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Alden’s broad, bare chest slowly rises and falls as he breathes. My hands ache to touch his body. My fingers ache to trace over the complex lines of his tattoos. My lips yearn to press against his. I want him inside me again, stretching me and filling me. Marking me. I know if I woke him right now, he would be hard and thick for me within seconds.
But I also need to peesodamn bad.
Carefully, I slide out of his grasp, throw on my clothes, and tiptoe down the hallway to the bathroom. A minute later, with great relief, my bladder no longer feels like a balloon about to burst. I’m heading back to the bed to snuggle up with Alden again when a door left ajar catches my eye. There’s a light on in the room, and the familiar smell of paint wafts out.
Which is strange, since Alden’s studio is up in the loft.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Nudging the door open further, I pad down the stairs.
It’s a basement. It’s a plain, functional space, lined with deep slots for storing canvases. They’re everywhere—Alden is prolific. The pieces of his that have come through the gallery are just a small portion of his output, it seems.
I wonder if these are paintings he doesn’t want to sell, or doesn’t think are his best work. I’m curious to see why they’re stored down here instead of at the gallery.
I peer into the slots, trying to get a glimpse of some of the paintings. The first few large canvases I see appear to be abstractions, thick with paint and rich with autumnal colors. They’re big, too, seven feet wide in one direction.
Similar to the ones I’m here to pick up.
I move one of the canvases carefully. On the back, near the corner of the canvas, the title of the work is handwritten in pencil:Mornings in Umber, 1 of 9.
That’s the series Kristina has sent me here for. All nine of them are here, stacked up in storage. It’s obvious they’ve been ready to go for days, if not weeks. They’re not drying at all.
“Hey,” Alden says behind me. He descends the stairs slowly, his brows furrowed. “You want coffee?”
I can tell from his expression he knows what I’ve found. I turn to fully face him and place a hand on my hip. “These are the paintings I’m supposed to take to the city, Alden.”
He nods. “They are.”
“I can tell they’ve been dry for some time.”
He sighs, then scrubs a heavy hand down his face. “I know. I told you they weren’t ready because I couldn’t stand the thought of you leaving so soon.”
“In other words, you lied.”
“It’s not like it was about something important.”
“It doesn’t matter how small of a lie it was. You still lied.” I shake my head, frustrated that we’re having this argument at all. Everything was so good until now. “It’s about trust.”
“You saying you don’t trust me now?” There’s genuine regret in his voice and eyes.
“No. I don’t give up on people that easily.” I drop my hand from my hip. “You could have just asked me to stay longer, you know.”
“I could’ve. But I didn’t.” He takes another few steps toward me, closing the space between us. When he reaches out and smooths his hand over my cheek, my heart thrums. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”
I twist my lips as I look up at him. “That simple, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Sasha. I’ll keep saying it over and over until you believe me.”
“Just don’t lie to me again.”
“Never.”
Thatneverseems to echo in the air, a promise that whatever this is between us is going to last. The logical part of me can’t figure out how that’s going to work, but right now, I don’t want to listen to her.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” Alden murmurs, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Never lying. Always doing what you’re told.”
Jesus Christ. I’m already wet.
“Is there something you want me to do?” I ask, defiance in my voice.
