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“Are you okay?” I whisper. He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through my body. And I join him, feeling secure wrapped in his strong, scarred arms.
“I might be, give me a second,” he murmurs, not moving but leaving all his weight on top of me. I like it, I’ve never felt anything like this before. I guess it’s kind of messed up wanting the guy who won you in a poker game. And I know nothing about him except he’s scary and kind and considerate at the same time.
“How old are you?” I ask, and he laughs and turns on his side, dragging the white covers over us both. “Is this all you want to know about me?” he asks, pushing his arm under his head while he keeps his gaze trained on me.
I turn on my side and stare at his face, the scar testimony to the fact the man is scary as hell. I didn’t forget he and his friends rule this town, judging by his house and the security I saw walking outside the property when I was looking out of the window. “I’m six years younger than you are.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard.
“Age doesn’t matter, baby,” he says, and keeps looking at me. “My friends tell me I was like a grandfather when they met me, so I think I’m aging in reverse.”
“So, how old are you now?” I tease.
“I think I’m in my forties,” he answers, his laugh that follows all boyish.
“Good to know.” I wink, wiping the sweat from his brows.
He peers at his knuckles, and I gasp, grabbing his busted-up hand, there is even blood on the sheets. “Does it sting?”
I hadn’t noticed how bad they looked before. The blood is all dried now, but it must hurt. “What did you do?”
“It’s okay, Storm.” He shrugs and glares at me, not saying anything, before the look in his eyes changes again.
“What do you paint?” he asks, kissing my temple, his lips lingering for a couple of seconds.
“Paint?” I ask, letting go of his hand.
“Yes, you said you paint,” he says, running his knuckles over his jaw as he watches me and gets comfortable as he tugs the sheet over our naked bodies.
“Mostly modern art. I started with buildings and commissions for architectural companies back in Canada.”
“How did you end up here?” he asks, getting more comfortable lying next to me and pulling me against him. The man likes to feel the connection, he probably doesn’t even know he does it, and that thought alone makes me smile.
He starts to play with my fingers while I continue telling him my story. “One of the curators from the museum I work for saw one of my drawings when she was searching for a house in Vancouver and asked if I was interested in coming over to Seoul and teaching drawing as part of a program for underprivileged kids.”
He says the name of the museum and lines our hands up against each other. “How did you know?” I ask, looking at him as curiosity shines through my voice.
He smiles. “I paid for the program.”
I sit up on my elbows and he lets go of my hand. “You did what?”
“Yeah, me and my boys try to give back to the public for taking from the other better off half, so to speak.” He shrugs, pushing his arms behind his head.
“You’re like Robin Hood.” I laugh.
“Who is that again?” he asks, frowning, brushing my long hair behind my shoulder all possessively, and it gives me a secret thrill.
“He took from the rich to give to the poor.”
He laughs. “Something like that, the guy in England, you mean.”
“Yes, is that why the buy-in was so high to join the table?”
He nods. “We don’t take from those who can’t pay in the end.”
I swallow hard. “Like me, you mean?”
“Yes,” he says, but not in a malicious way.
