“1969 Pontiac Trans Am. I usually keep him in my parents’ garage for the winter, but I missed him.”
I laugh when it dawns on me that he’s talking about the car the way I wish he’d talk about me. For the first time, I wish my name were Frank. “It’s nice.”
“Damn right it is.”
The car purrs loudly as we make our way down deserted city streets. The farther we drive, the more curious I become about where he’s taking me. I know he won’t tell me, but I trust him.
A couple minutes later, the car comes to a stop in front of a row of old warehouse buildings. It’s dark and quiet, a little scary actually. “Is this it?” I ask, running my palms over my blue jeans.
“Maybe,” he replies before climbing out of the car. I watch him round the front then he’s at my door. Without question, I stand up next to him, letting him pull me against his strong, warm body. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He guides us through the darkness, not once letting go of me. This isn’t a neighborhood I’d go to alone, even during the day. There’s one streetlight about a block away and not a house in sight. A creaking sound repeats in the distance, like an old wrought iron gate opening and closing. Definitely creepy.
Blake lets go of me just long enough to unlock an old metal door to one of the buildings. He looks back at me before opening it. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.”
My mouth gapes. Under the faint streetlight, I see vulnerability. A man who always seems to know exactly what he wants doesn’t look so sure.
“Why not?” I finally ask, not even sure where we are exactly.
He shrugs, tucking his hands deep in his pockets. “It’s the diary of a mad man.”
It’s hard to know what to say to that so I say exactly what I think. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He reaches up, caressing my cheek with the back of his fingers. The night sounds are the only thing I hear. He the only thing I see. Then his fingers fall away . . . the spell between us broken as he pushes open the door.
I’m not sure what to expect as I step inside, but as soon as he flicks the lights on, the air leaves my body. There are paintings everywhere. Large. Small. Hanging. Resting against every corner and on easels. Some covered, some exposed. Every color imaginable is displayed within them.
“These are amazing.” I’m awestruck as I circle the expansive room. I got a small peek at his work once, but nothing like this . . . this is the Museum of Blake in full display. I pay more attention than I normally would, concentrating on every detail in hopes of drawing a piece of him from it. Abstract art is my favorite, but I don’t like it on him.
I want to understand him.
To know him, not just every ridge of his body.
He’s my personal Loch Ness. I know he’s here. Sometimes I see him, and then I don’t. When I do, only parts of him are exposed. He’ll never let me see all of him at once.
Glancing over my shoulder, I notice him staring at me from just inside the doorway. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the confident man I’ve come to appreciate is a nervous mess. His hand continuously combs through his hair—like what he looks like matters or something.
“How long have you been painting?”
He looks sheepish, as though what he creates here is nothing. “Since high school. My parents wanted me to take physics and calculus. I picked art instead.”
“I’d say your rebellion worked to your advantage.”
He grins. “I’m close to ending the argument. If Mallory would stop being so damn successful at everything she does, it would be a lot easier.” Since I’m an only child, I can’t even imagine.
I continue my walk around the gallery. Most of the pieces are colorful arrangements—swirls, lines, geometric shapes—painted to look like people, trees. He’s brilliant; I’ll give him that.
At the opposite end of the room from where we came in is a little nook. The one painting within it is different than the rest. It’s as real as a portrait. A beautiful woman with dark, cascading hair, dark brown eyes with a speck of green, and porcelain skin. She’s about my age, or she’s painted to look that way. The way she’s portrayed, like she’s lying sideways in the bed with her arm twisted above her head, gives the impression that’s she’s staring at whoever is in the room. It’s creative and terrifying at the same time.
Blake stands next to me, tugging my fingers between his to lead me in another direction. This time, I don’t let him. “Did you do this?” I ask, still in awe.
He ignores me, changing his game plan so he’s standing right in front of me, successfully blocking my view. He cups my face in his cold hands and presses his lips to mine. With that one move, he pulls me away from everything but him. He does that a lot—changes my frame of thinking.
“Come,” he says, “There’s a reason I brought you here.”
“Can I ask about the painting?”
“No.” He doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls me along into another room. In the back of my mind, I know he painted that portrait. I also know that she must have meant something . . . something more.
“Close your eyes.” The front of his body is pressed to my back as he walks us forward. He fits perfectly against me . . . every curve, every hollow. Just being like this is enough.
I hear a door creak and the flicker of a switch. On instinct, I open my eyes to get a look. This room is much smaller than the first. It shows like a blank canvas—bare white walls, a drop cloth of the same color covering the floor. It’s a room without clear purpose. “What’s this for?”
When silence is the only response, I look back over my shoulder. Blake stands like the statue of a god, brushing his thumb over his lower lip. He looks down, then up again, one side of his mouth pulling up along the way.
“What?” I smile back at him, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe I’m just looking at him differently. The guy who always has something to say has nothing.
He lifts a finger to my mouth, using it to draw my lower lip down. He doesn’t stop there, trailing his knuckle down my throat, then between the swell of my breasts. My eyes hold his like my life depends on it. “Do you trust me?” he finally whispers.
I nod, because I do. He might be the last person in this city I should attach myself to, but it’s too late. He has me even if I don’t have him.
“Take off your clothes.” His voice is low and breathes of bottled up sexual desire. There’s absolutely nothing he couldn’t convince me to do right now.
My sweatshirt goes first, leaving me standing in front of him in nothing but a black lace bra and blue jeans. He swallows visibly as I slowly reach behind my back to unfasten the clasp. This is fun—teasing and tormenting him, daring him not to touch.
He watches me as I slowly slide both straps off my shoulders. His fingers ache . . . I can tell because he keeps combing them through his hair, over and over until it has that sexy, mussed up appearance. Until it looks exactly like it does each time we’re done having sex.
My bra falls to my feet, and then I slip my fingers into the band of my jeans, working the buttons.
“You’re going to make me crazy.” He groans, stepping into my personal space. He traces a circle around my breasts, using the side of his thumb. My breath hitches, my knees weaken. My panties were already damp simply from him watching me like he does.
He whispers above my ear. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, but I will make you come.” Oh, shit. And the pool in my panties just got deeper. “Work those pants off, Lemon Drop. I’ll be right back.”
As he steps around me, he trails his fingertips across my bare stomach. The screaming voice in my head begs me to grasp on to him and never let go. His promise resonates in my mind, and I wonder if it’s one he’ll be able to keep. I want to know if it’s a form of magic he’s capable of.
Without him watching me, my jeans come off quickly, leaving me in nothing but lacy black boy shorts. When he’s with me, I can be like this and feel comfortable with who I am. His stare dresses me in confidence and sensuality. It gives me a courage I’ve never felt before.