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But.
For as much desire is in the air around her, as much sweet, innocent desire, she’s also skittish. The way she flinched at the beach told me more than she wanted. My heartbeat slows. It beats harder to compensate. Like a tolling bell. My mind hurries through all the available options, all the ways I could touch her. No and no and no.
I put my hand over hers instead.
A short breath escapes her at the contact. Her fist closes tighter around the seam of my jacket. A moment of tension. The air is strung on a wire. It could snap any second. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. The wait is killing me, but I do wait, I do fucking wait. I am extraordinarily practiced at waiting.
Daphne’s hand relaxes under mine. I feel the rest of her body go with it, leaning in a fraction of a degree. I brush my fingers over the back of her hand, her wrist, to the sleeve of her dress. Over her slim forearm, her elbow. Deliberate. I have never been so deliberate in my life. Her upper arm. Her shoulder. She holds herself still but she can’t hide the trembling any more than a bird could stay in flight without beating its wings. I toy with dark curls on her navy dress, push them carefully out of the way, and then I touch her skin. My hand around the side of her neck, my thumb on her jawline.
“Oh,” Daphne says, and the heat in her voice is permission to tip her head back—not far, just enough—and kiss her.
It’s like being hit with an ocean swell. The inverse of a swell. She’s not force and salt. She’s sweetness. Warmth. But then—yes. A dark mystery, too. Depths. She opens her mouth like she’s been starving for me. Her pulse goes wild under my palm. An invisible timer ticks down. Too much longer and I’ll be lost in her, in the delicate lips and tongue and teeth. In the exploration of her, which could go on and on and on. If I had more time. If I could let go.
Can’t—can’t do that.
Not now. Not with her. The tip of her tongue darts out to meet mine and she tastes me back.
Enough. Enough. Enough.
I push us away from the wall with one hand and bring her along with the other. Back to the light. Back to her painting. The timer runs out. It hits zero and the only way I can bring myself to stop is to turn her around.
But I can’t let go.
I keep her body against mine. Daphne can’t resist this. She’s gone weak in the knees and she leans into me like I’m a structural piece in her life and not a stranger who lured her to the beach. No doubt she can feel how hard I am, but she doesn’t pull away. We could be a couple at an art gallery. If anyone walked by the window, that’s all they would see. Me, holding her close, one arm across her chest. She hooks both hands onto that arm like she’s not sure of her balance.
Focus. With my other hand I find one of her wrists and trace the same path to her elbow, to her arm, up to the side of her neck. She’s so afraid, and she wants this so much. She lets out a little sigh when I touch her again in the same way. Same pressure, same place on her neck. Daphne’s struggle for composure is so beautiful like this. With her face hidden, it’s all movement. All touch.
“Tell me, little painter. Why did you choose that perspective?”
She swallows. I keep the pressure on her neck light and even, hardly moving. “Because.” A long, slow breath. “Because I saw a man surfing. It was a new angle. I hadn’t painted it before.”
“What was your inspiration? Before you saw that man. Why paint the ocean?”
Back down her shoulder, down her arm. To her waist. She’s shorter than she appeared in those photos. Daphne leans into this touch, too.
“I can’t stop,” she admits. It sounds like something she hasn’t told anyone else. A secret she’s been struggling to keep, perhaps. “At first it was some commentary about how the water hides things, and how it’s never the same twice. How it’s the last frontier and everything. Now it’s more than that. It’s in my head.” Her fingers press against my arm like she’s remembering the keys of a piano, and I want more of her. Want it so much that I take the risk of sliding my hand up and up until I meet the curve of her breast under her dress. “It’s—” Daphne shivers. “It’s all that ends up—”
“All that ends up where?”
“All that ends up on the canvas,” she whispers. Jesus, it’s adorable. “It’s a problem,” she says in a clearer voice, “because people won’t be interested in the same subject forever.”
“I’ll buy every piece.” I mean it. I don’t want any of them in anyone else’s home. “I’d buy the artist.”
“What?”
“Come back to my house with me. I’ll show you my art collection. I’ll make it worth the trip.” I want her so much it hurts, and it’s a long shot, I know it is. But there’s a slim chance she could agree, and anyway, money is all I have to offer. It’s the only way to have good things in the world. It’s the only way to keep them safe. “I’d pay what you’re worth.”
Daphne jerks out of my hands and rounds on me, blinking like she’s woken from a deep sleep and found herself in a nightmare. She puts her hand to the collar of her dress and grips it tight. Her hand is shaking. She’s the one who’s lost control now. Too late to get it back. Her face is shadowed again, her body backlit by the gallery lights. Her dress is a similar shade to the deep sea behind her.
“No.” One step back, and then another. “I’m not selling you any more paintings. And I think you should leave.”
She’s already in flight. Daphne sweeps the beaded curtain aside, the sound in disarray, and they slap against the doorframe. I force myself not to go after her. I concentrate on the pools of gallery light and shadow. Corners of canvas and knots in the wood floor. A door slams.
And Daphne forgets.
She forgets that she’s supposed to be living nearby, not upstairs, and her footfalls are heavy on the stairs at the side of the gallery.
They pause halfway up.
