Page 83 of The Painter and His Poet

“Because the truth is, no matter what excuses you come up with about why we shouldn’t be together, I’m not letting you go. I refuse,” he says, inching closer.

“Sterling…”

“You can try to tell me that we don’t know each other well enough, and to that I would say that we have years to get to know each other because, again, I’m not letting you go.”

“This is–”

“You can tell me that this connection between us is wrong, and I will answer it the same way each time: you’re mine, and nothing and no one is going to change that.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not–”

He growls, actually fucking growls as he reaches up and cups my throat, his long, thick fingers holding me with a possessionthat should scare me, but doesn’t.Why doesn’t it?I honestly don’t have an answer to that, all I know is that I feel his dominance in this hold, his absolute determination to make me understand that he’s not backing down, that he wants me, and there is something incredibly attractive about that. I’m the object of his attention, his desire, and for most of my adult life that hasn’t been the case.

“Once again, let me make something perfectly clear. I don’t care that our parents are married. You arenotmy sister, Harlow. You are the woman I want, irrespective of how that may or may not affect others.”

“Stop this. Stop it right now,” I say, trying to push him away but he leans over me, the action making me sit on the keys, the random, disjointed notes only adding to the intensity of the moment.

“No, I won’t. You wanted honesty, you’re going to get it,” he replies, sliding his hand from around my neck to the back of my head as grabs a fistful of hair, tugging on it so that I’m forced to look up at him. “I want you. There is nothing that you can say or do that will change that fact. I want there to be an us.”

“And what about whatIwant?” I ask, my breath hitching not from fear, but from excitement.

“You want me, at least be honest about that,” he states.

I do. I really, really do.

“No,” I say instead, and maybe my defiance isn’t just a knee-jerk reaction to his chest-beating possessiveness, maybe it’s because a part of me wants to see what will happen if I push his buttons. Maybe I want his hand back around my throat and that gleam of possession in his eyes.

“Liar,” he bites out before slamming his lips against mine and claiming my mouth in a searing kiss.

God this kiss.

It makes me weak.

Every protest I had, every argument against why we shouldn’t be doing this, why we can’t be together evaporates. This kiss is passionate, yes, but it’s also filled with so much more than lust for one another, there’s a sweet kind of forgiveness, a heart-thumping kind of honesty, and a deep kind of understanding.

“You are becoming everything to me, Harlow,” he admits against my lips.

For a fraction of a second, my heart stops beating. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” he replies, pressing another soft kiss against my lips.

“Sterling…”

“I mean it, Harlow.”

“But you don’t know me, not really,” I protest softly.

“I know you,” he replies, shifting back slightly. “I know that I can’t look at you without wanting to bury myself deep inside of you because that’s the only time I’ve ever felt at home. I know that you’re an incredibly talented artist. I know that your voice bewitches me every time I hear you sing. I know that you’re a gifted pianist who hides her talent from everyone because your mother has only ever made you feel like you’re not good enough. I recognise the pain you carry from a parent who hasn’t loved you the right way, because I feel that too.”

“Sterling, don’t,” I whisper.

“I know that you hide your light because if you didn’t you’d outshine everyone around you. I know that you’re so selfless that you will forgo your own dreams and desires to protect your mother’s ego. I know that you have tried so hard to fight this connection between us because you’re afraid of hurting people who don’t deserve it. But I also know that the way we feel about each other is stronger than fear, that I have faith we can make this work somehow. I know that you’ve never felt seen, not truly,not for everything and all that you are.” Palming my cheeks gently, he adds, “And I know that Iseeyou, that Iwantyou.”

“But–” My chest heaves as heat rises up my chest and neck.

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