Page 84 of Café Diablo

“Are you telling me that Georgia O’Keeffe makes you horny?” I nudge him playfully and he smiles, kissing my forehead and pressing my naked body against him.

“Maybe.” He pushes my drenched hair out of my face, his fingers hot and soft against my cheeks. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“The gallery question?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “Your work is good.”

“The fact that you want to buy one of my paintings, Edwin, doesn’t mean—”

He kisses me to stop me from talking, that punishing tongue of his leaving me gasping.

“Yes,” he continues, after I’ve been thoroughly lashed. “You’re definitely good enough. Now why aren’t you showing in one of the galleries downtown?”

“Honestly?”

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes blue-hot with lust, but also sincere. He nods, genuinely wanting to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” I continue, rolling onto my back to look up at the ceiling. The peak of my tiny house is only three feet away. “It’s hard to explain. I’m trained as an artist. I have a degree. I know I’m good enough. It’s just—”

I reach up and graze my fingers across the wooden ridges of the rafters. They’re right there, within reach, some dreams aren’t as far away as you think. Maybe that’s what’s so scary.

“I guess, my paintings are—” I drop my hand from the ceiling, laying it down on my naked chest. “They’re more for me than anyone else. They’re my heart on the canvass. They’re too personal.”

“They’re fucking beautiful,” Edwin says, practically snarling, putting a hand on my stomach and swirling. “You’refucking beautiful.”

“To you,” I say softly, not sure how to explain this. “Not that you don’t count, it’s just…”

His hand sears up my skin to cup my breast, taking my nipple under his thumb and stroking it. It’s hot and calming at the same time, my body an intimate place we share.

“Olivia Reese,” he says, his tone starting to taunt. “Is it actually possible that you can flash your hot delicious pussy at me in my office, tease me till I’m hard as a rock, but when it comes to your career, and your passion, you’re actuallyscaredto show your art in a gallery?”

“I’m not scared,” I say quickly—too quickly to be convincing.

“Of course not,” he mocks. “You’re the woman who knew me less than twenty-four hours before you were sucking my cock.”

“That’s different!”

“Is it?”

He slips his hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him, kissing me again. Softer this time and with a delicateness that has me trembling.

“How is it different?” he pushes. “Your work is intimate and touching my body was intimate. Your work is beautiful and you’re beautiful. You took a risk unzipping my pants that night. I could have rejected you. And sharing your work with a gallery is also a risk, and you might be rejected. Or you might just blow their freaking mind.”

“The way I blew your cock?” I toss back.

“Not exactly what I meant, but I’m pretty sure the analogy can bear your crassness.” I pinch him in the side and he squirms, curling his arm around my head to hold me against him. “Why is this different? I’d think being brave enough to unzip my pants is a hundred times harder than walking into a gallery and asking for a consultation.”

“I was drunk,” I say. “You were drunk. There’s plausible deniability.”

“I can get the gallery owner drunk for you,” he jokes, but then he pulls my body up and rolls me so I’m laying on top of him, my sweat streaked hair framing my face as I look down at his beautiful face. “What about yesterday?” he says. “When you made love to me? That was a risk. A vulnerability. You did that.”

I stare down at him, my heart thumping. This intimacy between us is still so new, and it feels like I could take the wrong step at any moment. “Thatstill scares the shit out of me,” I say honestly. “I’m still reeling from it. But I needed you to understand you were loved and worthy. That was more important.”

“Your work is worthy,” he says quietly, looking up at me with those crystal eyes, his hands running up and down my sides. “You’re worthy.”

He kisses me. He lifts up his head and brushes those lips across mine like they’re paintbrushes confidently marking the canvass.

“I love you,” he whispers, and his words seem so certain, or at the least courageous, like even if he’s scared of us, he’s going to go all in and give us his best try anyway.

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