Page 118 of Painting Celia

“It is! You were honest at first, a mirror for me! Then you needed this warehouse…Celia, don’t you see, the paintings are suffering!”

“I wouldn’t care if you never painted again!”

He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it wild and standing. “But you agreed! I told you being a muse was hard. Trust, commitment, emotional intimacy! I need you to promise. I need you to—”

He stopped, stricken.

•••

He stared. Celia eyed him coldly, warily, from across the room.

Need. He needed her.

Jesus.

He had it all backward.

“I had it wrong,” he whispered.

His pulse quickened as he saw faint hope in her, hesitant but listening.

“I belong to you!” he crowed.

She drooped and sighed, shaking her head. “That’s the same thing, León, just reversed.”

“No, don’t you see?” He bounced, pointing at the faded mark on his neck. “You claimed me. It felt right, didn’t it? I’m the one that needs you. I’m yours!”

“I will not own you. No.” She crossed her arms.

He laughed. “You already do, Celia! It’s not a choice we made. It just…happened!”

“Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?”

“I fought it too, but I see now,” he said, heart pounding with relief. He gravitated toward her, but she held up a palm, retreating until she pressed against the tall window at her back. “Saying no doesn’t change the truth, reina. I’m at your feet.” He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers.

He knew her, knew that fluttering pulse in the hollow of her neck, her pink-stained cheeks, the tempest inside her waiting to be unleashed. He advanced until her hand, still raised to ward him off, pressed against his chest. He covered it with his own. Let her feel his heart beating as hard as hers.

“Celia, I love you.”

A deep, shaky sigh escaped her, but she didn’t move.

“You love me back, don’t you?”

Her hand trembled under his, but she stayed silent. The tension was too much—he pounced, knocking her against the window with his body.

“Why do you always hold back on me?” he growled, mouth taking hers roughly. His free hand reached for her shoulder, sliding under the collar of her robe, fingers curling at the base of her neck. He felt the hitch in her breathing, heard a whimper.

She gave in as always, her resistance snapping. She melted into him, reaching to thread fingers through his hair, pulling him close and kissing back frantically. He groaned into her.

He pushed the robe off her shoulder, nipped at her mouth. “Mi cielo,” he breathed. “Soy tuyo. I’m yours.”

She stiffened. He instantly felt the tension and eased back an inch, then swam in shock as she wrenched her hands back and pushed him away.

“No!” She was panting hard, her lower lip bruised. No, bloody. Just a little. Whoops.

Her tongue darted out, tasted the blood. Then she raised two fists to her chest and lifted her chin.

“You have manipulated me for the last time!”