Violet
Days. That’s how long it had been since Stark stayed the night and we ate breakfast in the barely working Jeep.
Even though I kinda didn’t want to admit it to myself, the truth still stared me in the face.
I missed him.
He texted, though, every day. He would ask if I was feeling okay, something I wasn’t used to. Not on a daily basis anyway. I mean, sure, my parents called every few days to check in, and I talked to Vance every night. But Vance didn’t ask about my RA unless he could sense I was having trouble. That’s one of the reasons he was my best friend.
He got it. He understood it was serious, but he also knew there was more to life than what was wrong with me. Instead, we talked about classes, clothes, and designing. I sent him my weekly comic strip, and he kept me updated on everything in my hometown in Pennsylvania.
Stark’s concern was nice, though. In fact, every time my phone went off, little butterflies would swirl around in my midsection, and I would have to hold myself back from diving on my phone in anticipation it might be him.
I mean, really. It was kinda pathetic.
I still did it, though.
It was sweet how he seemed so interested in my wellbeing. Baffling, though, he was interested in me. I mean, let’s be honest here. We weren’t exactly a likely couple. If this were high school, we’d be voted most likely to never date.
Not that we were dating.
You know what I mean, though. He was good looking and smooth. He was confident and had this air of rhythm about him.
And I was—well, me. Soft, kinda squishy, with imperfect skin and an imperfect body (inside and out). I wasn’t saying I wasn’t pretty. I was, in my own way. I had pretty eyes and hair. I was talented with a pencil, and I was kind to people. At least I tried to be.
Some people, though… some people I wanted to stab with my drawing pencils.
I mean, if I didn’t actually stab them, I could still consider myself a good person. It was all about balance, right?
I sure as hell hoped so.
All these thoughts floated through the back of my mind as my hand worked over the page. I was working on a new comic, but I wasn’t so sure if I would submit this one to the paper. It was more… personal. Submitting or not, though, I felt compelled to create it. That was art. Some emotions, some visions swirled beneath your skin, created a fog in your mind, and pushed out everything else until you succumbed to giving them life.
Once I got this finished, I planned to pull out a project I hadn’t worked on in a while.
Another project that was just for me.
One I hoped might someday see the light of day, just in a larger capacity than the local newspaper.
That will only happen if you get your head out of your ass and make it a priority. I scolded myself.
I set aside the pencil, scrutinizing a section of the drawing, and then went at it with my finger, smudging and blending the lines I’d just made.
My attention was thwarted by a sudden and unexpected knock on the door. I pulled out the one earbud in my right ear and dropped it on the couch.
The sketchbook lay abandoned on the coffee table when I padded across the room in my slippers. My hands trembled a little because you know exactly who I was hoping it to be. Before I pulled open the door, I shook out my hands, as if it would somehow shake free the sudden jitters I had.
Strands of my hair flew back over my shoulders with the force of me yanking open the door. I stopped and blinked, my brain trying to catch up with what I saw.
Right there front and center staring at me was a ripped-out section of last week’s newspaper. The section with my comic strip on it.
I had two reactions:
1. Laughter, because that comic was seriously funny.
And
2. Excitement. Not for the comic, though, but for the boy holding it.
“What’s this?” I said, an obvious smile in my voice.
The paper crinkled a little when he yanked it down and grinned widely at me. “You didn’t tell me your work got published on a weekly basis.”
“My work gets published by the local paper every week in the form of a comic strip,” I reiterated.
Stark made a sexy sound, the kind of sound that made me forget we were having a conversation, and rushed me. His body plowed into mine, his arms wrapping around me, making sure I didn’t fall as he basically bulldozed us back into my dorm room.
The door made a definitive sound when he pushed it closed with this foot. The paper he’d been holding fluttered to the floor, and his hands were suddenly buried in my hair. All the oxygen in my body whooshed out of me in surprise but also in expectation of the lips so quickly lowering to mine.
Oh, could he kiss.
Stark had the kind of lips that made a girl forget she needed air. The kind of tongue that erased away entire worlds and an overall presence like a drug that created addicts after only the smallest of hits.
His hand was so big it cradled my head, his thumb stroked along my cheekbone, and his body curled around mine. My hands clutched his biceps until they were too weak to actually grip him.
As if he knew I was in danger of melting right at his feet, Stark grabbed both my hands and guided them up and around his neck. The movement brought my body fully against his, and I sighed dramatically into his mouth.
He laughed even as he kissed me, changed direction, and assaulted me all over again.
Oh, it wasn’t fair. How easily I came apart in his arms. How fast heat suffused my skin and made my limbs tingly and heavy. I knew I probably couldn’t make him melt this way, but I wanted to try. Even if I was fifty percent successful, I would call it a win.
Tightening my fingers at the base of his neck, I pressed closer. The sound of our ragged breathing between each desperate kiss filled the space and only added to my desire. Pulling back just slightly, I licked over his bottom lip and then sucked it into my mouth. His arms, which had wrapped tightly around my waist, slid down, down until his palms were filled with my ass.
