Rule #1: Don’t think, just feel.

FUCK, THIS DINNER JUST keeps getting better. First, there’s the awkward conversation with my family—it’s like they do it on purpose to make sure I can’t contribute to the conversation. Would it kill them to talk about anything other than work? Then, my mom interrogates Quinn, making her feel like a weirdo for being an artist.

And now this—the only woman I’ve ever loved is walking my way.

Anna.

It’s been eight years since I last saw her, 10 years since she broke my heart.

I don’t want to notice how beautiful she is. I don’t want to acknowledge that she’s grown up as I have, but she still looks like the same girl I fell in love with. Her big brown eyes scan my face, taking me in. I don’t want to remember how I used to get lost in those eyes. I don’t want to see the hurt reflected in them as she looks at me. I don’t want to notice how pale she is and worry that she isn’t taking care of herself. I don’t want to feel the pain in my chest as I think about what she did to me, to us.

As she approaches, I can’t control my body’s reaction. All my muscles stiffen, my jaw clenching painfully. I know Quinn notices my reaction to Anna and she’s looking back and forth between us, waiting for me to tell her who is approaching us, but I’ve lost the ability to talk.

Anna steps right in front of me, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist, as if I’m the one that hurt her. I don’t want to notice the birthmark she has on her shoulder, the one she thought was ugly, the one I used to kiss every time I saw it.

“Hi Charlie.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Anna.” My voice is steel.

She flinches at my animosity. Tough shit. I want her to just say what she has to say and leave. Looking at her hurts too much.

“How are you?” she asks quietly, taking in my face, my neck, my body. She sees Quinn then glances at our hands, maybe checking for rings.

“I’m fine.” I bite out the words, firing them at her like a weapon. “What do you want?”

She waivers, looking around and noticing the attention we’ve gathered with this short exchange. She was never one to put on a show, but she soldiers on, turning back to face me.

“It’s been a long time, Charlie. I just…I need you to know how sorry I am.” She looks right at me, her gaze begging me for forgiveness. Her eyes shine with unshed tears and she bites her upper lip to stop herself from crying. It’s the same thing she used to do when she was upset, and I don’t want to remember these things about her. 10 years may have passed, but what she did to me will always be unforgivable.

I chuckle and it’s a dark, ugly sound. Quinn steps closer to me, putting her hand on my back, trying to comfort me. I take a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “Time doesn’t change what you did, Anna.”

She flinches again, and a tear drops down her cheek, leaving a wet trail on her pretty face. There was a time in my life when I would have done anything to prevent Anna from crying. I loved her so much, seeing her upset caused me physical pain. Now, though, the sight of her tears does nothing to me. My heart is a piece of stone.

She looks to Quinn and I know I’m being rude by not introducing her, but fuck manners. It’s all I can do to stand here, in front of Anna, and not lose my shit.

“I know, Charlie. I wish I could go back in time. I would do so many things differently.” She sounds sincere, and maybe she is, but that doesn’t change the fact that she lied to me. She took a choice away from me, shattered my heart, and changed my outlook on relationships for the rest of my life.

“Yeah, me too. I wish I never would have fallen for a selfish liar like you.” My words are knives and I fling them at her. I can see them land, too, as she gasps with pain and more tears start to fall. She wipes them away quickly, struggling not to fall apart. Footsteps approach and I see a familiar face. It’s her older brother’s best friend, Weston maybe? I can’t remember his name. He stares at Anna, concern etched in his expression.

“Anna, you okay?” he asks her, standing close by her side.

She squares her shoulders and raises her head, gaze still fixed on me. “I’m okay, Wesley.”

Wesley (I was close) sees the tears falling and knows it’s a lie. He narrows his eyes at me, like I’m the one in the wrong here, because I made her cry.

Anna’s desperation for forgiveness is a palpable thing, but I don’t have forgiveness in my heart. I’m not sure I ever will where she’s concerned.

“Careful with this one,” I tell Wesley, wanting to lash out at Anna some more. “She’s a liar.”

He steps protectively in front of her, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s enough,” he growls. “I know you two have history and I know it ended badly, but you have no idea what she’s gone through since then.”

