“Admit it, Declan,” he says, softly touching my cheek. “What we had was fun, but I always loved you more. You haven’t given me a single thought since I left this manor seven years ago, and that’s okay. But I can’t let myself get attached only to be heartbroken again.”
For a moment, I can’t move. I’m reeling as his words play over in head, because they don’t make any sense. He thinks he loved me more? As delusional as it sounds, I could understand that.
But he thinks I haven’t thought about him since he left?
Without a word, I walk away from where he’s standing, and he watches me with a perplexed expression. There is a chest across the room covered with a dusty tarp and some paint supplies that I toss to the floor. They clatter noisily, but I don’t care. After unlocking the chest, I hoist it open, and it creaks while papers spill out near my feet. I knew it was overfilled, but I didn’t know it was this much.
Colin shuffles over. “Are those…me?”
But I don’t answer. I just grab page after page and toss them toward him. Some are charcoal sketches. Some elaborate paintings. It sort of depended on my mood and the amount of emotion tied to the memory.
But every single one is him.
He picks up a piece of paper and stares at it. I’m suddenly reminded of the day in uni, moments after we graduated, when I handed him the sketch I had done of him. It wasn’t close to being the first, but it was the first I had given him, and I watched his expression when he accepted it. The teardrop that fell, and how I was mortified because I thought it meant he knew my secret—that I was in love with him.
Only someone who drew portraits the way I did of him was surely in love. A classic tell.
“Declan…” he whispers. “What is all this?”
I continue tossing pages of him on the floor. “This was the last fifteen years. Most are from memory, but when I ran out of those, I used your movies.”
His mouth is hanging open as he flips through drawing after drawing. They are of him up close and full body. Of his hands and his legs and his lips. This is how I held on to him when I had nothing else.
“Shakespeare, I’m sorry it was only eight days a year to you. It was never just eight days to me. You were with me every bloody day.”
Colin is staring at me with his mouth hanging open, his eyes searching mine as if he’s seeing me for the first time. Goose bumps erupt across my skin as I wait for his reaction.
Being vulnerable is hard. Will he think I’m out of my mind for this? Will he hate it? Have I revealed too much of myself?
But then he lunges. Crinkling the papers on the floor beneath us, he throws himself into my arms. Taking my face in his hands, he crashes his mouth against mine.
I wrap him up and delight in the taste and feel and scent of him. It’s all the same. A memory wrapped in skin and bones.
His tongue slides against mine and his teeth take gentle nibbles of my lips. His passion and need are so intense, I let out a yelp just from the feel of him in my arms.
My hands eagerly roam his body, sliding up and down his back before easing down to his arse. The moment I squeeze the firm globe in my hand, he hums into my mouth, grinding himself against me the way he always did.
“Fuck, Shelby,” I mumble as I back him up toward the table. There are pages everywhere, under our feet as I lift him onto the surface.
As I settle between his legs, he wraps them around me and pulls away from the kiss to stare into my eyes. We are breathless and turned on, like we’ve been swept up in a storm.
For a while, neither of us moves.
As much as I want to kiss him and make him truly mine again, Colin is still engaged to someone else, and I know his heart. He isn’t the type to betray someone he cares about, even self-righteous dickheads.
Finally, he rests his head on my shoulder and just breathes as if he wants to stay frozen in this moment. As for me, I’m dying to know where his head is at.
I drift my fingers up and down his spine. And I wait.
Then we hear footsteps down the hall and we both pull apart in a rush. Staring at each other with wide eyes, we freeze and wait to see who is approaching.
When Blaire finally appears in my doorway, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” she says, averting her eyes. “Mr. Hall is looking for Mr. Shelby. I’ll tell him he’s sitting for the painting then.”
“Thank you, Blaire,” I reply.
“Might want to come down soon though,” she adds.
