Page 45 of His Wild Storm
He makes a humming sound and sits back while his arm drapes casually along the edge of the island as he looks at me. “As much as art was my savior and gave me a purpose, I couldn’t see a life where being an artist, just an artist with paint or some other medium and canvas, was going to be a sustainable career. My parents were supportive of my art, and are great people, but it’s not like artists were running around our neighborhood with a family and the lights on in their house.”
All I can do is nod. I get what he’s saying, but there’s still a pang in my chest because of the practicality behind his words. They might be smart, but kids should be able to dream a little bigger, right?
“One day I came across a documentary about the history of tattooing,” he continues. “It got me thinking about art, art forms, and what I really cared about. As much as I wanted to go to art school and have my work in a gallery, I wanted my art to beaccessible even more. As a kid who never spent time in galleries but saw a lot of tattoos on the people around me, I knew what I needed to do.”
“How’d you learn so much art technique?” I smile softly at him, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the word ‘chiaroscuro’ over the last few weeks.”
He chuckles, a fondness written on his face that has everything to do with my son. The way he’s bonded with Wilde makes my heart ache to give my son something, anything almost, more than what he’s had up to now.
“I took some classes at Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design after high school. I wasn’t interested in going after a degree, only the knowledge, and audited my classes while working as an apprentice,” he explains.
“That must have been a lot of work,” I muse. “Did the other students hate you being there or were they okay with it?”
He chuckles and shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know, and I never really cared how they felt about it. I went there to learn and that was it.”
“A lot of parents would rather you go to college and get a degree. Did yours have a problem with your choice?”
Knox shoots me a lopsided smile. “They were happy I found a way to make my art work for me,” he admits, “at least, eventually. Once I was allowed to work on skin, my dad was the first person in my chair.”
My eyes go wide as I consider if I would do the same if it were Wilde. I wouldn’t even hesitate, so I guess I can’t be too surprised.
“That’s amazing,” I gush.
“You’d do the same thing if it were Wilde,” he says it off the cuff like knowing that about me doesn’t mean everything.
“I would,” I whisper. I clear my throat and put my silverware on my plate neatly, suddenly feeling shy. “Thank you, dinner was delicious.”
“Thank you for joining me and trusting me with your time,” his words are soft, like a caress.
I know he means them with everything he is. When I glance over at him, I meet his mossy eyes filled with sincerity and an intensity which holds me captive.
“Do you want me to take you back, or did you save a little room for dessert? We could eat in the living room and relax?”
Fuck. He’s looking at me with so much hope. I don’t want to let him down. Honestly, I don’t want to let myself down either.
Even though he’s giving me an obvious out, I find I don’t want to take it. I’m not ready for the night to be over quite yet.
I cross my arms across my chest and make a face like I need to think about this very serious question. My tone is flirtatiously skeptical, “What did you make for dessert?”
Knox’s grin is wide, practically ear to ear, as amusement dances in his eyes. “Tiramisu,” he tells me. “It’s a favorite of mine. How about you?”
My mouth waters and I eye the man next to me. There’s no way I’m passing up tiramisu. How did he know one of my favorite desserts? It’s one of the few things he didn’t ask about when it came to food.
“I do love tiramisu,” I offer. While my words are simple, it feels as if there’s a lot unsaid beneath them.
“Perfect,” he rasps, his eyes flicking down to my lips.
For a moment, my entire body hums with the thought of him kissing me. It would be so easy. All he would need to do is close the distance between us and press his lips against mine. As our breathing deepens and synchs up, I find it’s the only thing I can think about. I desperately want him to kiss me.
I watch his face contort with effort for a moment as he tears his gaze away from me. His panting is on the verge of being erratic before he takes a few deep breaths to get himself under control.
His actions snap me out of the moment, and I’m shocked by my desire and need. Did I really want him to kiss me that badly? Would I have freaked out if he had tried? Or would I have melted into him?
I’m not sure if I want to know the answer. Or if I’ll ever find out.
Knox stands up, his movements are jerky this time as he moves through the kitchen. It doesn’t take long for him to set us up with plates of deliciousness. When he ushers me into the living room, I go willingly.
Even when we take up two opposite sides of his couch, the distance between us feels charged. Is this how it’ll always be between us? Can I survive it?
