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I told him once that I didn’t date because I was afraid of having my heart broken. I was afraid that Leo would defend that broken heart with threats or actual violence. I was afraid it would upset the balance of my life.
But I was afraid of something else, too.
Emerson’s an obsessive collector, but I’m an obsessive painter. The headaches are proof of that.
I swallow new tears threatening to rise and go to him. Emerson doesn’t stop me from reaching for the hem of his shirt. It’s plain. Long-sleeved. Expensive. It doesn’t smell like him. I bet it’s his brother’s. Once I’ve pushed it up to his shoulders, he takes it off the rest of the way.
With my hand on his chest, I can feel how hard his heart beats. It feels dangerously fast. I was right. This isn’t over. I press a kiss to that spot and leave him there.
He’s still waiting when I come back with water in a glass and a clean paintbrush. His eyes follow me, but he says nothing. Not when I put the cup and brush on the stool. Not when I tug his pants down. Not when he’s as naked as I am.
The sight of him burns me up. I hate to see him in so much pain, but I love to see him. His body’s been carved by the ocean and a world he struggles against. He’s breathtaking.
And he wants me.
All his muscles are making a combined effort to keep him in check. Still hard from where our bodies pressed together. Harder, I think. The skin at his tip looks tight. And his eyes—
His eyes are like being swallowed whole by sharp and intoxicating and irresistible.
I get the cup and the brush.
“What are you going to paint?” Emerson’s question is soft, but his eyes flicker and blank, coming back into focus after a heartbeat.
“You’ll see.”
It’s not like I can hurt him. Not really. Not physically. Not like I’m planning to. But he goes absolutely still as I approach. In the low studio light, his breathing is barely visible.
His chest becomes a canvas. It’s like one of those hidden pictures. One moment, all I can see is skin. The next moment, I can see the finished piece. It’ll never actually see the light of day. We don’t have the right kind of paint for that. When I’m done, it’ll only exist in Emerson’s body.
There’s just no other way to continue the conversation. I could say the words, but I need the art to scaffold them.
I stir the brush in the water, thinking.
And then, slowly, so he can see what I’m doing, I bring it toward his skin.
Emerson holds his breath. There’s a strange pressure in my ears as the bristles get closer and closer and finally make contact. I’m not this delicate about real canvas, but I don’t know how this will affect him.
I start small. Sketching the outline of the water. When the deep blue settles into my mind I add bolder strokes below. I expected this to feel more imaginary, but I can see it.
Maybe it’s the stress of being away from Emerson for so long. Or the pounding headache that’s only just now starting to let up. Or like he said—it’s a game, and it’s real.
His hands ball into fists at his sides. “What are you painting?”
“You don’t feel it?”
Emerson looks over my head, concentrating. I add more to the waves. I begin the sky. A dark sky, filled with starlight. Waves crashing together, the deep sea beneath.
“The ocean,” he says, as I’m adding the moon. “The sky?”
The moon needs a reflection. She and the ocean are always looking back at one another. “I’ll stop if it hurts.”
His jaw clenches then relaxes. “It doesn’t.”
He’s telling the truth. It’s still difficult for him to stand still, but he’s relaxed into this as much as he can. It’s one of Emerson’s contradictions. He needs to be touched. Desperately. And it’s not easy to let it happen.
“Painters have collections, too,” I mention, like my heart isn’t trying to leap into his arms. “Pieces they’re not willing to sell.”
“What about you, little painter?” I draw the brush down, near his hips, tracing the diving line of an enormous wave, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat. His hands clench harder. “Do you have a collection?”
