He knows me now, and he still wants to look at me like that.
Maybe I don’t have the inspiration I used to… but I think I can find something new.
“I have a pretty set clientele who are used to a certain kind of art, Donovan.” I say it carefully, watching for his micro-expressions. His brows knit together, and I continue. “I can’t paint the way I used to… so I’m not sure if they’ll still be interested.”
Those knitted brows smooth out, and the sweet smile that blossoms across his features is enough to make me realize that yes… I can definitely figure out how to work around this if it means I get to see him look at me like that. And then his face falls like he just realized exactly what I mean.
“You’ll lose your place without…” His fingers twitch, and he shakes his head instead of finishing the sentence.
“I have a decent amount of savings, but I’m sure it’ll eventually run dry if I don’t figure things out.”
He leans across the back of the couch, his long arms splayed on the black cushion.
“Do you need me to pose for you like one of your French girls?” That grin is back.
I take a few steps forward and run my fingers through his hair, tipping his head up so I can press a soft kiss to his lips. “Honestly, Donovan… I’d probably kill someone before I let them hang art of you on their walls.” When he doesn’t pull away,I kiss him again. “I’ve actually canceled more than one finalized sale because I realized you were in the paint.”
“What?”
I lean in close enough to run my nose along his jawline and then press another kiss to his temple before straightening up. “I’m kind of obsessed with you, didn’t you know?”
I watch as the prettiest flush of crimson streaks across his freckled cheeks and feel something in my stomach go tight… because that.
I want to paintthat…
And it would be one more canvas hanging on my wall that I couldn’t sell, since that expression is one for me and me alone.
I turn back to my studio and hear the sound of the couch creaking as Donovan stands up and follows me. His warm arms slide around my waist when I pick up a paintbrush, and his lips are soft when they press to the top of my head.
“You can always move in with me,” he says, as if that’s the easiest solution in the world. As if he hadn’t just come to terms with the fact that I was a serial killer, and we still need to navigate through that entire situation.
My mind drifts to that morning after I promised I’d be different for him, to the way he made me food and held me after.
To the trauma that we somehow share, even though it’s two completely different flavors of pain.
I finally shake my head.
“Your place isn’t big enough. Maybe you should move in here.” It’s a silly suggestion. I know that, but…
“Mmm, not enough space.”
That isn’t a no.
How in the fuck is it not a no?
I turn in his arms and tilt my head back, looking at the way he’s scrutinizing the space around him…
“Donovan…”
“There’s not much room here, and my place doesn’t have a studio for you… we probably need somewhere new, right?”
“I… what?” He almost seems to drink down the shocked expression on my face, raising his finger to brush sweetly against my parted lips.
“Like rent a house or a condo? We couldn’t buy anything yet, but we could get something that would be just ours.” His expression goes soft. “That sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it?”
It does.
It sounds like a dream that I never thought I’d want, and definitely nothing I ever thought I’d deserve.
