Page 10 of The Painter and His Poet

“I’m sorry my place is a mess,” he apologises, grabbing some clothes thrown over the back of his battered, brown leather sofa and shoving them into a closet across the room. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“And I wasn’t expecting to end up back at a stranger’s place this evening either,” I reply honestly, biting down on my lip as I watch him stride around his spacious apartment, gathering empty glasses and dirty plates, and dropping them into the sink.

Whilst there are a lot of his belongings strewn around the place, there isn’t much by way of furniture. Just the beat up leather sofa, a wooden island separating the living space from the kitchen, and a bed raised off the floor by a platform and several steps. I can see a door ajar in the far corner of the apartment, and a bathroom beyond.

“You want to leave?” he asks, his startling blue eyes drilling into me as he stills, a frown creasing his brows.

“Not at all.”

“You don’t seem certain,” he continues.

“I don’t want to leave, not even a little bit,” I admit, then bark out a strained laugh, shaking my head at this woman I’ve suddenly become.

He cocks his head studying me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… I don’t…” Dragging in a breath, I puff out my cheeks. “I don’t normally do this.”

“Drink coffee?” he deadpans, and I’ve no idea if he’s trying to make a joke or if it’s an honest to goodness question.

His lack of, I don’t know, seductiveness is surprising, and I’m honestly not sure how a man who looks like him could be the exact opposite of what I’d expect. It’s kind of judgemental to assume that just because he’s good-looking he would know how to charm a woman into bed, but I can’t seem to help it. Maybe I’m more like my mother than I’d care to admit. She’s the queen of judgy.

“Go back to a man’s house for…” I clear my throat. “Sex.”

“You want to have sex with me?” he asks, and I suddenly feel as though I’ve read the situation wrong. God, what am I doing?

“Youwantto have coffee?” I counter, cheeks blazing with heat as he stares, and stares, and stares. I don’t know where to look. Why does the way he looks at me make me feel so… exposed? “Oh my God, I’ve read this so wrong. I should probably–”

“I don’t want to have coffee,” he interrupts, swiping a hand through his hair, the silver striations in his eyes glinting with a sudden smouldering heat that resonates deep inside my chest.

“And the sex?” I squeak.

Why the hell am I pushing the subject? This is so damn reckless. Perhaps I’m more lonely than I’d thought? It’s been over a year since I’ve slept with a man, and whilst that’s never really bothered me, tonight I just need… Christ, I don’t know. I guess I just need to be someone else for a few hours. HarlowRichards would never,ever,do something like this. But my alter ego, Friday Love? I guess she would. Sheis.

He hauls in a breath, rounding the kitchen island and steps towards me. “It’s been a long time.”

“Since you’ve drank coffee or had sex?” I ask, my mouth running away with me once again.

“Both,” he replies, and it’s strained, his response. In fact, his whole body is.

I see it in the way he holds himself. I see it in the tightness in his shoulders, the tenseness around his jaw, and the way his fingers flex and curl into fists.

“Yet here I am,” I murmur, my arms falling to my side, my bag slipping from my shoulder and onto the floor as he approaches. I’m completely bewildered, uncertain of myself, yet willing to step into whatever’s happening, despite his tension and my very apparent lack of sexual history. As a woman heading towards her thirties I should be more experienced, but I’m not, and I guess it shows.

My palms press against my jeans, the humid air still clinging to the material as I watch him approach. As he steps closer, there’s a fierce kind of control in the way he moves his body, how he zeroes in on me. It’s not in a way that scares me, but in a way that makes my pulse spike and my skin heat.

“Here you are,” he agrees, that same intense look on his face as he reaches up and grazes the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. My breath stills, his hands are surprisingly warm, his touch gentle, and so different to his intense demeanour. “Cotton candy pink.”

“Sorry?” I ask, blinking up at him as a tentative smile softens his angular features with two sexy dimples. I imagine kissing them, and heat rises up my neck.

“Your lips, they're cotton candy pink,” he murmurs, serious once more. Which seems an odd thing to say given I’m wearing purple lipstick.

“I–”

“I’m going to kiss you now?” he says, a question more than a statement as he palms my cheek with one hand, whilst the other reaches behind my back and tugs me close, waiting for my approval.

“Okay.” I nod, giving him permission.

“Okay,” he mutters, edging closer until his lips hover over mine, tentative.

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