“And you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. If you did, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that,” I fire back, my voice rising above the rest of the chatter. The surrounding tables quiet and heads turn in our direction, trying to hear what’s going on. I need to get out of here. My collar all of the sudden feels like it’s choking me.

Quinn takes my hand and squeezes it. “Hey, I think we need to get back to dinner.” That’s the exact opposite of what I want to do after a run-in with the most painful part of my past, but I don’t resist when she leads me back to the table. I need to get this dinner over with. Then I plan to get drunk. This is why I avoid relationships—the only thing love ever gave me was a broken heart.

“Told you he would propose,” Dom elbows me on the way out. It was all I could do to stay at the table until after dinner, when Ben did indeed propose to Tabby. The crowd sucked it up just as eagerly as they did the scene between Anna and me at the bar. The minute I could get away without risking my mom’s fury, Quinn and I said our goodbyes, and I was surprised to see Dom and Samantha right behind us.

“You called it. I just hope Tabby is happy,” I say.

“Did you see her face? She’s glowing,” Quinn points out.

“She did look happy,” I admit. We turn in our tickets to the valet attendant and wait for them to bring our cars up.

“Hey, you okay?” Dom asks.

Fucking hell. “I’m fine,” I grunt, hoping he isn’t going to bring up Anna.

He raises his hands in a don’t shoot manner. “Sorry, I just know how messed up you were after you two broke it off. It had to be hard to see her.”

“It was unexpected. I should have figured she might be there, though. Her parents were members at Green Briars when we were younger, too.” Back then, Anna and I were so happy that our parents were members of the same country club because sometimes we could sneak off and fuck in the bathrooms.

“It’s a shame she never went to medical school like she planned.”

There are a lot of things about Anna that I would call a shame; her change in career plans is not one of them.

“Yeah, it’s a real pity,” I retort wryly.

“Well, at least you followed your dreams.” Dom smiles at me, meeting my eyes. “You’ve wanted to be a photographer since you got your very first camera. I’m proud of you, Charlie.”

He’s proud of me. Not once in all my life have my parents uttered those words. There’s a strange burning sensation in the back of my throat and my eyes feel hot as I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

I’m saved by the valet, who hands Dom his keys. He hugs me, slapping my shoulder, and we say our goodbyes. Then it’s just me and Quinn. She’s been quiet this whole time, not asking for any answers. I’m grateful, as I don’t want to give them.

“So, you have two options,” she tells me.

“Only two?” I try to bring some levity to my voice, but the last couple of hours have me feeling raw. “And what might they be?”

“Option one: I can take you to a bar, get you drunk, and take advantage of you.”

“I like the sound of that one, Red. What’s option two?”

“You can come back to my place, get drunk, and paint with me.”

“Paint with you?” I raise my eyebrows. I am not talented with a paintbrush.

“Painting is fun. Plus, you’ll get drunk no matter which option you choose.”

“Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.” I rub my fingers together, watching her. “Will you still take advantage of me at your house?”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll take option two please.” I surprise myself with my choice, but I need a distraction right now. Being in public around people does not sound very appealing, and the idea of watching Quinn paint has my curiosity piqued.

“Excellent.”

20 minutes later, Quinn has stripped me down to my underwear so I don’t mess up my clothes, poured us each a drink, and led me to her art studio. I’ve never been in here before and I’m impressed with how tidy it is—I imagined it to be a mess. She has several easels, three of them with pieces in different states of completion. Waist-high carts sit next to each one so she can keep the items she needs for each piece handy, and one wall has a massive shelving system with supplies. There is even a sink and short countertop for cleanup. The room has huge windows, and I can imagine she gets a lot of natural light in here during the day.

We’re in here to paint, but my fingers itch to get out my camera and take pictures of everything. Quinn puts a blank canvas on one of the easels, gives me a palette, and pours a healthy heap of different colors on it.

“Are you ready for the rules?” She quirks her eyebrow at me.

“Rules? You should have told me there were rules before. I’m not much for following rules, Red.”

“You’ll like these, I promise.”

