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My heart is beating so wildly that her body might get a shock wave effect.
“Hungry?” she murmurs.
“For food?” I kiss her neck.
She laughs and wiggles her butt, which gets me harder by the second. Her legs are still around me, so I haul her up and spin her around to ease the pressure on my throbbing hard-on.
“I’m not, but I do need to jump in the shower and get changed.”
And make my boner that strains my jeans go away.
The shower does nothing to cool me. Half an hour later, I’m still turned on and still wanting her.
The door to her room is slightly ajar, music trickling out.
This is my happy place—apartment 1101 of Goldsling Towers, Lu and me. Plus Pushkin, who I spend ten minutes goofing around with because I missed my pirate dude too.
He follows me to Lu’s door, but I snap my fingers at him, and he huffs with disappointment and lies down, giving me that sad look with his furrowed eyebrows he’s perfected lately.
I knock on Lu’s door and walk in.
She stands facing me by the canvas set up on an easel. Lounge music is trickling from a speaker.
“What are you working on?” I ask, about to ask her if I can watch her paint or kiss her or—
“You,” she says, pursing her lips to hide a smile.
“Me?” It’s the first time she’s admitted it, despite having a dozen of paintings of me in her room. “Can I see?”
“I only just started. But…”
And, oh, fucking hell, I sense where this is going. And I’m starting to freak out inwardly.
“But?” I hold my breath. Her latestSharkiepisode flickers in my mind.
“Will you pose for me?”
“Will you pose for me, John?”
Her blue eyes are fire when her gaze locks with mine. I wonder if she knows I know about her writing, though she wouldn’t give up her pen name no matter how many times I asked.
I know how the last chapter ofSharkistarted.
“Right now?” I swallow hard, my entire body as tense as an iron rod.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Fuck me.“Sure.”
I don’t know what to do, how to stand, and what else to say.
“Just stay where you are for a moment,” she prompts.
A moment lasts for twenty minutes.
Lu licks her lips as her eyes dart to me, then to the canvas. She changes brushes and lays thick long strokes onto the canvas. I can’t see what she’s doing, but it’s nothing intricate. I’ve watched her paint before. She’s doing one of her emotional impressionist paintings. I wonder if she is summoning courage.
I smile when she glances at me.
