Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I press my lips to Essence’s, speaking to her body in a way that requires no translation.
Our kiss leaves me crushing my hard dick against her abdomen. I tell myself not to.
She’s been hurt. And we have all the time in the world for me to dominate mi preciosa with my dick.
Not now, cabrón, I warn myself again.
Essence breaks our kiss, exhaling, then she murmurs, “You taste too good to be true. Now, you must go, Antonio.”
With a passionate growl, I retort, “I’d rather be your version of perfect than too good, Essence. It’s sort of like the notion of how a person grows to care for their lover; the world can see their flaws, but not the one who matters the most to them.”
I stopped myself from segueing the conversation to what made her so guarded. I will gather the name of the pendejo who broke her heart.
I press my mouth onto the crown of Essence’s head, and I know that I’ve kissed her somewhere no other has.
How many places on her body are still uncharted?
I’m eager to know. I start with, “Call me Manny.”
Tiny hands plant at the center of my chest, pressing back. “Ahem... Antonio, thank you for forgiving my momentary bitch fit. I’ve this knack for condemning all men because of someone else’s sins. Yes, it would be nice to find someone I love fiercely to the point they have no flaws. But not...” Her gaze links to mine. “Not an artist.”
Aye, preciosa. “I’m more than an artist.”
“No lie there.” Essence’s fingertip follows the cut of my jaw. “You’re charming. Your lips placed anywhere on my body makes my senses hum. And that scares me.”
I let her words sink in, then gather my thoughts.
This all sums up one vital truth: a gilipollas screwed it up for us.
“Not everyone’s out to get you. Preciosa, I only asked for proper light. Still, since we’ve veered back to the subject of intimacy, I’m delighted with the taste of your pussy on my mouth. I promise to be a gentleman. Let’s start over. Ms. Richmond invited everyone back in two weeks. That doesn’t leave much time.”
Although Essence couldn’t physically push me away, even if she wanted to, I’m floored by her words. “I can’t do... any of this. I can’t pose for you. Not now. Not ever.”
She retreats toward my easel, sweeping its legs together and holding it out to me.
I sputter, “You’re kicking me out?”
“I’m sorry!”
“You mean, sí!”
“Yes, Antonio!”
A second later, I stare at Essence’s lustrous hair bouncing over her ass as she stalks toward the door. I ask, “My things?”
“Take the easel now. I’ll send the rest to you later.”
“May I have a photo of you? Better yet, any videos of you. Candid ones.”
“What...” She spins around, opening the door.
“That way, when you’re comfortable, I’ll already have a couple of completed paintings.”
“A couple...”
“Of you!” I’m steered toward the door. Essence hugs herself. I grit my teeth.
It’s an injustice.
Watching a woman comfort herself while a more than capable man is standing right in her face.
I don’t know whether to assert myself or...
“Aye!”
An obsession digs its roots into my soul.
I have to paint her.
Regardless of our miscommunication, I must paint Essence.
So, like a fucking idiota, I reiterate, “Would you be so kind as to send me along with a single photo. Though, I still prefer a video, since one anticipates how to pose in a still shot...”
I cease speaking, sensing a change in Essence. Her hip rests inside of the inner door to her gallery, and I’m stuck in the middle. The section in the entryway between the inner and the outer doors. A little out and a little in.
She looks torn between apologizing for being loca and condemning me. I shove my long hair back. “Preciosa, I’m trying here. I’m not the man that’s running through your head.” And I sure as hell don’t want to be.
Chapter 6
Antonio
My eyes tightly shut. I focus on how Alexis cursed me by creating a saint out of Essence. My daughter chattered about an art gallery owner who had searched high and low to unearth her identity because of her anonymous murals around Los Angeles.
At first thought, I’d wondered who would put all their efforts into unearthing Alexis’ identity. Was it another man? A cabrón with ill intentions? Poor judgment went into effect the last time someone offered her a taste of success without the backing of my name. Alexis verbally painted a picture of a woman—a saint—that I had to see. And now I’m conflicted.
Essence Tavers was supposed to be brave and compassionate.
I stand before a woman who hates all I represent. The sun is at my back, and Essence will have pushed me out of her place in a few more steps.
With her hip leaning on the framing of the inner door, she murmurs, “I’ve been hurt before.”