If I fucked up this week’s payment, I’ll receive a penalty: the date on which my lender plans to reveal my secret will be moved up one week earlier. That’s my penalty whenever I miss a payment.
“Monty.” Daphne pokes me in the bicep again. Once. Twice. “Are you all right? Are you sure you’re not dying?”
Her voice mellows my distress. I heave a sigh and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to put this on?” She drops what I assume is my shirt onto my torso. I clasp it to my chest without making any move to dress. “Your shoes are here too. They’re on the floor.”
“Thanks, Daph. Just give me a moment.”
We settle into silence, though after a few long moments, I feel another poke to my arm. And another. Then she lays her hand flat over my bicep…and squeezes. The softness of her palm mixed with the firmness of her grip and the fact that I’m lying in her lap…
My heart stutters and my eyes fly open. I catch her staring intently at where she’s groping me. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes whip to mine, and a deep blush infuses her cheeks. She snatches her hand back. “I was…uh…investigating.”
Her embarrassment calms that strange hitch in my heartbeat. “Investigating what?”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, giving it an anxious nibble. My eyes lock there, and I realize I’ve rarely seen her mouth this closely. Not her human mouth, at least. I’m still more familiar with her furry pine marten face than this pretty visage with its dark eyes framed by black lashes, the coral rose tint to her cheeks, the plumpness of her lips.
“Monty,” she says, and I watch the way she shapes my name. The way she breathes it. “I need your body.”
My heart stutters all over again, taking the breath from my lungs. Her face is suddenly too close, even though she hasn’t moved an inch. Her breasts are even closer, and I can’t fathom how I sat here with them hovering over me all this time without an ounce of self-awareness until now. Not to mention the fact that I’m still fucking shirtless.
I sit up so fast it sends my vision spinning, and I grip the back of the settee to steady myself. “You…what?”
She angles herself toward me, eyes pleading. “Your body. I’m begging you to let me draw you.”
My mind takes several moments to catch up with her words. That’s what she meant? I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.
What the fuck am I talking about?
Of course I’m relieved. Daphne and I can’t go down that…other road. I can’t go down that road with anyone. I only managed to get myself disinherited by convincing my father I’d never marry or even court someone publicly. And while I’ve engaged in the occasional bout of casual sex, Daphne is not a candidate for such acts. Because she’s my friend. She deserves better. Besides, I’ve lost interest in dalliances the last couple of years. No matter how I try to make it clear that’s all I’m emotionally available for, I still end up breaking hearts when I fail to want more from my partners. It really takes the pleasure out of fucking.
I run a hand over my face, wincing at the sharp ache in my jaw. At least the pain manages to shoot some sense into me and allows me to regain my composure. Adopting a casual demeanor, I pull my shirt over my head and begin rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. Her eyes follow my every move, locked onto my forearms. “You want to…draw me?”
“I need a model for my covers.”
“Which is why I invited you to tonight’s match.”
“But drawing from memory only works so well. I draw best when I have a live subject.”
I finish arranging my sleeves and settle against the far end of the settee, throwing my arm over the back of it. My heart continues to pound slightly faster than normal, though I do my best to pretend no such thing is happening inside my body. “Who do you use for your female models?”
She shrinks down a little, a shy smile curving her lips. “Me.”
And now I wish I never asked because all I can see in my mind’s eye is the sketch she showed me earlier. The one with the terrifying fleshy weasel-man, yes, but more pressingly, the sexy female in his arms. The one with half her clothing torn off, head thrown back in titillated rapture. My inner perverted asshole rears his ugly head and wonders ifthat’swhat she looks like half dressed. When she’s drowning in the throes of passion.
I grip the back of the settee so hard I fear I might break the damn thing. This is dangerous. Really fucking dangerous.
I’m struck with a familiar panicked instinct. A need to pull away in every shape and form. To place several more feet of space between us. To say something cold and cutting to drive an emotional wedge alongside the physical one. Then, finally, to spread time between us and keep myself away from her.
It’s what I’ve always done when people get too close.
It’s what I’ve done to her several times already, to varying degrees, until the day I took it too far.
Nice knowing you, Daffy Dear.
I’ve replayed that farewell again and again since the day it happened, and I’ve regretted it every time. I can’t repeat that mistake. I can’t hurt her. Or maybe it’s myself I can’t hurt. Maybe I’m being selfish in wanting to revisit our friendship. To maintain a relationship I can only participate in so far. Not too deep. Not too honest. Just enough to satisfy the piece of me that’s felt so fucking empty since The Heartbeats Tour.
