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Soon, he places his hands beside my face and gradually leans forward, claiming my mouth with his. Like a true artist, he kisses with his soul, pouring all emotions into the act. I can taste his wants and needs, his desire to play it cool, in the twining of his tongue around mine. His kiss is as sweet as it is hard, a claim as it is a gift, and against my hip I feel his erection harden.
I groan deeply into Danny’s mouth. His arms tense, his body stilling above mine, as though this one sound has done enough to throw him off course. I try to keep my triumphant smirk to myself, but Danny’s eyes narrow at me, and he brings his mouth down to mine, literally kissing the smirk off my face.
The room fills with the soft sounds of kissing and moaning, both light and fluttery and deep and male. Behind it is the background layer of jazz, a perpetual leap of notes and chords, as dissonant as it is unpredictable.
It feels as though we’re drowning in music and sex, like we truly are in some after-hours Parisian hide-out, drunk on art and lust and the nighttime chase for authenticity. Shadows play across Danny’s face, and I wonder how an artist would capture them — the different tones that would represent his many scattered freckles like paint spatters, to the sharp gleam in his nut-brown eyes.
“What?” He cocks a brow at me. “Is there something on my face?”
There’s a streak of charcoal-gray paint on his cheekbone that he must have made while painting me.
“Nothing.” I pause. It’s not often I open my heart like this but I end up voicing it anyway, “I think you’re beautiful.”
Danny stills above me. His brows lower and he tilts his head to the side like he hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” I repeat, the words as heavy on my tongue as the meaning behind them. “Your soul shines through your face, and it’s beautiful. I think you deserve the world, and I wish I could give you it.”