I sucked a little deeper, and he groaned. Emboldened, I released his lower lip and went after the upper. After I tormented it the same way, I licked across his mouth and smiled.
“Hot damn,” he rasped. The hat always on his head was ripped away, and his forehead found its way against mine. “I’d ask you how you feel.” He smiled slowly. “But I already know.” His hands flexed against my ass. “One hundred percent fine as hell.”
I lifted my chin, inviting him in for another kiss.
His eyes flashed to mine. Something that looked a whole lot like tenderness filled his gaze before he dropped and pressed a soft caress to my offered lips.
“So,” he said, easing back so he could look me over. “If I go outside and knock again, would I get another greeting just like that one?”
I giggled because the answer was probably yes.
“Working on something new?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow in interest, noticing my sketchbook on the table.
He went for it, but I was faster, beating him to it. Quickly, I lifted the book and flipped it over, hiding what I’d been working on.
He gasped and pressed a hand over his heart. “Your secrecy wounds me.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not done.”
He bent and swiped up the comic he’d brought over. “This one wasn’t either when I first saw it.”
“I didn’t want you looking at that one either.” I reminded him, smugly crossing my arms over my chest.
He grinned as if he’d gotten away with something.
I was very, very worried it was more than just a glimpse at an unfinished drawing.
I thought he was running off with my heart.
“Not even a little peek?” He cajoled.
“No,” I said, stubborn.
“Fine.” He agreed and turned to walk across the room. “How about you tell me about some of your other stuff?” He gestured to the small part of the room that had canvases leaning against the wall, pastels exploding out of a box, and various other supplies scattered around.
He stopped in front of the largest canvas on display. It was a butterfly. Actually, I’d done a series of butterflies, ranging from a caterpillar all the way to the transformation into the butterfly. Noting how he seemed really struck by it, I pulled a few of the others from behind it, lining them up in order.
“They tell a story,” he murmured.
“A caterpillar to a butterfly.” I agreed. “Just when he thought his life was over…” My voice faded.
“He transformed,” Stark replied, still staring at the main image. He moved closer, lightly running his finger over one of the wings. I’d chosen orange and black with small pops of white for the wings. I thought it was a striking color combination.
His eyes moved from the canvas to me. “This is beautiful.”
I felt shy under the weight of his praise. But it felt good. “Thank you.”
He glanced back at it, taking in all the canvases again. Something about the way he studied them pulled at my heart.
Clearing my throat, I asked, “You came over to ask me about my art?”
He turned around, bestowing upon me a wicked smile. My heart rate accelerated. “No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.”
I shrugged and moved to stand beside him. “Drawing is my main passion. I like the comic style, the cartoonish art. It’s not very respected in the art world, though. It’s considered sort of mediocre.”
“Are you shitting me?” He scoffed. “Let me guess. The ones who make the rules are hoity-toity suit types that probably don’t even create anything other than facial expressions to make themselves appear interested and knowledgeable.”
I laughed. “I’ve had similar thoughts,” I remarked, then snickered.
“Have those dudes never seen Journal of a Wimpy Student or any of the other comic-style novels taking over the shelves? I mean, shit, even the Hollywood scene is all about that life. Look at all the movies they’re turning out based on the books.”
I glanced over at him, startled.
“What?” He held out his hands. “I know shit.”
Something about his impassioned little speech, the way he scoffed that my work might not be considered legitimate, hit me in all the right places. Places I was trying to keep from him. Not only that, but the passion in his voice, the hint of knowledge.
“You’ve seen that trend in books?” I asked, interested.
“Do I live under a rock?” He mocked.
“Well, you aren’t exactly a middle-grade reader.” I grinned wickedly. “Although, your maturity level is questionable.”
“Ha. Ha,” he said and poked me in the ribs. I squealed and twisted away. Looking smug, as though he’d gotten the better of me, Stark rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m actually not that familiar with the books, but I know of the movies they’re making.”
I nodded. Made sense. Movies were advertised more.
“Why do you look like you have a squirrel running on a wheel in your brain right now?”
I made a face. “Ew.”
He gestured because apparently that was an actual question that required an actual answer. “I’m trying to decide how much I trust you,” I replied seriously.
Stark turned fully to face me, something in his eyes shuttered. It made my stomach clench. “Why?”
“I want to show you something. Something I haven’t showed anyone before.”
His shoulders relaxed, and a smile softened the wary look in his eyes. “Is it your boobs?”
A laugh burst right out of me. I covered my mouth with my hand, still giggling. “Seriously!” I said when I was able. “Do you think of only one thing?”
“When you’re standing in front of me and I haven’t been able to scratch that insanely scratchy itch? Um, yes.”
My head ducked automatically. His response made me blush, and it was embarrassing. After I recovered, I lifted my face. “I hate to break it to you, but the girls have been—”
“Stop right there,” he intoned, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about anyone looking at you. Anyone that isn’t me.”
Geez, he was intense sometimes. Heaven help me, I liked it.
