Page 61 of The Art of Us by Symone

FOURTEEN

A devious smile curls my lips when I see Kayla’s painting on the backseat. She forgot about it. Or perhaps, she had the intention to give it to me.

“Hm.” I place the bag with her easel next to it and shut the door, leaving right after.

When she asked me to touch her, I was so surprised but sure as hell wanted to.

Fear stopped me, and it’s for the best.

I know I won’t be kind to that mouth or her body. I’ve thought about what she looks like under her clothes more times than I can count. How she’d feel on my cock.

Fuck. I guess I’ll be beating off in the shower tonight again.

Reaching home, I pull into my spot in the four-car garage. Mom’s Porsche is here.

Grabbing the stuff from the backseat, I head to the guest house. I lean Kayla’s oil painting against the wall in one of the bedrooms and start to assemble her easel.

At the sound of the sliding door, I stall, nerves on alert as my mind flashes back to that day.

Anxious, I clench my fists.

My body relaxes when Britney peers into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I huff and resume screwing the pieces together. “Next time announce yourself. You know I hate it.”

“Sorry.” She plops down on the side of the bed. “Whose easel and painting?”

“Kayla.”

She giggles. “So, my brother finally got himself a girlfriend.” Britney gives me a sly smirk when I peer up at her from the carpet. “I like Kayla. She seems sweet.”

“Kayla’s a good person,” I say, refocusing on the easel. “She deserves better than me, but I still want her.”

“You’re good, too,” Britney mutters. “You need to realize that.”

I pause with a screw, considering her words. I haven’t felt that great since that horrible day.

She straightens on her feet. “Anyway, Mom asked me to tell you we’re eating dinner together.”

“I’ll eat when I finish this,” I say without meeting her gaze.

There’s a brief pause, then Britney utters, “She’s on her fourth glass.”

I slowly turn my head in wonder. “What else is new.”

Britney lingers in the spot, quietly watching me.

“I hope it works out with Kayla,” she murmurs before leaving.

I look at the painting of the vase and tulips. A peaceful feeling grows in my body, akin to what I experience when viewing Kayla’s sketch of the sunset.

I’ve only ever felt that way with her and through her art. It’s why I want her. Perhaps she’s the peace that will tame the monster inside, once and for all.

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