Page 123 of Beyond the Stroke

There’s a beat of silence between us. Me recovering from the embarrassment while Rory looks at me like I’m made of glass and could shatter at any moment.

“Okay, Flipper. You’re a greased eel now.” I pat the center of his chest as to not be near either nipple.

The brand manager appears beside us. “We’re ready for you.” She gives me a towel to wipe my hands on. “There’s a restroom in the hallway to wash up.”

As I follow the brand manager’s directions toward the restroom, I feel Rory’s gaze lingering on me. Like a touch between my shoulder blades. A sizzling heat I can’t ignore.

Inside the restroom, I close the door behind me and lean against the sink, my chest rising and falling too fast for what was technically just a massage.

Except it wasn’t just a massage.

Not when his skin was so warm under my palms.

Not when his body reacted to my touch like that.

Not when he looked at me like I was something he craved.

My hands still smell like the coconut-vanilla oil. I lift them to my face like a lunatic and breathe in, remembering the exact way his stomach quivered when I skimmed just under the waistband of his shorts. The way his nipple pebbled beneath my touch. The way he groaned, not in amusement, but with hunger.

And then the way he looked at me. Not like he was teasing. Not like he was waiting for me to pull away. But like he was holding himself back. For me.

The ache I’ve been ignoring sharpens low in my belly, and I press my thighs together as I grip the edge of the sink.

He likes my hands on him.

He wants more.

And god help me, I do, too.

Rory was right. He is a professional, breezing through the shoot with charm and ease. Even the poses where he needed to look serious, he had no trouble pulling off an intense stare that made my stomach flip.

He showered to get the oil off, then we headed to Chalmers Street for the art exhibit I want to see.

The gallery is housed in a historic building on the cobblestone street, its brick façade softened by the climbing ivy and adorned with wrought-iron accents. Large, arched windows allow passersby to catch a glimpse of the art inside. A black and gold sign hangs above the door, reading “Lowcountry Collective.”

It’s the type of gallery I’ve longed to see my art displayed in.

Inside, the gallery itself is sleek and minimalist. High ceilings with skylights flooding the room with natural light, while hardwood floors and white walls are a neutral canvas for the art on exhibit.

As we walk through the small gallery, seeing the art on display is a mixed feeling. I love looking at art. Studying it and seeing how other artists bring their visions to life, but the feeling that I’ll never get to this point has my stomach tying itself in anxious knots. My fingers itch for a pencil or a brush, even as that old whisper of doubt slides in…you’re not good enough.

Rory’s hand brushes mine as we walk, and I glance over to see him studying the piece in front of us with a thoughtful expression.

“What do you think this one is about?” he asks, tilting his head toward the large canvas layered with chaotic brush strokes of indigo and rust.

I blink at him. “You’re actually trying to interpret it?”

“Of course, I am.” His brow furrows. “I feel like it’s about tension. Like the colors are fighting but also sort of relying on each other to be noticed?”

My jaw drops slightly. “That’s—” I shake my head, stunned. “That’s actually really good.”

Rory shrugs like it’s no big deal, but a little smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ve been trying to see things the way you do. You light up when you talk about art. It makes me want to understand it.”

Something in my chest squeezes tight. I turn back to the painting, pretending to study it again so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes.

When he slips his hand into mine—casual, easy—I let him. Because even though I’m standing in a gallery full of art, none of it makes me feel as seen as the man beside me.

thirty-three

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