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“I could have imagined it.” His swallow is loud above me. “What if I’m imagining you?”
“You’re not.” I press my lips to his jawline. “You’re not. I’m right here.”
“Do not leave.”
“I won’t.”
I wrap my arms around Smith’s neck, he pulls me closer and finally seems to relax, his muscles losing their rigidness one by one. His heat steals into me and I’m finally allowed to continue drifting on my cloud, high above the earth. My sleep is deep and satisfied. So complete that when I wake up, I have no idea if hours or days have passed. All I know is that Smith is no longer lying beside me on the mattress.
Sitting up, I look around the room, noticing the makeshift shower in the corner for the first time, hidden behind a plastic curtain. The organized rack of cooking utensils and a tea kettle. An old stereo beside a stack of even more ancient CDs.
I find a plain black T-shirt folded beside me, pick it up and hold it my nose, finding it smells like him. Dark and raw with a hint of…apple? My core constricts in response and I have to clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip to stop the moan.
What am I going to do about this man?
My career is on the outside. I’m a principal dancer. The lead in the production.
My whole life is out there.
As far as I can tell, Smith dwells here and doesn’t come out—ever. Why else would Baker need to bring him groceries?
I peel off my tattered leotard and tutu, pulling the soft, black shirt down over my head, staring into the distance while my mind begins replaying images from the last year. Since I joined the prestigious, new dance company. It was supposed to be a dream come true, wasn’t it? Lately it has been more like a nightmare. I’m treated like a show pony, everyone whispers behind my back, my coach puts me through grueling training. There is no joy in ballet anymore.
It has been sucked out like the marrow from a bone.
Being with Smith last night is the high I always chased on my pointe shoes.
I love dancing. I always will. It’s my life. But I don’t know how I’ll lace up my slippers again, knowing the high isn’t attainable on my toes. Only with this man. This man who chokes me and says loving words to me at the same time. Who looks at me like I’m an angel appearing to him in a beam of light, even as he bucks into me so brutally.
When I realize how hard I’m breathing, I shake my head, force myself to calm down. As soon as I stop my pulse from flying a hundred miles an hour, I stand up and move toward the open door on the other side of the room. There is more pitch black on the other side, but when I cross the threshold, a light beckons me from deep within the warehouse space. Smith’s large silhouette is outlined to the right. I walk toward him, wincing when a small chain hits me in the forehead. Looking up, I see it’s connected to a lightbulb and pull.
The warehouse brightens slightly—
And all I can do is marvel at the masterpieces surrounding me.
Giant canvases covered in what appears to be broken glass. Darker pieces have been placed strategically among lighter ones to create landscapes. Mountains, the ocean, a grove of trees. It’s artwork made from smashed bottles and sea glass and broken taillights.
It’s incredible.
“Smith,” I whisper. Then louder, “What…is this?”
His head turns slowly, brow knit, and I’m hit with blistering intensity. So much that it knocks the breath out of me. “Come here.”
I do as he asks. Literally, my feet are moving before I know it, anticipation beating in every single one of my erogenous zones. As I walk closer, I study his hunched over frame, the rippling breadth of his shoulders that blocks the canvas in front of him. To his left is a table holding several broken bottles, chipped glass, a hammer. Glue.
Unable to refrain from touching him, I reach out a hand and settle it on his bare back. He hisses a breath and his muscles ripple in response. He’s such a work of art himself that it takes me a moment to look past him to the canvas he’s working on. When I do, it’s my turn to suck in a breath. He’s putting the finishing touches on what appears to be a tranquil lake beneath a blue sky, dotted with white clouds. The way he has used bits of broken glass to shape trees and reeds and mountains in the distance is extraordinary.
“Smith, this is incredible,” I say, looking around at the other finished canvases. A Victorian-looking home. A balloon floating in the countryside. A bike parked against the side of an ice cream shop. “These must take weeks. Months.”
“I have nothing but time,” he responds—and I feel him staring down at my legs. Obviously he isn’t satisfied with merely the view, because he winds the hem of the borrowed T-shirt around his fist and hauls me closer, inhaling at the notch of my throat. “Solitude is all I’ve ever wanted. Until now.”
I told him I wouldn’t leave.
That moment comes back to me in a flash, making my heart beat faster.
At present, I don’t want to go anywhere. There’s no way I can stay down here indefinitely, though. How will I dance? How will I survive without sunlight?
“I can practically hear your thoughts, Posy,” he says into my neck, his tone dark. “Do you need to take a seat on my cock right now to remind yourself why you want to stay?” He scrubs a palm down the front of his naked chest, stomach, ending with a grip on his bulge. “It’s ready when you are.”
