“Well…yes.” His fingers toy with a lock of my hair.
“You went from wanting to commission me for ten grand, up to a hundred grand and a couple weeks of indulgence, and now you’re promising me boundless wealth, fame as an artist, and potential youth and immortality. Plus you kind of threw your whole self in there, too, as part of the deal.” I sigh. “Dorian, it was never a matter of money. And I don’t want a sexual partner who’s doing it out of some misplaced sense of obligation. You might be cool with prostituting yourself for this, but I won’t accept it.” I pull away from him, getting to my feet.
“That part isn’t about the portrait,” Dorian says softly. “I’m already a slut for you, Baz. I’ll be your willing whore either way, on my knees praying for a taste of you.”
I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I stand there, probably looking stupidly awkward, trying to form words.
“Normal people don’t say that kind of thing,” I manage at last.
“Since when am I normal people?”
“Fuck.” I run trembling fingers over my face.
Dorian rises and comes to me, encompassing my body with his, caging me in his arms. He nudges my nose with his own, and when I tip my face up, his lips seal over mine.
He smoked in the car on the way to my house, but for some reason, the cigarette taste, which I’d find disgusting with anyone else, doesn’t cling sourly to his tongue and the roof of his mouth like it does with most people. It’s a faint, smoky, addictive flavor mingled with the savory saltiness of the cheeseburger. Maybe his portrait absorbs that negative side effect of the smoking, too.
“I don’t understand this,” I whisper against the thin, soft skin of his lips. “I don’t know why I like you so much.”
He trails his mouth along my cheek, a delicate brush that sends a cascade of delicious shivers through my belly, between my legs.
“Baz,” he murmurs with a light kiss to the corner of my jaw. “I like you more than I’ve liked anyone in decades. Longer, in fact.” His breath hovers over the piercings along my ear. “Why is that, do you think?”
“I just said I don’t understand it myself.” I gasp a light laugh, winding my arms around his lean waist. “What brings two people together anyway? Beyond just the physical attraction?”
“Shared interests. A similar worldview.”
“We share some interests. Our worldviews couldn’t be more different.”
“Perhaps they’re more alike than you think.”
I vent a shuddering sigh while he sucks lightly at the pulse point on my neck. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“But you’re not going to be afraid right now or keep running in circles through that busy mind of yours,” Dorian murmurs against my collarbone, sliding the strap of my tank top off my shoulder. “No, sweetheart, you’re going to help me forget that my heart is a hollow, worn, leathery thing, like an old briefcase. You’re going to indulge yourself, because we have young, beautiful bodies, you and I, and we deserve to enjoy them.”
“They’re more precious because they won’t last.” I slide his shirt up the small of his back, baring the smooth heat of his skin.
He hums a noncommittal response, and I transfer my attention to the front of his shirt, releasing the buttons one by one.
“Why are crisp white dress shirts so damn sexy?” I whisper.
“You should see me in a wet T-shirt,” he says with a lazy grin. His hands travel up my front, under my tank top, palming my breasts.
I finish with his buttons, and when he shifts back to remove his shirt, I shuck off my top and bra.
Dorian hooks his fingers into the belt loops of my shorts andhauls my hips against his. “This skin,” he croons, sweeping his palm along the curve of my waist. “So soft. Smooth. Perfect. I could sink my teeth into you, sweetheart.”
I let my body drift against his. “You’re so tall.”
Biting his lip through a grin, he bends, and our mouths meet. I reach up to brush my fingers through his hair, and something about the motion tugs at the burned skin on the back of my hand. I release a little yelp of pain into Dorian’s mouth.
He pulls back immediately. “What?”
“My stupid hands. Don’t worry about it.”
He cups one of them in his own, inspecting the bandages. “I should have warned you about the spatter from the flamethrower. Given you gloves, or—”
“You can’t protect me from everything.”