“Okay, tell me the rules.” I take a healthy swig of my drink before she collects it, puts it on the counter, and hands me a paintbrush.

“Rule number one: don’t think, just feel.”

I sigh. Well that kind of defeats the idea of distraction. I don’t want to feel.

“Rule number two: there are no mistakes.”

I laugh at this. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that one.”

“I’m not wrong. Those are the rules of my studio,” she huffs. I take Quinn in as she sets herself up. She doesn’t have a canvas on her easel like I do; instead she has a gigantic pad of paper and a charcoal set on her cart. She’s wearing a paint-splattered t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh and leggings—also paint splattered—in combination with her makeup and fancy hairdo. Anyone else might look ridiculous, but she manages to look carefree and sexy.

“Is there a rule number three?” I ask her.

“Nope, that’s it. Okay hotstuff, I need music when I create, so what’s your pleasure tonight?”

“Heavy metal.” I need something angry.

“Perfect. I have just the thing.” She links her phone up to a stereo system I didn’t notice before and the sounds of Metallica blare through little speakers placed all over the room. Wow.

“Okay, no more talking. Become one with your brush. Dip it in some paint and smear it on the paper. I don’t care what it looks like,” she orders me.

The heavy beat vibrates in my chest and I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. I’m not much for drawing people or landscapes. I look over to Quinn and see she has turned her easel so she’s facing me and I can’t see what she’s drawing. She’s busy, picking up different pieces of charcoal, bobbing her head to the beat. She isn’t watching what I’m doing at all. Don’t think.

I take a deep breath, smear my paintbrush in some red paint, and splatter the wet paint onto the canvas. Red drops land with plopping sounds and it looks like blood. I do it again, and again, and again. Some of the drops begin to drip, and it makes me want to connect them on the bottom of the canvas. I drag the brush through the lower half, and it feels good to see the angry slash my brush makes. I drag it back and forth. Minutes pass and I find myself singing to the music and sweating.

I look back over my shoulder to find Quinn watching me, smiling.

My canvas looks like a murder scene. It screams rage. Horror. Anger.

But surprisingly, I feel better. It’s like I ejected all my feelings out of me and they landed on the canvas.

Huh. Maybe there’s something to this painting thing. It’s quite cathartic.

Now that I’m done with my piece, I can’t help but want to see what Quinn has drawn.

 

IT’S NOT EVERY DAY I have a living, breathing muse right in front of me. I started with his eyes; those are always the hardest to draw. I tried to capture the intensity of his gaze as he worked on his piece. He was in pain.

Then I got distracted by his hands, the way they gripped the paintbrush. They’re strong masculine hands, hands that know how to pluck and pinch and stroke my body in all the right ways.

Now I’m working on his torso. He has sculpted his body with just the perfect amount of muscle—not too bulky, but not too lean either. I blend the charcoal to try to capture the contour of his muscles when he leans forward to paint.

I love watching him get lost in his piece. He hasn’t drawn a picture; rather, he’s captured feelings of anger and pain in an abstract way. I’m sure he’ll think it’s garbage, but it’s amazing.

I’m dying to know what happened with him and that girl, Anna. I know better than to ask him, though; he’ll tell me if he wants me to know. Just like I don’t want to talk about Reid, I can respect if he doesn’t want to talk about his past.

He puts his brush down and looks over at me, raising an eyebrow. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his body from his efforts.

“Not too shabby, hotshot,” I compliment.

He looks a bit embarrassed. “I’m not quite sure what it is, but it did make me feel better. Is art therapeutic for you?”

“Of course, that’s why I started painting. It was an escape from real life. Now, I crave it.”

“Can I see what you made?” he asks me.

“Come on over.” I collect the two previous pieces and lay all three next to each other. Charcoal is so much fun to work with.

Charlie makes his way over to my easel and his eyes widen in surprise.

“I had no idea you drew people so well. This is amazing,” he says sincerely.

“You make a good muse.” I bump his shoulder.

“Obviously.”

We chuckle. “Don’t worry, you can have these. I’m not going to sell them or anything.”

“What am I going to do with drawings of myself? You can do whatever you want with them, Red. It’s your talent.”

