Page 95 of King of Pain
His cheeks go a little pink, but mostly, he just grins.Big.“Oh, I’ll be the goodest boy.”
I snicker, shaking my head. “Alright, you big tease, let's see what you have in store for me. Lead the way.”
He ushers me out the door, and I follow, completely at his mercy, just where I want to be.
We slide into Lexi’s car, and as soon as Ant starts the engine, I turn to him. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
He just grins, shifting into gear. “Nope.”
I huff dramatically. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Correct.”
I watch him as he grips the steering wheel, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves of the Stevie Nicks concert tee he somehow poured himself into. At this point, I’m convinced he’s wearing tighter clothes on purpose now. I'm suddenly very jealous of one Ms. Nicks with her head planted between his big man pecs. It’s downright cruel.
And those thighs—he chose light-wash jeans today, accentuating every curve and muscle. My thoughts go wild, wondering what it would be like to sink between them, unwrap him completely, make sure every memory from before is erased and rewritten with nothing but pleasure.
I shift in my seat, forcing my mind elsewhere. “Alright, answer me this, then: Sammy or David Lee Roth?
Ant smirks. “Sammy. No contest.”
I gasp, clutching my chest. “David Lee RothisVan Halen.”
“David is showmanship. Sammy isvocals.”
“Fine. Can we at least agree Steve Perry is the best male rock vocalist of all time?”
Ant nods. “That’s a given. But if we’re talkingallpop music, George Michael and Luther Vandross are near the top.”
I tap my chin. “You won’t hear me argue that.”
Half an hour and five music debates later, Ant pulls into a parking garage in downtown Phoenix. As we step out, I glance around, taking in the sights. “I haven’t really had a chance to explore down here.”
“Well, let’s change that.” Ant leads me to a building and opens the door for me. I glance up at the sign and freeze.
Phoenix Art Museum.
My heart melts. “I'd say I can't believe you thought of this, but I’ve learned that you're one of the most thoughtful people I've ever met. This is pretty great, Ant.”
He shrugs, but I can see the pleased smile he’s trying to hide. “Come on. Let's go.”
We wander through the exhibits, and he asks me about different painting styles, genuinely interested in what I have to say, even if my knowledge is mostly amateur.
Near the end of the exhibit, I stop short, eyes locked on a painting—two men embracing, all black and blue hues, tender and raw.
I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop thinking about us.
Ant steps up beside me, his presence warm and steady, taking in the art with me in a quiet, beautiful silence.
Then I feel his fingers slipping into mine.
My breath snags. I think it will every time.
“Is this something you want?” Ant asks softly. “Your paintings on a gallery wall? Your own exhibit?”
I hum thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough for that.”
He squeezes my hand. “Well, you haven’t shown me your paintings yet, but if your drawing is anything to go by, that’s a ticket I’d buy.”
