I want to understand him.

To know him, not just every ridge of his body.

He’s my personal Loch Ness. I know he’s here. Sometimes I see him, and then I don’t. When I do, only parts of him are exposed. He’ll never let me see all of him at once.

Glancing over my shoulder, I notice him staring at me from just inside the doorway. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the confident man I’ve come to appreciate is a nervous mess. His hand continuously combs through his hair—like what he looks like matters or something.

“How long have you been painting?”

He looks sheepish, as though what he creates here is nothing. “Since high school. My parents wanted me to take physics and calculus. I picked art instead.”

“I’d say your rebellion worked to your advantage.”

He grins. “I’m close to ending the argument. If Mallory would stop being so damn successful at everything she does, it would be a lot easier.” Since I’m an only child, I can’t even imagine.

I continue my walk around the gallery. Most of the pieces are colorful arrangements—swirls, lines, geometric shapes—painted to look like people, trees. He’s brilliant; I’ll give him that.

At the opposite end of the room from where we came in is a little nook. The one painting within it is different than the rest. It’s as real as a portrait. A beautiful woman with dark, cascading hair, dark brown eyes with a speck of green, and porcelain skin. She’s about my age, or she’s painted to look that way. The way she’s portrayed, like she’s lying sideways in the bed with her arm twisted above her head, gives the impression that’s she’s staring at whoever is in the room. It’s creative and terrifying at the same time.

Blake stands next to me, tugging my fingers between his to lead me in another direction. This time, I don’t let him. “Did you do this?” I ask, still in awe.

He ignores me, changing his game plan so he’s standing right in front of me, successfully blocking my view. He cups my face in his cold hands and presses his lips to mine. With that one move, he pulls me away from everything but him. He does that a lot—changes my frame of thinking.

“Come,” he says, “There’s a reason I brought you here.”

“Can I ask about the painting?”

“No.” He doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls me along into another room. In the back of my mind, I know he painted that portrait. I also know that she must have meant something . . . something more.

“Close your eyes.” The front of his body is pressed to my back as he walks us forward. He fits perfectly against me . . . every curve, every hollow. Just being like this is enough.

I hear a door creak and the flicker of a switch. On instinct, I open my eyes to get a look. This room is much smaller than the first. It shows like a blank canvas—bare white walls, a drop cloth of the same color covering the floor. It’s a room without clear purpose. “What’s this for?”

When silence is the only response, I look back over my shoulder. Blake stands like the statue of a god, brushing his thumb over his lower lip. He looks down, then up again, one side of his mouth pulling up along the way.

“What?” I smile back at him, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe I’m just looking at him differently. The guy who always has something to say has nothing.

He lifts a finger to my mouth, using it to draw my lower lip down. He doesn’t stop there, trailing his knuckle down my throat, then between the swell of my breasts. My eyes hold his like my life depends on it. “Do you trust me?” he finally whispers.

I nod, because I do. He might be the last person in this city I should attach myself to, but it’s too late. He has me even if I don’t have him.

“Take off your clothes.” His voice is low and breathes of bottled up sexual desire. There’s absolutely nothing he couldn’t convince me to do right now.

My sweatshirt goes first, leaving me standing in front of him in nothing but a black lace bra and blue jeans. He swallows visibly as I slowly reach behind my back to unfasten the clasp. This is fun—teasing and tormenting him, daring him not to touch.

He watches me as I slowly slide both straps off my shoulders. His fingers ache . . . I can tell because he keeps combing them through his hair, over and over until it has that sexy, mussed up appearance. Until it looks exactly like it does each time we’re done having sex.

My bra falls to my feet, and then I slip my fingers into the band of my jeans, working the buttons.

“You’re going to make me crazy.” He groans, stepping into my personal space. He traces a circle around my breasts, using the side of his thumb. My breath hitches, my knees weaken. My panties were already damp simply from him watching me like he does.

He whispers above my ear. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, but I will make you come.” Oh, shit. And the pool in my panties just got deeper. “Work those pants off, Lemon Drop. I’ll be right back.”

As he steps around me, he trails his fingertips across my bare stomach. The screaming voice in my head begs me to grasp on to him and never let go. His promise resonates in my mind, and I wonder if it’s one he’ll be able to keep. I want to know if it’s a form of magic he’s capable of.

Without him watching me, my jeans come off quickly, leaving me in nothing but lacy black boy shorts. When he’s with me, I can be like this and feel comfortable with who I am. His stare dresses me in confidence and sensuality. It gives me a courage I’ve never felt before.

The door opens and closes behind me, but I keep my eyes trained forward, to keep his surprise a secret a little while longer. Metal clinks. The plastic under our feet shuffles with him. My heart races. My fingers curl. I need him . . . I hate admitting it, but I do.

He presses his cold hand to the top of my spine, slowly trailing a finger down until he hits the edge of my panties. “Ready for your surprise?”

I nod.

“Turn,” he commands, letting his hand fall away from me.

After taking one last deep, cleansing breath, I pivot to get a better look at the man who’s putting my senses into overdrive. His shoes and socks are gone, as is his shirt. He’s every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had wrapped in one.

“I don’t do well with surprises,” I announce quietly. His eyes burn, and words are the only way I can extinguish it.

He bends to pick up a paint palette from the floor, then closes all but a few inches of space between us. “Close your eyes.”

I do, parting my lips to remind myself to breathe. When I was younger, I’d shut my eyes on the fair rides because I didn’t want to see the world go by. I’d pretend it was just me on an epic adventure. It was my way of being anywhere besides where I actually was.

Tonight is different. I want to hear, see, and touch Blake. I want to press my nose to his skin and breathe him in. I need his lips on mine, to taste him.

When something cold makes contact with the skin between my breasts, I flinch. It shocks me . . . then it just feels right. The contrast. The wetness. “Keep your eyes closed while I paint this gorgeous body of yours. Can you do that?”

I swallow hard, because that’s all I can do. This is different—challenging me, exposing inhibitions I didn’t realize I had.

“I want you to listen and feel. Nothing else.”

Rolling my shoulders back, I try to relax, to sink into the moment as if it were a soft place to fall. His paint-covered fingers trace the underside of my breast. I know he’s probably watching me, waiting for a reaction—a moan, a buckle, anything.

“I used to think these were the best part of a woman’s body,” he breathes, continuing to circle my breasts. “But they’re not . . . not even close.”

The pads of his fingers trace a line down my stomach, past my belly button, before gliding across the top of my panties. Warmth builds between my legs. I need him to touch me there, to feel the pressure of his fingers against me. To make me climb the stairway until I’m calling out his name and nothing else matters.