“Okay. What do you want to do with your piece?” I ask him.

“Burn it?” He laughs. “It’s hideous.”

“No way. Can I try to sell it at my next showing? I’ll give you the money,” I offer.

“No one is going to want that thing. I am not an artist,” he protests.

“I beg to differ, but if no one wants it then it won’t sell, no harm done.” I shrug.

“Fine,” he concedes, if a bit grumpily.

“I think you forgot about our other mission tonight,” I point out. His glass is still half full of the drink I poured him earlier.

“Is this the part where I get to take advantage of you?” He quirks an eyebrow up, smiling at me with his devilish grin.

“I was referring to the getting drunk part, but I won’t complain if you want to take advantage of me.” I smile coyly back at him.

“Can I fuck you here, in this room?” he asks me, his gaze traveling down my form. I’m a total mess. I’m wearing paint-splattered clothes and charcoal must be everywhere. I blend and shade with my fingers, so I always find smudges all over my body after I work with it.

“I’m a mess, Charlie. Let me at least clean up.”

“You’re perfect.” His eyes blaze with hunger and my protest dies a sudden death at the way he’s looking at me. He takes my charcoal-smeared fingers and places them on his sweaty chest. “Besides, don’t you remember how much I like being your canvas?”

I think back to his cock smeared with my red lipstick all over it. Fuck, that was hot. “Speaking of which, I never got those pictures,” I complain.

“I’ll send them to you right now,” he offers.

I slide my hands down his chest and abs, diving right into his underwear. His cock is not yet fully erect, but it’s getting there, and I give it a tentative squeeze.

“Send them to me later.”

He grunts as I stroke his dick. “I need your pussy, Red,” he whispers into my ear, palming my ass.

“My pussy just so happens to be available.”

He picks me up abruptly and walks us over to the counter. He sets me down, crouches in front of me, and leans his face into my crotch. My hands go to his head, fingers running through his hair as he rests there for a second, nuzzling the apex of my thighs. I can’t get a good read on what he’s feeling right now. Painting seemed to help clear his head, but he still isn’t quite back to normal after his run-in this afternoon.

He reaches for the waist of my pants and looks up. He stares at me so intensely it makes my pulse kick up. Slowly, he takes my clothes off, holding my gaze with every movement he makes. I feel like I’m caught in a trap.

Once I’m completely naked, he lifts me and sets me on the counter. The surface is cold, but it feels good on my overheated skin. Music still pours out of the speakers, heavy and angry. He touches me, fingers tracing my lips, then my chin, down my neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He watches his fingers move, making patterns on my skin, and I realize he’s tracing my freckles.

“Spread your legs,” he orders. I’m so glad for him to be bossing me around like his usual self that I forget to be annoyed. I comply, leaning back on the counter and spreading my legs open. My cunt is soaking wet; I’m sure he can see it glistening.

Instead of stepping between my legs like I want him to, he backs up, looking at the supplies I have stocked on my shelves next to us. He looks side to side, scanning each shelf, then sees a new package of paintbrushes. He quirks an eyebrow up at me and goes to retrieve it.

“Mind if I open this?” he asks.

“You planning on using a paintbrush?” I ask him, confused.

“Yes,” he says, without further explanation.

“Okay,” I say, curious as to what he’s going to do next. My nipples have hardened to tight little nubs and my clit is a live wire, begging for relief. As he opens up the package and takes out a brush, I shift, closing my legs to rub my thighs together.

“Keep them open,” he corrects in a deep, authoritative tone. Fuck, that’s hot.

“I need you to touch me,” I complain, spreading my legs as open as I can comfortably have them on this counter.

He ignores this and rinses one of the brushes in the sink then dries it with a towel, trying to squeeze all the water out of the bristles. Taking the newly cleaned paintbrush in hand, he goes to collect a stool and sets it in front of me. He sits and his head ends up right in between my legs. Yes. I want his mouth on me, his fingers, anything at this point.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs.

“What are you—” I begin to ask.

“Red,” he interrupts. “I’m going to get a condom. Just lean back, close your eyes, and relax. I’m going to make you feel good,” he promises.

