Page 14 of Filthy Hot Prince

Valeria broke the silence first. “About the paintings. Does the inspiration really come from suffering and…” She waved her hand, her face turning scarlet.

I smirked, leaning on the table. “Suffering and?”

“You know… the answer that you gave to the interviewer.”

“I don’t remember, Valeria. Sufferingand?” I asked again, innocence lacing my voice while my eyes dared her to say the word she was embarrassed to.

Fucking.

“I know you are teasing me,” she grumbled and whispered quickly, “Fucking. Suffering and fucking.”

I grinned, very pleased with her reply. “Not really. I like to make my agent angry and I was bored at the art show, especially with the interview. I said it to piss them off.”

Valeria tilted her head, her red hair sliding over her shoulder and revealing her slender, pale neck. I could see the pulse beating in her neck. Before my filthy thoughts could fill my mind, I looked away.

“I thought every art came from a little of suffering… and intimacy.” She chose her words carefully.

I hummed, taking a sip of wine. “It could, but it also means having fun. It is a lengthy process and despite the efforts, whatever that may be in other’s case, most of the artists are happy when they are creating what they want to make.”

I didn’t tell her that I was an exception. I hadn’t made anything while I was having ‘fun’, I only painted after having sex, heady with alcohol or waking up from nightmares, suffering with the demons of my past.

She bit her lip, my hazel eyes watching the fullness of her bottom lip before she replied. “I understand, Khalid. Like the process of turning a scent into a bottle of glass.”

I took a sharp breath when Valeria gave me a bright smile. If she kept smiling at me like that, I was sure I would fall for her. I placed my hand over my chest, rubbing the material of the shirt to calm my pounding heart underneath.

Wait, fall for her? Where did that come from?

I couldn’t fall for her, I won’t.

But I knew, at that moment, I was lying to myself.

Valeria

I clutched his hand when he helped me down the stairs after we had our dessert. I had asked him which painting was the hardest to paint. Walking out of the restaurant together, I breathed in the fresh air of night.

“Every painting was hardest to do,” he hummed, thinking about his answer. His deep voice making me shiver. “It would be my next painting.”

Why did I sense a hint of smugness in his voice?

“Will you tell me what it’s about?” I asked sweetly, my mind full of curiosity. I couldn’t wait for him to finish the painting and hear Benjamin explain it. Or better yet, hear Khalid explain it to me.

Khalid crooned, his warm breath brushing the shell of my ear. “You would have to try harder than that, Valeria.”

I let out a small laugh and squeezed his hand when he announced his driver was waiting for us. I settled in the warm leather seat of the car and felt Khalid’s presence beside me, closing the door after laying my cane on the side. I told my address to the driver, the car turning on with a smooth purr, and started moving.

“What aboutLimerence? Was it hard to paint?” It was among his best paintings, after all.

There was a moment of silence before Khalid answered. “No. I finished sketching it in a day and painted it within next two days.”

I could sense the hint of hardness in his voice, which was absent when he talked to me before. My question must have evoked some kind of bad memory to him while he paintedLimerence.

Without hesitation, I placed my palm on his hand. Or rather, I wanted to place my palm on his hand to console him but landed on his muscular thigh. Without embarrassing myself further, I said, “I apologize if my question was rude. I was getting too curious.”

Oh, I am curious, alright.

I scolded myself for being so rude while feeling the hot, strong skin underneath the touch of my hand clad in silk pants. I froze when his thigh muscle tensed, and before I could take my hand away, he covered my palm with his.

“You weren’t rude.” He asked, “How do you feel—”

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