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Maybe he did. Maybe he was meant to be here with me.
“Pad Kra Pao, a red and green curry, Pad Thai. I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be.”
He smiled knowingly. “Good choice.”
“Is that what I used to order?”
“Do you want to hear about what youusedto do?”
I paused.Did I?“Yes… no… I have no idea. I like knowing what I was like before my surgery, but I’m never going to remember, so I’m not sure I want to keep being reminded of a version of me I can’t ever get back.”
“So you want me to not tell you?”
“Maybe. Do you mind?”
“No. I get it must be weird.”
“Can you explain one thing to me, though?”
While he poured the drinks and served up the food, I went in search of what I wanted to show him.
Carrying my portfolio through, I placed the huge, black folder onto the table, unzipping it, and flipping it open.
Archer moved to stand behind me, pressing his chest to my back, reaching around me to flick through the images, sending an army of butterflies dancing through my stomach that I wasn’t sure was from his proximity or because of what I was showing him.
“I guess these are you too.” I’d painted and drawn hundreds of things since I’d arrived in Miami and now every single one made sense; they were all him. “These images fill my dreams. I wake up itching to put them on paper.”
“That’s how you always felt when you painted or sculpted. Inspired. You’d not stop until you’d got your ideas out of your head or I dragged you out of your studio.”
Looking at these paintings, my body reacted in the same way it did when I dreamed and created them. Hot. Pleasure pooling between my thighs.
Archer didn’t say another word, flicking through each one slowly, his body pressing tighter against mine and his cock thickening against my back.
“Maybe it’s inspiration for your next show,” he husked against my ear, making my nipples harden as his warm breath danced across my skin.
“But are these things I did?” I stared at the images of limbs bound, knots digging into flesh, bodies twisted together, sweat covered skin. “I’ve seen the photos of my first art show, but this… this feels more personal.”
“Your second show was all based on me.”
Turning slightly in his arms, he took a small step back to accommodate me. “Is that your ego talking there, or was it actually based on you?”
“It was all me, cheeky.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Look, I don’t want to fill your head with old memories, and you don’t want to be compared with the old you, so why don’t you keep creating what springs to mind and see where it takes you? I’d rather you learned what this version of you likes and doesn’t like, instead of trying to fit back into a version of you that you feel you should be because I tell you that’s what it used to be like.”
Twisting back to the paintings, I traced my fingers over the outline of a male torso bound in rope. “I like these. They make me feel things.”
Archer’s body tensed. “Things?”
A soft hum vibrated on my lips.
“Fuck, Nee.” Archer groaned.
“Sorry, I don’t even know you and I’m pouring my inner most thoughts out to you like you're my best friend.”
His mouth found my ear again. “There is nothing in the world—no matter how hard it is to hear or how hard it makes me—that you can’t say to me. Do you understand?”
