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His obvious perusal surprises me. I center myself, wary of my desire toward him, from the way my cheeks flush to the feeling of my skin heating up as it touches his.
I concentrate on my task while ignoring his glances. He looks young, but still too old for me. I’d guess he’s probably in his mid-twenties from the looks of him, showing the smallest smile lines when he laughs. Our faces remain mere inches apart as I paint his face, familiarizing myself with every divot and scar that mars his skin. Black paint contrasts against sharp cheekbones.
I trace the curve of his neck with the end of my paintbrush, eliciting the slightest shiver from him—one so subtle, I almost miss it. “Do you care if I paint your neck?”
His heavy-lidded eyes capture mine. “Do I get to kiss yours after?”
“I’m going to ignore you because you’re way too old for me.” I wish I could take the words back the instant they leave my mouth.
“Says who?”
“Says the fact that you look like you have a decent savings account and a stable job.”
His lit-up eyes hold me in a trance. “What an observant princess. What about me screams that I have a big bank account?”
“I rock Converse on a first-year uni student’s budget while you wear Gucci sneakers and corrupt kids with a Louis Vuitton wallet.”
“Ah, how perceptive. Eighteen is definitely too young.” His eyes dart to the side.
“Yup. But lucky you, I’m not too young to blow your mind.” My brush taps on his face, hinting at my artwork.
He laughs, and for some reason, I like making him smile. I grab the mirror off the table and reveal how he looks.
“Holy shit. You seriously have some talent with a brush. I look like someone’s worst nightmare.”
That’s because you are.
He shoots me a smile that makes me feel all sorts of things, both good and bad. I find it difficult to ignore the tug of desire I have toward him despite our age difference.
I grin at the skull face painting I did. Spinal cord bones trail down his neck, intermingled with black and white faux muscle tissue, disappearing beneath his black T-shirt. Blue eyes starkly contrast against the black paint. His smile dims, revealing a row of teeth I created. The design is hauntingly beautiful, just like him, a man too old and too wicked for someone like me.
“Whoa. Liam, I didn’t even notice you with that sick makeup. Sophie’s talented, eh?” Evan, the man who asked me to do this ridiculous task in the first place, interrupts my moment with Liam.
Liam lifts out of the chair. His long legs make the task ridiculously easy, drawing my attention toward his body. His firm sculpted-to-perfection body.
Evan nudges Liam in the ribs. “Sophie, you did an awesome job. It matches how dead Liam’s going to be after he doesn’t land on the podium this Sunday.”
“That’s what you always say, except I kick your ass almost every time.” Liam’s voice has a hint of edge to it.
Dots connect because F1 has only one driver named Liam.
Liam freaking Zander. Germany’s most revered and F1’s up-and-coming star, wreaking havoc with Noah Slade and Jax Kingston since their young karting days. The racer who’s on track to win his first World Championship this year. The same man who’s almost seven years older than me.
Fuck me. I’ve been flirting with an F1 driver. My dad would kill me if he found out, never letting me off Bandini’s property.
Evan takes a photo of Liam’s face. “Seriously, this makeup is kick-ass. Great work. My daughter has loved Sophie ever since she saw her in the Bandini pit area. James Mitchell keeps this one hidden away, but I borrowed her talents for the day.” Evan looks over at me. “Don’t forget to remind me to pay you for your time.”
I brush him off, focusing on regulating my breathing instead of anything Evan says to Liam. Evan tells us a rushed goodbye after claiming he needs to check on the kids.
“So, you’re a racer.” My teeth grind together, my annoyance poorly hidden by the clenching and unclenching of my hands. I hate how much I like his eyes raking over me. He looks like he wants to memorize the way my stupid costume presses against my body, committing the whole day to memory. And worse, I love the way his attention makes me feel.
“Mm, that’s what they tell me. And you’re Sophie, a princess?”
My name rolls off his tongue like he wants to test it out, his German accent drawing out the e sound.
I stand taller. “You can say that. Except in this story, I don’t need rescuing.”
“No, you don’t. Maybe you’re the one who does the saving.” His lips twitch.
His charm covers up the weird sense of foreboding his words give. They sit heavy on my chest, along with curiosity to ask what he means.
He brushes his knuckles across my cheek, the rough texture setting off every nerve ending. A spark the equivalent of a blown-out fuse box. “But you’re too young and naïve. And it’s not the right moment. Maybe if we meet again under different circumstances, at another time.”
Liam laughs to himself as his eyes roam down my body, not giving me time to respond, let alone process his words. “You’re no princess. You’re a motherfucking queen. Don’t let anyone forget it, not even yourself. People think the king matters, but the queen brings down all the other pieces. Good luck in uni and chug a beer in my honor.”
He reads books and uses chess references. Liam Zander is a closet nerd, and knowing this secret pulls a smile from me.
He tugs his hand away and stares at his knuckles. Confusion crosses his face before he covers it up and flashes me a smirk, the wicked paint covering up his perfect image. He winks at me over his shoulder as he walks away, leaving the party and me behind.
Damn. I think I just got mindfucked.
