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“I have,” I reply, handing her a foil-wrapped taco. I chose chicken for her, with onion, cilantro, and lime—simple yet delectable. Also, Avery’s favorite.
I pick my own pork tacos and settle back, turning to face her as I fiddle with the foil. Seraphina wastes no time, eagerly unwrapping hers, the aroma eliciting a groan of anticipation. She takes a large bite and moans in sheer delight.
Her enjoyment, the little dance she does, and that sound compel me to avert my gaze, fearing she might sense my arousal. “I used to visit the art room late at night when everyonewas asleep,” I confess, slowly peeling back the foil, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “That’s where I first saw you.”
I glance at her shyly. Her head tilts, and her eyes widen in realization. “Oh no,” she murmurs.
“Oh yes.” I recall that night vividly.
Her reaction is one of shock, her mouth opening and closing before she takes another bite, opting for silence over words.
That night, I saw her in those enticing silk pajamas, her hair messily bunched atop her head, her eyes red and weary. She stumbled in the room wearing slippers, clumsily making her way to the corner where the clay lay. She slammed a chunk onto the turntable and sat down, never noticing me hidden behind an easel.
“I’d been staring at a blank canvas for hours, and then you walked in,” I continue, popping an onion into my mouth, daring to meet her gaze again.
Her cheeks are flushed, and though she chews defiantly, her sweet scent fills the air, growing denser.
I swallow hard, maintaining eye contact, the words spilling out with effort. “You were there in those sinful red silk pajamas, the ones with thin spaghetti straps.” I feel my heart rate quicken, and my breathing deepens with anticipation. “For an hour, you worked on a vase, completely absorbed, until nearly three in the morning. You were so focused, and then you leaned back, chest heaving...”
I pause, absorbing the intensity of the moment. Her reaction, a blend of embarrassment and fascination, adds a tangible weight to the air, charged with the silent admission of my covert observation.
Closing my eyes, I recall every detail of that night. It’s a memory that haunts both my waking thoughts and dreams, and it’s undeniably the most arousing experience I’ve ever witnessed. Now, I’m laying it bare before her.
“Did you watch me?” Her voice is a soft whisper, floating to me like a tactile memory, rekindling the past.
A shiver of excitement courses through me as I remember her that night, covered in clay, inadvertently enhancing the allure of her silk pajamas. “Yes, I watched,” I confess. “The way you casually brushed your nipple was... provocative.”
Running my hands down my face, I reopen my eyes, feeling a surge of desire so potent that it’s almost overwhelming. “Please, go on,” she urges, her whisper laden with her own arousal.
Emboldened, I continue, “You moaned with that accidental touch. It’s a sound that still echoes in my mind.” The vividness of the memory is striking. “You were so uninhibited, using the silk as a barrier while you touched yourself. I watched you surrender to your pleasure and heard your cries of release. It was raw, uninhibited.”
Her reaction is immediate. Her pupils dilate with desire, and her breathing becomes heavy. Then, a mischievous smile plays across her lips. “Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it, Ashton?” She sets aside her taco, her gaze locked on me.
Confusion takes a moment to clear. “What?”
“You heard me,” she whispers. “Turnabout is fair play.”
Her implication dawns on me, leaving me momentarily speechless. She can’t be suggesting that I... here... now...
“You know what I want,” she states boldly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I want us to be even.”
She wants to watch me, something that sends a thrill of anticipation and nervous energy coursing through me.
CHAPTER 17
Seraphina
“I don’t have a turntable,”he says, gazing at me under his thick, dark lashes. Each time he blinks, they brush his cheeks, and I find myself captivated. His cheeks flush crimson just for me, and he’s constantly running his tongue over his teeth like he’s weighing his words or buying time.
“Paint for me, Ashton,” I urge, momentarily forgetting all about the tacos. My eyes drift to one of the many easels scattered around the room. “You saw me create that terrible vase. Now, it’s your turn to paint.”
He flashes me a roguish, pirate-like smile that suggests he knows all the universe’s secrets and is playfully coaxing me to beg for them. Even though, I suspect, he’d reveal them just to see me smile. “I’ll do one better,” he declares, standing and striding toward a wire rack brimming with totes full of supplies on the other side of the room. He selects one tote, placing it carefully on the center table. As he reaches in, he pulls out that very vase.
“You kept it?” I’m on my feet before I realize it, drawn to him, my gaze trying to pierce his very soul. “After all these years?”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as he turns the vase over in his hands. “You left it there, so I finished it for you.”
He chose mesmerizing blues and greens for the vase, intertwining them with swirls of black as if smoke was fighting its way through the colors. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
