Page 80 of The Painter and His Poet

“I think maybe I should–”

“Because I just need a moment to figure something out,” he interjects.

“Figure out what?” I ask as a strange, unreadable expression passes over his features.

He lifts his hand, rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm flexing and relaxing beneath his skin as he does so. I’ve always found a man’s forearms and hands attractive, especially when they’re as strong and as veiny as Sterling’s are.Arm porn, I muse, then internally berate myself for even going there.

“If I can dothis…” he says pointedly.

“Do what?”

“Be in the same room as you and not want to pull you into my arms and kiss you until both of our knees are weak,” he blurts out, his arm falling back to his side.

“You want to kiss me?”

“I want to do much more than that, Harlow, but I’m trying very hard to respect your wishes,” he admits, and I don’t know what’s more devastatingly attractive, the fact that he’s holding himself back and respecting my wishes–which are shaky at best–or the smile he gives me that reveals those two beautiful dimples in his cheeks.

“Then I guess I should distract you, huh?” I reply as I begin to play once more.

“Hmm,” he hums, both of us aware that we’re stepping into flirtatious territory, and neither of us doing a damn thing to stop it.

After a minute or so, I can feel Sterling leaning closer, each note seeming to draw him in like a thread weaving us closer together. He begins to tremble, his fingers curling into fists as I let the music swell.

“Sterling?” I question, confused by his physical reaction, by the way he seems to study me.

“Keep playing,” he replies, his voice rough as his fingers grip his thigh.

“Okay,” I reply softly, pouring my emotions into the melody. I’m fully aware that this is dangerous, that I should get up and leave, but yet again I can’t seem to bring myself to do that.

“Did you play this for Blake?” he asks after a while, and there’s a note of jealousy in his voice that should be a huge red flag, but only makes me feel more desired.

“You know about that?”

“Ben told me. So did you?”

“I played an Elton John song, so no I didn’t play this for Blake,” I reply softly.

“Do you ever share the music you’ve written with others?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I shake my head, a faint laugh escaping my lips as my fingers move over the keys. “Honestly, no. I usually keep it to myself. My music is…”

“Personal to you?” he offers.

“Yes, very much so.”

He shifts slightly, turning to face me as his knee brushes against my thigh. “Then why are you sharing it with me?”

“Because you were the first person to trulyseeme and not make me feel like my dreams are pointless, or worse, that I’m just not good enough.”

He takes a breath, and I can feel the tension between us charging the air with something electric. “You have this light, Harlow, a vibrancy. It’s hard not to notice. Fuck, you’ve no idea how you affect me.”

Not entirely sure how to respond to that without giving in and throwing myself into his arms, I continue to play, letting the music flow around us both as the room fills with a rich, resonant sound. I don’t sing, mainly because I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to share the lyrics given how personal they are. For now, I just allow myself to be swept away by the melody, soaking up Sterling’s attention as he listens intently. Then, as the final notes drift into silence, I rest my hands in my lap, and wait.

“That was… Wow, Harlow!” Sterling breathes, his expression a mix of admiration and something deeper, something that sends my pulse racing as our gazes clash. For one long, heart-pounding moment we stare at each other, but when he leans closer, I shift away from him, putting space between us.

“Do you play?” I blurt out.

“I’m guessing chopsticks don't count?” he replies with a rueful grin.

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