“I wish I could be how you wanted me to be,” she told him, sad. “I want to. I really do. But that part of me is dead. I wasn’t a virgin when it happened. I’d had sex before, and it was fine.” She’d even orgasmed a few times, though it depended on her partner. She loved—and missed—kissing most of all, though. God, she’d loved kissing once upon a time. “But ever since the attack, I can’t even look at a guy in that way. That part of me is dead, Sebastian. And you deserve someone that’s going to be able to give you what you need.”

He shook his head and hugged her closer, and she burrowed against him. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Chelsea. This shouldn’t even be a factor in our fake relationship. I’m the world’s biggest asshole because you wanted this to be platonic and I can’t.”

“I just . . .” She sighed, thoughtful. “I wish I wasn’t broken. Because if I was going to kiss someone, it’d be you, Sebastian. You’re so good to me, and sexy and funny. I just . . . don’t think I can.”

“Have you tried?” His voice was gentle.

She gave a small shake of her head. Just the thought was terrifying. Memories of the yawning blackness flashed through her mind and she pushed them away, back in the corner of her mind she never went to.

His hand stroked her back, over and over. Then, slowly, he paused. “Do you want to try?”

Chelsea sat up, gazing at him. “Try what? Try sex? Are you kidding me? You think you’re the man with the magic penis that’s going to cure everything that ails me?” Now she was offended.

He looked stricken. “No, not at all! It’s just that . . . you feel safe around me, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Then what better person to experiment with, sex-wise? There’s no pressure.”

“Except that you’re masturbating.”

He grinned. “I am a man. But I was trying to take care of things so I didn’t bother you or make you uncomfortable. Believe it or not, I sincerely care about you as a friend and want you to be happy. We’ll go as slow or as fast as you want. It’s entirely your call.”

“And if I can’t be happy and want to go back to platonic? If I can’t handle fooling around?”

“Then we’ll figure it out. Even if it means annulment. Like I said, there are zero feelings involved, so you won’t hurt my pride if you say that you’re not attracted to me, all right?” He squeezed her against him.

“Oh, please. You know you’re attractive.” She rolled her eyes.

“Well now my ego is incredibly flattered.”

“Let me think about it,” she said.

“Absolutely. I want you to trust me. We should be able to trust each other, you know?”

Trust? The fact that he was bringing trust up made her snort. “You’re one to talk. How about this, then?” She sat up and looked him in the eye. “You show me your secret room and what you’re doing with all these notebooks, and I’ll agree to give the sex thing a shot. That way, we’re both opening up and sharing. Fair enough?”

His nostrils flared. For a moment, she actually thought he would refuse. Instead, he pushed himself off the couch. “You want to see? Fine.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sebastian led her down the hall to the room he always kept locked. He reached up to a painting that was next to the door, ran his fingers over the top edge, and pulled away a key. Aha. She watched as he put the key in the lock, and tried not to seem too eager. She’d shared so many of her secrets with him, and now she got to see his.

He hesitated, a hand on the handle. “Do me a favor, Chelsea?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t laugh, okay? I know it doesn’t seem like much, but it’s very personal to me.” He pushed the door open and stepped aside so she could enter.

She stepped inside, gazing around her in quiet surprise. It was a study all right, and a bit of a mess. The walls were papered with sketches of women. Some were famous and easily recognizable. She could see the swollen curve of Angelina Jolie’s lips on one face, and the strong, square jaw of Kirsten Dunst in another. They were sketches of women in all kinds of poses, some nudes, some not. All were tasteful.

All were excellent and at a skill level that staggered her.

The papers littered the room, hundreds and hundreds of sketches that must have taken hours upon hours to draw. A half-completed sculpture of feminine shoulders sat on a shelf, along with a mannequin.

She moved toward the paper-covered desk and sucked in a breath when she saw another sketch of herself, her hand curled against one cheek and smiling at the viewer. She looked so soft and sultry. So inviting.

Was this how he saw her? Chelsea’s skin flushed with pleasure. She turned and looked at him, surprised. “Why would I laugh at this?”

He shrugged and crossed his arms, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “Because I’m a grown man and should be watching the stock market instead of doodling women?”

“But your art is beautiful,” Chelsea said, picking up the sheet with her on it. “This looks just like me.”

“I couldn’t get the eyes right,” he said, moving forward and plucking it from her hands. “You always smile with your eyes, and I wanted that to convey, but I’m not happy with it.”

“Sebastian, these are wonderful. So wonderful. Why would you keep this a secret?”

He put the picture back on the desk and rubbed his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “No one in my family approves. They feel that artistic sentiments are a waste. Unless it’s fashion, of course,” he said sarcastically. “That’s different.”

“I would never laugh at any of this,” Chelsea said, genuinely shocked. “You’re crazy to think that this isn’t amazing. You’re so talented.”

“And yet you hid derby from me, didn’t you?” He looked at her, mouth quirking in a faint smile of understanding. “Because you were afraid I wouldn’t understand or I’d try to make you stop?”

She nodded slowly, getting it. It was difficult when you loved something so much and you’d had other people disapprove of it in the past. It made you leery of sharing it ever again. “I think it’s awesome. I’d love if you drew me.”

He laughed. “I do draw you. Constantly.” He picked up a few sheets from the desk and showed her sketch after sketch of her in various poses and clothing she’d worn over the last week or so. A sketch on the wall was her in the champagne colored dress she’d worn to the dinner party that she’d met him at, and her body was curled under a desk, a familiar mischievous look in her eyes.

So he’d remembered that moment and thought about it quite a bit, it’d seem. It was . . . flattering. And she felt a surge of affection for him, coupled with wistfulness. She wished she could be the woman he needed her to be.

“Well,” she said in a light voice, turning away from the wonderful drawings and back to him. “You trusted me with your secrets, I suppose I can trust you with mine. When did you want to try this stuff out?”

He spread his hands. “What better time than now?”

“Now?” Her voice sounded squeaky and nervous. She cleared her throat and glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s late.”

His mouth curved in that cocky grin she recognized and was coming to adore. “I promise not to tax you too hard. We can always go to bed and cuddle for a bit if you want. Like I said, you’re calling the shots.”

“What, you don’t want to finish watching The Notebook?” she couldn’t resist teasing.

He gave her a scathing look in response. “You picked that movie to torture me. Admit it.”

“I did not. It’s a wonderful movie.”

“So you’ve seen it? Then we don’t need to finish watching it.”

“I’ve seen it six times,” she said, and at his outraged look, she giggled and raced out of the room.