I nod and do as he says. His footsteps pad to the door and through it, leaving me in silence for a couple minutes. I try to just empty my mind. I feel the way my lungs expand with each breath, the excited thrum of my pulse, the hard wall behind my head, the cool surface of the counter under my hands and legs. The smell of paint lingers in the air, but instead of being unpleasant, it’s familiar. I relax into the moment and try to imagine what Charlie is doing right now. Is he back yet? What’s taking so long?

The song changes and “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails comes on. Fuck, what a good song. The insistent beat of the music fills the room, seemingly louder than the last song, and it makes me feel electric. My skin tingles, waiting for something, anything.

Then I feel something cold and soft and wet on the inside of my thigh, right next to my knee. Must be the paintbrush, I realize. It feels…good, not what I expected. He drags it up my leg, the damp bristles causing goose bumps. Higher, I think, touch my pussy. But when he reaches the crease where my thigh meets my sex, he skips over and drags the brush down the other thigh. Bastard.

“Charlie,” I whine.

“Shhh.” The brush travels lazily along my other leg and back up again, over my hip this time, circling my navel, then up toward my nipple. Yes. I welcome the attention to my nipples, loving the feel of the soft, wet bristles on the sensitive skin. I lean into this touch, needing more.

The lyrics start and they ratchet up my arousal. This is the absolute sexiest song to fuck to. I need him. My clit needs him. I spread my legs farther apart, tilting my hips up as if to show him my pussy.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Trying to show me something? I see it, Red. Your pussy is soaked for me.”

I shiver at his words, his voice smooth velvet. My focus is on the one point of contact he has—that paintbrush. It swirls around both nipples, going back and forth, and then finally it travels toward my pelvis. Keep going.

It brushes over my pubic hair then travels down the crease of my right thigh and up the crease of my left thigh, just missing all the parts that are screaming for attention. He is torturing me, and my thighs start to tremble with need. I move my hips to chase the paintbrush, but he chuckles and moves it out of reach. My eyes are still closed, so I can’t see him, but I feel his breath on my thigh, just inches away from where I want him to bury his tongue—or his cock.

Fuck, I’d even take the paintbrush right now.

I’m desperate.

He’s apparently a mind reader because the next thing I feel is a swipe of the paintbrush up the center of my pussy. He circles my opening, collecting my arousal, and then sweeps it up and over my clit, painting my pussy with my desire. Up and down, around my clit, then up and down again.

“Oh, God,” I cry. I rock my hips, seeking out more friction. My entire pussy is slick, but the paintbrush is too soft. I won’t be able to come like this. I need more.

I think Charlie finally needs more, too, because I hear the paintbrush clatter on the countertop, then the rustle of the condom wrapper. He steps in between my legs, gripping my hips to pull me closer to the edge of the counter, and our skin collides. His skin is hot, his touch strong. His mouth meets mine in a sloppy kiss as he thrusts inside. I’m so wet he slides all the way in.

“Fuck,” he curses. “This is going to be fast, Red. Hold on.”

I wrap my arms and legs around him as he cradles my head in one hand and takes hold of my waist in the other. Then he fucks me.

It’s fast.

It’s hard.

It’s animalistic.

It’s fucking amazing.

His sweat drips onto my skin as he pounds into me and I clutch at his back, holding on tight. The backdrop of the music feeds our frenzy. We’re eating at each other’s mouths, grunting, pleading, moaning, cursing. Before I know it I’m there, right on the edge of orgasm. I buck up, trying to chase my pleasure, but it remains just out of my reach. With an agonized groan, Charlie’s movements begin to get uncoordinated and he leans down to bite my shoulder. The unexpected burst of pain does it, and I teeter over the precipice of pleasure, shattering in his arms. His orgasm hits right after mine and he clutches me to him, slowly pumping his cock in and out, milking the high.

That was intense.

We hold each other, panting as our senses return.

“Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses starts and the intense, animalistic, I-want-to-devour-you mood is broken. Charlie chuckles. I love hearing that light sound.

“Feel better?” I ask him.

“Definitely.”