Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I wake, drenched in sweat, and have to stroke my cock in the shower to get the dream out of my head.
I’m not forcing myself on the fucking girl.
God damn, Hellie. The sun hasn’t risen yet, so I take the opportunity to go for a run around the property. When I get back, the sky’s pink and purple, and I’m drenched with sweat.
“Coffee and the usual?” Marina asks me as I chug down water and towel off my bare chest.
“Please, but I should shower first. Has our guest been down yet?”
“Not yet. I think she’s still getting used to the place.” Marina gives me a look. “You could be nicer to her, you know.”
“That’s your job. I’m the bad cop. You’re the good one.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “I’d rather not be a cop at all.”
I go over and kiss her cheek. “Judge then. You can tell me when I’m out of line.”
“Would you listen?”
“I never do.”
She pats my cheek before I head upstairs. Marina will make me toast with jam and some yogurt with granola. I prefer a light breakfast to get the day started.
Before I can disappear into my room to shower off, a light at the end of the hall catches my attention. I drift closer, moving silently, past Hellie’s room and down to the studio.
I peer inside, barely daring to breathe.
She’s alone in the room. Around her, the sunrise throws beautiful slants of light over books, paint cans, brushes, the tools of her trade. She’s in only a cotton t-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts with a big DG on her ass.
My mouth opens. I want to find words, but I can’t speak, terrified that I’ll break the spell.
She’s incredible. Beautiful in a way I’ve never experienced before. Her raven-black hair falls in tresses, the curve of her spine leads to her small, sloped shoulders, and her upturned nose gives her an almost regal look. Her ass is lovely, heart-shaped and firm; her breasts are small, but palm-sized, in the perfect proportion to her athletic frame. I lick my lips, my mouth watering as the dream from the night before drifts back.
I’m about to speak when she moves over to the canvases. I bite my tongue and watch as she picks one up, studies it, carries it to the easel, and puts it down. She doesn’t get paint, doesn’t get brushes, only looks at the blank canvas, at the white. She touches it, strokes it almost lovingly. Like she’s coaxing something from its depth.
I wish I could see what she’s seeing.
I’ve always wanted to be an artist. Not in the sense of wearing a beret and saying insipid bullshit. But I want to make something beautiful, something meaningful to people. Instead, I am what I am—a man that runs a casino as a member of a crime organization that spans back decades.
That can’t change. I won’t ever be something I’m not.
But she can create. She can do things I worship.
In the same way I worship the long lines of her legs, her beautiful thighs, those lips.
“You can stop staring at me now.” She looks back over her shoulder. “I know you’re there. I saw you in the mirror.”
I glance to her left. I spot myself in the reflection in the mirror propped against the floor.
“What do you see when you look at that blank canvas?” I ask, unable to help myself.
She looks away. “Nothing. Just white.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t just come to me. My paintings, I have to—” She stops, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter, because I won’t do it.”
“But you’re here. You’re in here.” I step into the room.
She looks at me again and her eyes widen.
Yes, I like that look. I like it a lot. She stares at my bare chest, still damp from sweat, glistening in the light. Her mouth opens and her eyes take in my tattoos, my scars. My body is like a canvas of my life. A hard and ugly life, but also privileged in so many ways. A contradictory life, one I never asked for.
“You could wear a shirt, you know.”
“I just got back from a run. Tell me what you want to paint.”
She chews her lip and tears her eyes from me. “Nothing. I don’t want to paint anything.”
“Then why are you in here?”
“Because it’s comfortable,” she blurts out and looks annoyed with herself. “Look, I know why you did all this. You want me to make you forgeries. You made me this room because you’ll profit from it. But I’ve always dreamed of having a studio like this. It’s like… it’s perfect. Like you knew I’d love it.”
Which I did. I studied her before creating this space. I looked at her Pinterest, her Instagram, read her thesis at college, and carefully curated this studio in such a way as to maximize her creative output. It was a labor of devotion, and maybe she can feel that.