Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I don’t even try to sneak as I leave the office and walk to the other building. I’ve been working diligently on the painting of Mr. Konstantin, but I’m not sure Dimitri would like it if he ever saw it.
Every time I enter this room, I remember the kiss and relive it. I can taste his lips, his passion, and his hunger. I’m suddenly inside the most vivid painting ever, all the colors adding to the heat.
As I paint, I put my headphones in, playing classical music on my phone. I’m not some music aficionado or anything like that, but classical helps me focus without distracting me. I’m unsure how much time passes, but it feels like an hour, maybe more. My belly gurgles; I need to leave soon.
Taking off my headphones, I turn and then let out a gasp. Dimitri is leaning against the wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a casual smirk on his face, and a glint in his icy blue eyes.
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“Long enough to hear your stomach gurgling,” he says. “Forgot lunch?”
I thought you’d forgotten about me, I almost say, but I can’t let him see how much it means to me, seeing him again, being with him.
“I get carried away sometimes.”
He approaches the easel, that same soft smirk on his face. It’s weird thinking of Dimitri Sokolov as soft in any way. “I can see that.” He studies the painting of his father, the dark shading around the eyes, the sinister flair in the twist of his lips. “What inspired you to paint him like this?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
He turns to me, an intense stare pinning me in place, shaking his head slowly. “Yes, you do,” he says. “Look at this work. Look at the care you’ve taken. I’m no art expert, but it’s brilliant, Lia.”
His words shouldn’t be able to send soft tingles dancing through my body, but they do anyway. I try to remember what he said last time: I’m too good for him, too pure like he’s some terrible man or something. Does he already have a girlfriend, maybe?
“Thank you.”
“So?” he prompts.
I sigh, then tell him the truth, though I know it could upset him. What if he freaks, and it costs me my job? “I’m not sure,” I mutter. “It’s not a conscious thing… I don’t think through it step by step. I just follow…”
“Your muse?” he says, smirking.
“You’re making fun of me.”
He reaches out and takes both my hands. In my mind, a painting flairs to life of us standing like this under an altar. What the hell? I force that away but don’t let go of his hands. I squeeze them tighter, feeling his strength, his warmth. After three days, it ignites something hot and urgent in me.
“I’m not,” he says seriously. “I’m impressed. I’ve watched you walk over here every day with that determined, cute look on your face.”
I turn away from him, hating the blush that rises in my cheeks. “I’m not cute.”
When he touches my face, everything gets ten times warmer. There’s this throbbing in my core, deep down. “You are,” he says. “Even if you don’t want to be.”
Just like last time, I put my hand on his chest. But this time, I’m just about able to push him away before he can lean in for a kiss. It takes so much effort. My sex gets hot and demanding, just like it has every night, telling me to touch him, kiss him, be with him, let him make me his.
“You can’t just show up and kiss me anytime you want,” I say, but my hand is still on his chest. I can still feel the pounding of his heart and the heat of his hard muscles.
“What if I can tell you want it?” he says fiercely, wrapping his hand around mine, pushing it firmer against his chest like he doesn’t want any space between us.
“Just because I want it,” I tell him, “doesn’t make it okay. I think with my head, Dimitri, not with… anything else.”
Not with my sex. My lust. My wetness. My nipples send even more pleasure coursing through me every time they brush against my bra.
“Let’s grab a bite, then,” he says, dropping my hand and stepping back.
I ignore the disappointment—I still want the kiss, even if it’s probably a bad idea—and then shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He chuckles. “Are you kidding me, Lia? I was watching you paint for at least five minutes.”
Self-consciously, I move my hand over my belly. “Did I make that much noise?”
“Don’t do that,” he says, nodding at my hand. “You don’t need to be embarrassed with me.”
“Those sounds are hardly attractive.”
His smirks come easily for a man who recently attended his father’s funeral. Maybe that’s because of our special connection. “So you want me to find you attractive, do you?”