Page 77 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Would you like some water?” he murmurs, stroking damp pieces of hair out of my face. I manage a nod, parched and tired. He slips out of me, and I wince. He notices. “I’ll clean you off when I get back. Don’t move.”
“Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I mutter back, closing my eyes. I feel his lips against my forehead, and then he leaves. My heart, unable to slow down, continues to beat rapidly. I place a hand over my chest and force a deep, steadying breath. A few seconds pass, and I feel a warm hand cupping my cheek, tilting my head to the side. My eyelids flutter open. “That was fas?—”
Quinton's cloudy gaze flits across my sedated features. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you, darling.”
My pulse quickens again, his touch burning a markon my skin. A touch I shouldn’t be feeling. Not physically. Definitely not emotionally.
“If he sees you doing this,” I breathe, “he might actually kill you.” My gaze sweeps across his bruised face. “You should go.”
His thumb caresses my hairline, the pressure so fucking tender, almost painfully intimate as he leans over, whispering in my ear. “I’ll take my chances, darling. What’s life without a little death?”
I shiver, banishing this foreign feeling that's gnawing at my insides. “Go. You need to go.”
And he does.
For the next three minutes after his departure, I’m left craving his company.
AndDamon’s.
Both of them.
Together.
Like thunder and lightning.
A perfect storm.
THE BLACK KNIGHT
DAMON
The canvas stares at me,blank and intimidating. I rub my weary eyes, sighing before I dip my brush and swirl the dark hue of green paint. I hesitate for a second before reaching out and marking the bare fabric.
My strokes are slow and methodical, each one building upon the last until something sensical emerges. Ithasto make sense. There must be an interpretation. A meaning. I brush on another layer of paint—and another, and another—and yet nothing makes sense.
I glance at the dozens of half-finished paintings leaning against the wall and back to the one in front of me. Frustration grips me. They look the same. Exactly identical. A jumbled mess of nothingness. The onlydifference is the colors. The blacks, grays, and reds on my palette are untouched tonight. But does that matter? Does that make any difference at all? It feels the same. It feels hollow and empty and so fucking meaningless.
I slam the paintbrush down on the easel stand. God, this is ridiculous. Why am I even trying? For what purpose? It’s useless. It’s?—
My body jerk as my phone rings. I glance over at the screen and a jolt of adrenaline shoots down my spine.Emery. Clearing my throat, I answer the call. It’s late. She should be asleep.
“Hello?”
“You’re awake,” Emery hums softly. “I…” She swallows, tone surprisingly timid. “I can’t sleep.”
My shoulders relax at the sound of her voice, at the subtlety of her vulnerability. She’s nocturnal. Hardly sleeps. I can see her fatigue most days in the office. It’s been weeks. But this is the first time that she’s called me. This means something. There’s meaning.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper, bracing for impact. “I’ll make tea.”
“Roof,” she counters, unwilling to step into my home. “Let’s meet on the roof.”
My gaze floats to the bullets of raindrops pattering against the window. “Have you looked outside, Emery? We can’t.”
She pauses. “Oh.”
“Come upstairs,” I say again, wincing as I add, “Please.”
I can hear her thinking. I can hear her weighing thepros and cons. It might seem like a simple request.Join me while we both fight sleep.But it’s more than that. These walls aren’t neutral grounds. They’re foreign, unfamiliar, and represent intimacy. And although my hands have explored every bit of her body, although my tongue has tasted every inch of her skin, although I have felt her in ways that bind us for life, we have yet to be intimate. Truly intimate. The kind of connection that reaches into the deepest parts of hearts and overpowers the limits of our minds.