Clearing my throat, I went over to a nearby drawer and pulled out a special notebook, carrying it over to where he was.
“I’ve been working on this, kind of as a hobby. Kind of as a dream…” I held out the heavy spiral-bound book, and when his hand closed around it, mine had trouble letting go.
“I can’t open it unless you let me,” he said soft.
I let go and then stared as he opened up the cover and stared down. He was quiet, probably more silent than I’d ever heard as his eyes traveled over the pages I already knew so well. Then he would flip to another and then another.
At one point, his mouth kicked up in a small smile. His eyes glanced up at me and then went back down to devour more of the pages.
My thumbnail found its way into my mouth, and I started chewing it. I had a nasty habit of biting my nails when I was nervous. Without looking up, Stark reached out and pulled my hand away from my mouth.
Finally, he glanced up. “You did this?”
I nodded.
“It’s a freaking book,” he said, awe in his voice. “Like the kind we were just talking about.”
“Well, it’s not as good.”
“No.” He agreed. “It’s fucking way better.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“It’s a complete story, and the images you’ve drawn, the two go seamlessly together.”
“It still needs some work,” I said, not willing to accept such high praise. “And I haven’t written the ending.”
Stark’s blue gaze finally released the pages before him to capture my eyes instead. “This is too good to be sitting in a drawer, Vi.”
“You think it could get published?” I asked, voicing something I wanted so much, but never allowed myself to think was possible.
“Not even those hoity-toity art critics could deny the talent in these pages,” he told me. “I mean, you not only created a story with words, but you added the perfect visual. Kids are going to love this.”
“Well, it’s for older kids, like middle grade-ish…” I said, worrying suddenly I’d made it too young.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Totally.”
My heart fluttered, and happiness filled me. It was the first time I’d ever taken a chance and showed someone what I was working on. The first time I told someone about my dreams beyond drawing for a newspaper.
He liked it.
It meant so much to me.
Carefully, almost reverently, he closed the cover and handed it back to me. “You need to finish that and then send it somewhere. Get a manager.”
“You mean an agent?” I said, wrinkling my nose.
“Yeah. One of them.” His head cocked to the side. “But not a bossy one, not one who thinks they can run your entire life and tell you what to do.”
“That is, um… very specific.” I pointed out.
He grimaced, and I went to put the book away.
“So if you didn’t come here to see my art…” I began. “Why did you come over?”
“I reached my limit,” he said simply.
“Your limit?”
Stark’s stare found mine. “The limit of days I could go without seeing you.”
“Frankly,” I informed him, “I’m offended it took so long.”
A low predatory growl filled the room. He stalked over and pulled me gently into his chest. His kiss was like before… all consuming.
Chemistry and desire sizzled my skin, and I grasped his face to pull him even closer.
We kissed until air was absolutely essential, and both of us were gasping for breath when we finally pulled away. The second my lungs were full, I glanced at him and laughed.
“What?”
“You have pencil on your face.” I held up my finger, the one I’d been using as a tool.
He grunted like he didn’t care. I leaned up to rub it off with a clean finger, and those sparks that never seemed to die down crackled once more.
“I like you better without a hat,” I confided as I brushed the last of it away. “I like being able to see your eyes.”
“Come out with me tonight,” he said abruptly.
I pulled back and looked at him with a question in my eyes. “You want to go out?”
He nodded. “With you.”
It wasn’t even Friday yet. I had class tomorrow.
“A real date,” he invited, but it was more of a dare. “I’ll dance with you.”
Or maybe it was a bribe.
I was tempted. So tempted.
“I don’t like to dance,” I stuttered, even though I was mentally kicking myself.
“Everyone likes to dance,” he refuted.
I shrugged one shoulder. I wasn’t going to argue. I already stated how I felt.
He moved directly in front of me, slipping along my body like he knew it. Like his body belonged there. “If you don’t like to dance, it’s because you’ve never had a skilled partner before.”
And then he started to move.
He oozed confidence. Purpose. He knew exactly where his body was and where he wanted it to go. He anticipated a beat only he could, following along with it like perhaps he wrote all the chords.
He used his limbs like a fine-tuned instrument, made music where there was none.
He felt solid against me.
Sure.
There was something about the way he moved, the way he felt plastered close that caused the bottom to fall out of my stomach, and a soft buzzing sound began in the back of my head, slowly blocking out everything else.
His hand slid around, cupping my hip, but not stopping. It curled around until he was full-on palming my ass. He wasn’t feeling me up, though; he was dancing. Using my body as an anchor for his.
“Like this,” he urged. I swore his voice dropped about twelve octaves. Chills broke out over my arms. “Move with me.”
He pressed against my ass, brought his other hand around and flattened it out there to. With both his oversized hands cupping the roundness of my butt, my body obeyed him, undulating under the direction of his hands. I knew when I started moving the way he liked because his fingers spasmed against my ass.
“Come dancing with me,” he said again.
Of course I said yes. My body spoke before words could even form on my tongue. It was the only answer to give.