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“Ha, fine. Daddy’s new junior associate at the office is thirty-eight, but he’s utterly delectable. He has those dark, brooding features, sorta like Justin Theroux. You know who I mean, Jennifer Aniston’s hubs.”
“Yeah, the dark and dangerous look. You do realize the dude is probably a psycho?”
“A hot psycho! Later, chickadee, and listen to me. He’ll be over there. Just don’t get that little heart into the mix. I don’t want to have to go on a killing spree. Orange is not my best color. Love you, babe,” she chatters, hanging up before I can get a word in. Dropping my phone on the sofa, I head into my studio and quickly change into my painting clothes. A low-cut, white tank top splattered with paint from years of use and small, cut-off shorts also multi-colored from different paints.
A loud banging on the door causes me to leap from the small wooden stool, dropping my palette paint-side onto the white cloth I placed down in case of an accident. Fuck.
I lean down to pick it up when another loud thud on the door has me jolting up. Someone’s trying to break in. My heart pounds against my chest, leaping into my throat when I hear a click. They’re trying to get into the apartment.
Thinking quick, I grab the paint thinner and race into the living room. I’m about to pull the door open when a voice comes from the other side.
“Open the fucking door, love.” His rough, deep growl vibrates through the wood and through me too. Shit!
I cast a quick glance at my clothes, then in the mirror in the hallway. I’m a mess. A fucking colorful mess. But if this is what he wants, he’ll have to live with it. I pull open the door, and there, looking disheveled in another one of those expensive-ass suits, is the man who’s been on my mind all day.
James Darden.
“What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t respond, instead pushing through the door, knocking the bottle of paint thinner all over my shirt. His gaze is wild, panicked. It roves over me, from my messy black-and-red locks to my bare feet I notice have tiny pinpricks of yellow paint on them.
Immediately, Hank is around his ankles, twirling against the fabric of his suit. But this time, he doesn’t even notice my cat. No, this time his eyes are pinned on me.
“James,” I utter his name, hoping to break this dark spell that seems to surround him.
“I can’t do this, Cerys.” His pained words stab me right in the chest, but before I can respond, he continues. “I’m so bad for you, in so many fucking ways, but I can’t walk away. I can’t not have you in my bed, in my arms. I need you to understand I’m going to fucking break you until there’s nothing left of you. I’m going to take, take, and take, until you’re nothing but shattered pieces. It’s who I am. What I do. I revel in your brokenness.”
His words fall silent, and there, in his dark eyes, are glistening drops of emotion. Although he doesn’t allow them to fall. He holds them close, like he does with me. His one hand on my hip, the other on my face.
His calloused thumb strokes over my mouth, “You’re so beautiful with all your color and I’m so fucking dead within my darkness.”
“Take my color,” I breathe on his lips, watching as he inhales me. My paint-drenched clothes, my dirty hair, and my breath I know is pure coffee. All these things I would normally want to hide from someone, from him especially, he takes it in as if I’m a drug.
“What if I take everything? What if I drag you into my darkness? I’m so fucked up, love. There’s so much filth and darkness inside me I don’t know what sunshine is. At least, I didn’t know until I met you,” he tells me earnestly. This is my warning. Run. Go, my mind tells me, but I don’t. I stand rooted to the spot.
“Then take it. I want you to take what you need from me.” I nod, smiling up at him, giving him what he wants. I lean up on my tip toes and plant a chaste kiss on his lips. I expect him to devour me, to ravage me, but he doesn’t. This time, he slowly savors the kiss, his tongue dips into my mouth, licking against mine in a tangle of desire.
“I’m scared of breaking you.”
“I’m already broken,” I confess.
He doesn’t touch me anywhere by my face and the gentle grip he has on my hip. Holding me like a glass ornament that could break at any moment. I feel it in the kiss. I feel every emotion he’s tried to tell me. This morning, when he had me bent over the sofa, it wasn’t a fuck. No, he was trying to tell me what he’s saying now. That even though we’ve known each other for less than forty-eight hours, this is real.
