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She licks her sweet lips as I raise my head and meet her eyes, her pussy slurping away like a wet jewel. The nerves are shining through. A beautiful touch of vulnerability that has me hooked.
“Upstairs. First door on the right,” she says.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ALICE
It’s been years since I’ve let anyone beyond my living room. Art friends come and go, travelling all over the globe, and I hang out with them in London, sure. I attend workshops, and talk about techniques and chill out over coffee with people, but my art studio is my sanctuary. My private haven, where the magic in my soul roams free. Soul Girl truly lives here. Alone. But now I’ve burst out of my shell around Bryce and Jack, the door to my sanctuary is already opening up to them.
The butterflies in my stomach are nothing short of a whirlwind.
I don’t say a word as I guide the pair of them up the stairs. My heart is pounding all the way along the landing, but Jack doesn’t make any jester comments to lighten the mood. In fact, he does the opposite.
His presence is so strong in silence. So red. Alive as he waits for me to open the door.
I can’t bring myself to meet Bryce’s eyes. His presence is a whole other colour altogether. So… deep. Purple.
It’s like spreading the cards of my heart in front of a jury when I step inside and switch the lights on.
My latest canvas is up on the easel in the centre of the room, but it hasn’t been singing to me of late. I haven’t tuned in to its frequency yet. We’re two alien forces, speaking different languages, still trying to scope each other out through the paintbrush. She’s a pale green, mixed with seagrass, and I’m… I don’t know what I am anymore.
A brighter array of colours are battling to burst their way free since Jack and Bryce crashed into my world at the charity event.
“Beautiful,” Jack says, as he looks at the easel.
He walks right on up and leans in to examine it. No foiling, just the beginnings of colour blending.
“This is your current one, I’m guessing?”
“Yes.”
There are plenty of canvases around the room at different stages of completion, but I’m a monogamous girl when it comes to art. I can only work on one single piece at a time,
“Nice. I like it,” he says, with more conviction than I have.
Bryce’s eyes are all over the room, checking out the open drawers full of paints and brushes. He heads to the far corner, where one of my recently finished pieces stands propped against the wall. I should have known it. It’s one of my signature abstracts, dark in deep, royal purple. The unconscious never lies.
“This one is absolutely stunning,” he says. He reaches out a hand, but stays shy of touching it.
“It’s ok, she doesn’t bite.” I laugh, but it echoes hollow around the room. “Take a closer look if you want to.”
Bryce looks as though I’ve just granted him a royal title.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
He picks up the canvas, and his eyes widen at the marbling around the edges. The twists of purple vines crashing through in a diagonal. Almost knotted in the centre.
“You should claim this one as the grand prize, Jack,” Bryce says. “It’s incredible. Beyond words.”
Jack flashes him a glance. “More your vibe than mine, I think.”
There is no slight in his tone, no derogatory putdowns or hints of judgement. Neither canvas has been foiled yet, so they are both vulnerable in their expression. Raw and unsophisticated. But as I stand there with two men examining them, I don’t feel the need to hide them away or make excuses.
To apologise.
To apologise for what?
