Her throat works on a swallow as she flicks to the next page, a hummingbird, and the next, her again ina coffee shop, hands cradling a mug as she watches out the window.
“That’s me.” She breathes and flicks the page to another drawing of her. This one she’s smiling in, her eyes crinkled at the edges and several strands of her hair fall across her features.
She keeps looking, flicking through the countless drawings I have in there. Some are things I’ve seen, a river during a storm, a boat in foggy waters but mostly every page, it’s her. Her laughing, her dancing, her sleeping…
Her hands stop moving when she gets to the last page, a sketch I’d done late last night, before I ended up at her house and in her bed again. There’s two people in this one, her and me, my body between her legs, her spine pressed against the wall, both our clothes on but skewed, trousers hanging around knees while her dress is shoved up to her waist. The image of it burned into my memory, I could see every line, every expression and my hand worked the pencil on the paper so effortlessly it was like I was reliving the moment.
My desperation for her came out in a raw, primal claiming, my blood sang for her, it still does.
“Proof enough, Tiny Dancer?” I whisper, my fingers a fleeting whisper against her ribcage, “Or would you like to feed me more so I can immortalize us forever?”
A tremor works through her and her lashes flutter.
“You like that idea, hm?” I lean close, my breathbrushing against the shell of her ear, “That I draw our bodies on a piece of paper? That I remember every detail, every sound and expression, that I can memorize exactly what you look like when you fall apart for me?”
She darts her eyes around as if to check no one can hear me but the aisle is empty, no one is around to see how hard she is blushing or how tight her thighs are now pressed together.
“You are art,” I rasp, “A masterpiece I will never tire of creating.”
“Killian,” She whispers.
My mouth turns up at the edges, “Yes, Tiny Dancer?”
“I won’t buy the art,” She swallows thickly.
“I will create your pieces, sweetheart,” I promise her, “I will create you anything you want.”
Her eyes bounce between mine, “I really want to go home now.”
My head cocks to the side, “You haven’t finished.”
“I want to give you inspiration, Killian,” This time she grins, “Get those skills working.”
She starts to wander off, but I know with the added sway to her hips and the way she flicks her hair over her shoulder she’s feeling confident about providing me with a new muse to work with.
I’ll bite.
I follow her up to the front and pay for her cart before she has a chance to pull out her card and I walk it to the car to load it up next to the paint we picked up earlier. She has at least seven different colors, ranging from muted greys and creams to pinks and light purples. An idea comes to mind, but I want it to be a surprise for her.
Opening the passenger door, she climbs into the Audi, purposefully running her fingers across my chest.
“Stop playing with fire, Savannah,” I warn her.
“But I’m cold,” She presses her tongue against her top teeth playfully.
With her, everything is light, like there is no weight, no past, no nightmares. And this, this playfulness, this flirting, it’s like we’ve done this before. It’s natural.
She belongs to me.
But not as much as I am hers. She can take my soul and wrap it up in her own, shine her light into each deep, dark chasm.
I lean into the car and grab her belt, giving a subtle glance around to my surroundings before I slant my mouth over hers and steal a kiss. She melts back into the seat but when she lifts her hands, I circle mine around her wrists to stop her, pinning them back down.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Savannah,” I order her.
She traces my bottom lip with her tongue and then I feel the quick, sharp sting of her teeth as they sinkinto it.
“We’re going home,” I pull away from her, “And you’re going to do exactly as I tell you to, do you understand me?”
