Page 46 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“And those things don’t correlate with art?” He smirks. “It’s a hobby. Just like lacrosse.”

I suppose he already knows where his future lies: with his father’s company. Even though they apparently sold it, he still has an inheritance. A role he could grow into. It’s okay for him to have hobbies.

“I can’t do this. I can’t paint you.”

“Could you paint yourself?” he asks.

I think about that. Would I be able to show everything that I am? Good and bad?

My silence answers for me, and he frowns. “Why not?”

“You want to know why I wouldn’t be able to paint myself? I wouldn’t do it with any amount of accuracy.”

He shrugs. “I could. I’m going to paint you and show every inch of you.”

His gaze slides up and down my body, and fuck me, I get wet. One orgasm, and he owns my body.

“The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

I shake my head, trying not to make it obvious that I’m pressing my thighs together.

“But you have to go first.”

I twitch. “So I have to show you how I see you before…”

He grins. “I’m not in the mood to paint today.”

My sigh comes out slowly. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Guess you’ll find out once you’ve drawn me.”

I turn back to the canvas, switching my gaze between him and the expanse of white. I just need to make a mark, and then the rest will come easier. That’s what Robert says in class: the first stroke is the worst.

He’s burning me up. Every time I look at him, something in my chest gives out. I stare at his face. The strong brow, his dark hair that flips up on top and is short on the sides. His cool-blue eyes. Full lips—well, I know all about those lips—

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

I shake myself. “You’re psyching me out.”

“What am I supposed to do, close my eyes?”

I brighten. “Yes. That’d make things easier.”

He stands and moves his stool closer, so his knees brush against my thigh. “What would you give me for it?”

How should I know what to give when I don’t know what he wants?

More mind games.

I lift one shoulder, biting my lip. I won’t ask him what he wants—I have a feeling his answer would be worse than anything I could come up with.

“You left your window open,” he says suddenly. “Why?”

Now there’s something I would never admit: that I still hang my hope on him.

“Tell me why, and I’ll shut my eyes,” he says. “I’ll keep them closed and not ask to see your painting.”

“Ever?”

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