Still, I should talk to her about it. Except… I can’t bring myself to type up a response. Damn it. I put a trembling palm over my forehead and try to breathe. I can’t disappoint her. She put such faith in me, helping me with my show in New York. Barron Sterling has a hugely impressive art collection, and his buying my work will further advance my career. None of this would be possible without her—
A warm hand wraps around the back of my neck, fingers digging in gently. I start, then turn around and see Devlin standing behind my stool. His hair’s damp from the shower, and he’s naked except for a towel around his waist.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You seem awfully tense.”
“Just some business stuff.” I don’t want to discuss the matter, since that’ll mean I have to talk about my condition. Plus, I’m nervous about him having been there when I didn’t recognize Hank. But who would think a cheating ex-boyfriend from high school would have the nerve to come over to my table and try to chat with Devlin? On the other hand, maybe I should’ve expected it because Hank is one of the most shameless assholes I know. He always has an excuse for everything—mainly that it wasn’t his fault because he was forced into a bad situation. He didn’t mean to cheat on me, but his dick got hard when he saw my cousin, and his penis somehow found its way into her vagina.
Totally not his fault.
I could tell Devlin about my condition, I suppose, but I don’t know if that would be a good move. Tasha’s right about not revealing weaknesses and flaws. And my condition is both. Grandma said as much many times when I was growing up. Actually, she mostly said it was a convenient excuse for me to act like a snob and get away with it. In her view, nice people with good manners simply don’t fail to recognize people they know. And that attitude is shared by the vast majority of people.
I don’t want Devlin to think I’m weird or pity me. We’ve been getting along great, with him treating me like a normal person. On top of that, he understands me, which is important. If he finds out I can’t tell faces apart… Well, he’s not going to be rude and show me a bunch of headshots to test if I’m telling the truth or treat me like I’m some kind of novelty. But he might feel sorry for me, and I don’t need that. And why should I be the one to share when he isn’t telling me what his vulnerabilities are? We just aren’t that close yet.
Are we?
“Business stuff, huh?” he says when I don’t elaborate, then kisses me along my neck. “It can probably wait.”
Shivers run through me as his lips stroke the sensitive skin.
“Mmm. You smell good. Like tacos.”
I laugh, turning my head a little to face him. “Tacos? Really?”
“No. But it got you laughing.”
Then his mouth is on my lips. Heat slowly fills me, but a small place in the back of my mind is still trying to figure out a delicate way to approach the portrait issue with Catherine.
But how? Pretend like I’m an artiste, not some hack who can pop out whatever she wants? But that’s so ridiculous. I’m not an artiste, despite my email address—that is purely due to an unfortunate typo—and most artists, no matter how big or famous, had to whip up whatever their paying patrons asked of them. Michelangelo certainly didn’t create all those frescos for the Catholic Church for nothing.
Devlin pulls back. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re distracted.” He sounds mildly annoyed.
“No, I’m not.” But now I feel guilty that he noticed. “I was kissing you back just fine.”
“Uh, no, you weren’t. I can tell. You were phoning it in.”
Yikes! Was I that obviously distracted? “Nobody phones in a kiss!” Okay
, must push aside all thoughts of Catherine and her email…
One dark eyebrow cocks upward. “You do, apparently.”
Then his mouth is back on mine, this time more savage and brutal. He devours me, and I realize he was reining himself in before. What he’s doing right now is less a kiss and more a delicious violation of my mouth, his tongue probing, tasting, taking, as his large hands move over my sides, my belly, and up to my breasts.
I’m already slick between my legs. My lungs burn as I struggle to draw in air. Normally, he’d give me a moment to take a quick breath, but not now. He keeps on kissing, pushing the shirt and bra up, pinching my nipples between his fingers. Pleasure shoots through me, and a whimper catches in my throat.
He plays with them, his movements greedy, clever and determined, while his mouth is fused to mine. A sharp sensation cuts through me, all the way from my nipples to my clit.
My mind goes blank as white-hot pleasure builds, then breaks, and it’s all I can do to hang on to him, my fingertips digging hard against his bare shoulders.
He finally pulls away a little, letting me pant and drag some air in. Little tremors are still going through me, and I feel my cheeks burn.
Oh my God. I just came from a kiss and his hands on my breasts.
I stare at him in stunned awe. I didn’t even know that was possible. He’s watching me, breathing just as roughly as I am. I run my tongue over my swollen lips, taste his taste and feel my gut clench with the need for more.