Page 15 of It Hurts Me

He lifted his gaze and stared at me.

I stared back.

When I didn’t yell at him, he slowly closed the lid of his laptop to give me his full attention.

I sat in one of the armchairs.

He continued to stare at me as he waited for me to say something.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

He came around the desk and sat in the other armchair, his chin propped on his closed knuckles, his elbow on the armrest. He stared at the side of my face, his skin illuminated by the flames.

“Let’s try it.”

His eyebrows slowly rose up his face in surprise. “You made it very clear how opposed you are to this.”

“I know.” I was still opposed to it. It still hurt. “But I love you.” I couldn’t look at him as I said it. Our relationship wasn’t what I wanted it to be, but I knew I loved him. I’d loved him the moment we met. We fell hard and fast, a whirlwind that didn’t stop until we’d tied the knot. I was afraid if I denied his request, he would just cheat on me and that would hurt a lot more. “If this is what you want.”

“It’s not what I want unless you’re okay with it.”

I stared at the floor.

“Are you okay with it, Astrid?”

I nodded.

“I’m going to need more than that.”

I raised my chin and finally looked at him, and it hurt to see that face, to imagine another woman’s lips on that mouth I’d kissed so many times. It was hard to imagine him naked and inside someone else, fucking someone else while I slept alone. It hurt like hell, but I was afraid if I didn’t accept it, I would lose him. “I’m okay with it, Bolton.”

Despite their unpopularity, the paintings that Theo had selected were expensive. Some of them were hundreds of years old. Pieces of history that only a few people had ever witnessed. They were carefully wrapped and the corners secured with padded edges before they were transferred.

I informed George before my arrival, and the transport team arrived outside the gates and began the process of unloading the paintings from the truck and bringing them into the palace where Theo lived alone.

The second we walked inside, I felt the heat across my flesh, feeling that man’s presence even though he was nowhere in the room. His essence was in every inch of the hardwood floor, the luxurious rugs, the portraits that hung on the walls.

The paintings were carried upstairs to the study and leaned against the pieces of furniture so they wouldn’t scuff the walls. Unpacking each piece would take time, so I worked on that while the guys left. I still had to take my measurements and then ask Theo where he wanted each one. Knowing him, he probably didn’t care, but I would never be that presumptuous.

I unwrapped each painting and made a pile of trash to take back with me, rolls of plastic and tape and padding. His walls were twelve feet high, so the paintings were substantial and grand enough to fill the space appropriately.

I was on my knees, loosening the tape from one corner, and I couldn’t explain it, I just knew Theo was there, standing behind me. Raindrops started to hit the window at that very moment, like he brought it with him.

Footsteps sounded, and then he appeared beside me, down on one knee to help me, even though it wasn’t his job.

He was shirtless. And barefoot. Just in gray sweatpants like it was a Sunday morning rather than a Tuesday afternoon.

I tried to focus on the painting and not look at him beside me. “You don’t have to help me.”

He didn’t address what I said. Instead, he lifted the painting and turned it on to an alternative set of corners so he could pull the tape off another section.

I was still on my knees when I looked up at him, seeing the muscles of his body segmented by distinct shadows, the cuts of muscle up and down his arms, the tightness of his strong stomach, the defined lines over his narrow hips.

It was a cold winter day, but it felt like summertime in Death Valley.

He finished pulling off the tape and tossed it into the pile I already made.

“Thanks.” I forced myself to stare at the painting instead of him.