Page 13 of The Painter and His Poet

“No, please don’t apologize. I’m not very good at this kind of thing either. I don’t normally–”

“Go back to a strange man’s place to have sex?” he asks, and despite the lightness of his tone, he remains as tense as ever.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t ask women back to my place to have sex very often.”

“Very often?” So hehasdone this before.

“Well, ever, actually. You’re the first.”

“The first? You’re not a virgin, surely?” There I go again. Why can’t I shut the hell up?! He doesn’t baulk at my question, he simply shakes his head.

“I’m not a virgin, no. But you are the first woman I’ve ever invited into my personal space.”

For some reason that makes my heart squeeze. His truthfulness is extremely attractive.

“Then I’m honoured to be the first.”

“You might change your mind after.”

“So sex is still on the cards?” I blurt out.

“After I just head butted you, I wasn’t entirely sure you still wanted to have sex with me,” he admits, his thumb swirling circles over the back of my hand.

“You mean afterIhead buttedyou,” I reply, heat radiating through me at our mutual frankness, at the way he’s touching me.

“Looks like we’re both out of practice.”

“You’ve no idea,” I say, meeting his gaze as he cocks his head to the side, studying me.

For long moments we just stare at one another, neither of us moving the conversation along, and despite normally hating to be the centre of attention, I just let him absorb me as our chests rise and fall in sync, and he shifts closer. His hand trails up the bare skin of my arm, coasting over the sleeve of my t-shirt, feathering along the collar before he presses his palm over my breast and I let out a soft, stuttering sigh. My nipples are hard, my ability to speak silenced by his warm, yet possessive touch.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” I reply on a soft exhale.

“I want to fuck you,” he adds after a beat, a frown appearing between his eyes.

“I thought you wanted to talk?” I squeak, squirming at how turned on I am, how I’m reeling from the whiplash of his remark.

“I do… but more than that, I want you to feel what I feel,” he continues, zoning in on my lips.

“And what do you feel?” I whisper, gasping as he gently squeezes my breast whilst his free hand slides up my thigh, his fingers reaching beneath the bottom of my t-shirt, coasting over my belly. My stomach muscles tighten, not from stress or fear, but from anticipation, longing.

“Out of control.”

I drag in another ragged breath. “You seem very in control right at this moment.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

“So what now?” I ask, because despite his statement, despite palming my breast and running his fingers beneath the waistband of my jeans, he still doesn’t bridge the gap and kiss me again. “Maybe you should eat something? You fainted after all,” I add lamely.

“I don’t want to eat,” he says, the words rumbling up his chest. “But I do want to hear you sing again. Will you sing for me, Friday?”

“You want me to sing for you,right now?” I ask, thrown a little, if I’m being honest.

“Please?”

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