“No. It wasn’t, and you know that. I told you I quit smoking, and I told you why. But you keep pressuring me to smoke. I indulged when I had the panic attack, but now…”
He blows out a frustrated breath. “Fine. You want an apology?”
“I want you to admit that it was wrong of you to do that without asking. The smoke thing, not the—the kiss.”
“So you don’t mind a surprise kiss?” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“No, I don’t mind that. But the smoke…”
“Maybe I should surprise you again.” He moves closer, but I sidestep, my body burning with a desire so strong it terrifies me. But I’m burning with anger, too—or maybe a pained kind of grief.
“You’re better than you behave,” I tell him.
“I’m not, though,” he says. “I’m so much worse. What you’ve seen of me—that’s me on my very best behavior. Me trying not to die before I can convince you to save me.”
“And you want to be saved just so you can ruin another portrait.”
“I’ll be more careful this time, I swear to God.” He crosses himself with the hand that’s holding the cigarette, his half smile more devilish than devout.
He’s so fuckingcute, dammit. The image of him begging me on his knees that first night we had dinner—it rushes back into my mind full force, and the craving to paint him is so powerful it’s like a physical hunger, an itch in my fingers, a roaring need in my blood.
If I can’t paint him, maybe I can possess him. Just a little. Just for a few minutes. I want him burning like a hot coal on my tongue. I want his essence anointing my lips, my forehead; I want him gasping my name like the most potent of prayers.
He can see it on my face. He must, because his eyes widen andhe drops the cigarette, crushing it out with his bare toes. A muscle flexes along his jaw, another at his temple.
The shape of his arousal is obvious, prodding against the fabric of his swim trunks. It’s as long and thick as I hoped it would be.
My nerves are a choir ofyes, and my skin hums a ferventyes. I lick my lips and tense, ready to fling myself into this. Into him.
Not painting but possession. Yes…
But an outcry from far below the balcony catches my attention and Dorian’s.
“The hell?” he mutters, leaning over the railing.
The pool is several stories below us, a blue glowing rectangle. Except it’s not blue anymore. Inky swirls of black spiral through the clear water, fouling it quickly as people scramble to get out. Within seconds, the entire pool is an opaque, glittering black.
“What the fuck?” I breathe, gripping the balcony railing.
Something soft touches my knuckles—a flutter of black—and I scream, flailing my hand and throwing myself backward.
Dorian catches me, holding me to his chest. “It’s okay, Baz, it’s okay! It’s only a moth…” But his voice trails off as more moths begin to settle along the railing. They’re jet-black, velvety and soft, large as my hand.
“Dorian,” I say warily. “What’s going on?”
“Hell if I know.”
Another moth flies toward me, then another. A shiver runs over me as their feathery feet perch on my skin.
“Some of them are clustering around the pool,” Dorian says, still gazing downward.
“Dorian.”
“Vane and Sibyl are coming up. They’ll tell us what happened. Probably some dye or ink got spilled in the pool.”
“Dorian!” I say more sharply.
He turns, his eyes blowing wide as he sees the dozens of black moths that have landed on my stomach, my arms, and my legs. One of them flies toward my mouth, and I cringe away.
