my thumb. It bled into my dress for a while, and every time I worked the clay after that, smoothed it over and made it ridge, the newly formed scab would break again. There are dark striations in the finished product—not red blood now, but an ominous black.
Christopher takes my hand and turns it over, pulling away the clay where it’s formed a protective barrier. He makes a tsk sound, probably because I’m careless. Because I have a death wish. Because I don’t wear a suit and move numbers around on paper all day. It makes me want to smack him, that sound; why can’t I be good enough for him? He isn’t your father, Avery said, but this sinking feeling in my stomach is exactly the same.
Except Christopher does something I don’t expect, something I never would have imagined. He presses his open mouth against my thumb, his lips unexpectedly gentle, his tongue sweeping over the cut. There’s clay and blood and sweat, right there against his tongue. He must taste every dream I have, every failure I fear. He must taste me.
His eyes close, lashes long and black against his cheek, and he moans. He moans as if I’m some sweet nectar he never imagined tasting. I’ve had this man’s cock in my mouth, and still this is the most unabashedly sensual experience of my life. He sucks gently, the suction of his mouth on my thumb somehow reaching straight to my clit, pulling me taut, making my legs press together.
When he looks up at me again, his eyes are hooded. “You know I want you. You’ve always known I wanted you, and you got into so much trouble because you loved when I came after you.”
My laugh feels a little shaky, like I’m walking a tightrope high above the ground, praying that I’ll keep my balance long enough to reach the other side. “I don’t get into trouble. Trouble gets into me. That would happen whether you were there to save me or not.”
His lips quirk up. “But you do love it when I come after you.”
“Is that why you’re here? Am I in trouble?”
“No,” he murmurs against my palm, pressing a burning kiss against my lifeline. “I thought we would try something new this time. I’m not here to save you or protect you. I’m not here to catch you when you fall. So I’d recommend not climbing anything.”
That makes me laugh, though it’s more an exhalation of disbelief. He has always been the white knight to my damsel in distress. It’s been a gift as much as a curse, a way to keep himself near me without ever being vulnerable. “What would you even do with me if you weren’t catching me?”
“I have some ideas,” he says in a voice like black gravel, rough and sliding. He steps close enough that I can feel his body heat against me, that I can smell the musk of a day’s work in the office, the grit and determination of him made real.
My voice comes out a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not falling.”
Two fingers under my chin. He gazes down at me with fierce possession. “Catch me instead.”
There are only two seconds in which I might reclaim my sanity. Two seconds when I might remember that he’s dynamite and I’m flame. I use them to lean closer, savoring the brush of his breath against my lips. Every nerve ending in my body lights up in anticipation. His hand slides to the back of my neck, and I surrender to the certain explosion, letting my head fall back, my eyes close. His teeth sink into my bottom lip. Starbursts flare behind my eyelids.
I’ve been with Christopher a million times in my imagination. If I had a dollar for every time he pressed his lean body over mine… I’d be rich with it, swimming in money.
The times with Sutton should have been the real thing.
They should have been reality, but this, this feels brand-new.
He doesn’t kiss me; that would be too easy for a man like this. He’s made of sharp edges, and he uses them to leave a mark. He bites at my mouth like someone long starved, made violent with it. Strong fingers grasp my hair. The groan he makes sinks into me—a barbed-wire sound. I’m pinned from all sides by him, panting in his hold, whimpering so he knows I don’t want him to let go.