“Okay,” I whisper, pointing at the painting as if it can hear me. “If this is what people see when they smoke weed, I’m starting a petition to legalize iteverywhere.”
I tighten my grip on my bag like it’s a lifeline. It’s still slung over my shoulder, heavier than usual, thanks to Elena’s neon-green dildo currently nestled inside. Of all the things to have with me while gawking at a portrait of a man who looks like sin personified, that’s the one.
The portrait looms, and I swear those stormy eyes—like the lovechild of steel and a hurricane—arelaughingat me.
A flush crawls up my neck, creeping higher until my ears are on fire.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mumble. “You’re a painting. You have no right to judge.”
But damn, those eyes. They’re impossible to ignore. It’s like someone bottled the essence of wicked ideas, swirled it with just a hint of regret, and gave it a piercing glare. They’re sharp enough to cut glass, deep enough to drown in, and hauntingly hypnotic. If eyes were weapons, his would be classified as illegal in at least ten countries.
I narrow my own eyes at the painting. “Why do you look like you’re plotting world domination but could also recite poetry to seduce someone while doing it? That’s not fair. Pick a lane.”
I blink, looking away, then glancing back like a moron, checking if the painting’s changed somehow.
It hasn’t.
Of course it hasn’t.
His gaze—can you even call it a gaze if it’s from a painting?—seems to bore into me. Those eyes have layers, like an onion, except the kind that doesn’t make you cry. Instead, they make you question everything, including why you suddenly want to touch awall.
I take a step back, then forward again, torn between pretending I’m unaffected and admitting defeat to a damn portrait. Who does he think he is? Oh, right. A painting. A ridiculously attractive one.
I narrow my eyes at the painting and lean forward like I’m about to spot a secret watermark. The details are mesmerizing—the ink curling up his arms, the slight wrinkle in his shirt as though he just rolled out of bed (someone’s bed, probably), and that smirk is the kind of smirk that promises the dirtiest, most depraved acts imaginable. It’s the kind of smirk that says,“I know exactly what filthy thoughts you’re having, and I’m gonna make them look like a goddamn Disney movie compared to what I’ll do to you.”
I shift on my feet, my face heating. “I mean, who even commissions a portrait like this? Narcissists? Oil baron playboys? Ghosts who haunt impossibly fancy bedrooms?”
My fingers twitch, and I force them to stay at my side. No touching. Touching the art would be insane.
“You’re just paint,” I say, as though convincing myself. “And I am a professional woman. I sell houses for a living. I have seen so many bedrooms—more than most people in a lifetime.”
The smirk seems to deepen.Sure, sweetheart, tell yourself that.
“Okay, you know what?” I snap. “You’re not even my type.” The lie tastes bitter. “Too cocky. Too… shirt-sleeves-rolled-up-for-no-reason.”
My bag shifts against my shoulder, and I suddenly remember what’s inside. My cheeks blaze.
“Great. Now I’m flirting with a portrait and carrying a sex toy like I’m auditioning for ‘Desperate Women of Suburbia.’”
This is getting ridiculous. I slap my cheek lightly.
“Snap out of it, Bella. He’s paint. And canvas. He doesn’t have a pulse, much less… other things.” My voice trails off as I realize what I’m implying, and I groan.
I drop my bag onto a nearby armchair and turn my back to the painting. “Nope. Done. Shower. Cold shower.”
Crossing the room, I focus on the door to what I assume is the en-suite bathroom. My palms are clammy, my skin feels too tight, and I don’t understand why every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire. I am not this person. I am not the kind of woman who gets flirty at the sight of… well, a painting.
Right?
The sound of my breath feels louder in the silence, and I swear I can feel his eyes on my back. But I keep moving. A few minutes under cold water will fix this. It has to.
And if it doesn’t, well… I’ll blame the portrait. Or Elena. Definitely Elena.
The bedroom is massive, the kind that swallows you whole and still has space for more. The bed dominates the room. It’s the kind of bed meant for sin, not sleep, and the thought heats my cheeks even more. The walls are lined with intricate molding, the kind you see in old estates, except this feels different—sleeker, colder, like someone wanted to impress but not comfort.
Next to the portrait, there’s a mirror. Gigantic. Of course, it’s gigantic. It stretches from the floor to the ceiling, framed in black wood with carvings that swirl like smoke. For a second, I catch my reflection—wide-eyed, flushed, and altogether out of place. Behind me, the bed looms in the glass like a ghost, impossibly vast, impossibly inviting.
I drag my gaze away and cross the room, heading for one of the doors. The first handle doesn’t budge. Locked. The second one mocks me the same way. My jaw clenches as I try the third. Finally, it clicks open, and I step inside, almost sagging with relief.
