Naked,sexualartwork.
Who knew, maybe my new husband would be into it, but by the way he ruined Matteo’s face at the Gioffres’, I highly doubted the paintings of him balls-deep in Elena would really tickle his fancy.
I stepped out of the car when we arrived, my tall heels clacking against the sidewalk as I led Milan toward the front door of my happy place. It wasn’t just a building; this was my whole heart and soul, and this was opening a door tome.
The shadowed street was empty, all for the light drizzle of rain. The equally battered stores sandwiching my studio were closed, their windows dark and locked tight. It was a discreet, quiet place, but that meant nobody cared to exist here, that I would be alone with my killer of a husband.
“After you,” Milan said in a neutral, bored tone as we stopped before the door.
He shoved on his random pair of black sunglasses despite it being pitch-black and us going inside. I’d noticed them before at the Bonafede’s yacht; I wondered if they were a coping strategy.
“How kind,” I mumbled, stepping in front of him to give the door a generous shove open with my shoulder.
The door had been broken for five years, or rather, the door had never worked, and I hadn’t known how to fix it.
Milan ran his fingers over the peeling doorframe on his way in. “This is incredibly unsafe.”
“People aren’t interested in breaking into my small, unsuspecting art studio, trust me.”
It was dark as I fumbled for the lights, but I could feel the weight of his scowl behind those glasses. “They might if they knew you were inside.”
Something bloomed in my chest, a stupid, wild burst of warmth. It spread to my stomach, only to die at the scrunch of his brows when the lights turned on and he came face-to-face with my life before him, before the marriage, before this was taken away.
Milan didn’t blink. He became some kind of lizard fixated on the close-up painting of Matteo thrusting into Elena on the couch. His gaze flickered between the painting and the chaise, clearly connecting that the couch was indeed the one covered in cum in the painting.
I swallowed roughly, doing more damage to my throat than soothing it. “So…do you love it?”
He gave me an incredulous look, one that said,obviously the fuck not.
“Okay, look, I know it’s crude and not what women are supposed to be painting, but I’ve done some sunsets and shit too.” I gestured to the pile of discarded canvases on the counter in the corner.
He recovered his expression as he strolled toward them, spreading them out with an attention that indicated he did care to some degree. He stared at them with the same judgment as an art critic, but soon reverted back to the ones of the sex.
“I think you are exceptionally talented,” he said, pointing to the most recent one of Elena and Matt. “It is like Matteo’s cock is truly in this room with me.”
The laughter that tumbled out of me was loud and bright, everything that Milan didn’t like, but when I looked back at him, wiping my eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve, he was looking at me in a way that was lighter than his usual expression. I wondered if, just for once, just for now, he might let go a little in the discomfort of something truly out of his comfort zone.
“Do you believe me now?”
He nodded once. “I believed you without the Matteo and Elena pornography.”
“You did?” I exhaled, my lungs remembering how to breathe. “So, why did we even come here?”
“I was…intrigued, and I am glad I came.” He picked up a palette of paint that had dried in blotchy patches of pastels and paired it with a well-used paintbrush. “You are the talent, but have you ever been the art?”
“Me?” I echoed instantly, my brows pulling together. “Fuck no—I mean…” I blushed, remembering his rule about the word. “I mean, absolutely thehellnot.”
Milan’s lips twitched as he set the items down and slowly turned toward the couch. He took up so much space in my tiny studio that all of my furniture started to feel dwarfed, but it was his fixation on every single corner and crevice that made my stomach flutter. My brows rose as he sat on the edge of the couch, looking up and down the windows and walls with a genuine curiosity that had me both confused and a little appreciative.
“You like sex,” he said suddenly.
I wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, but I was certain it was time for Milan Lucca to getout. A noise left my throat, like a gasp and a crackle at once. I cleared it as I said, “I think it’s time to go home.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“We’re not talking about this. Can we please go?”
“Do you believe me to be mocking you? I assure you, I take no pleasure in making you uncomfortable.”
