Page 50 of It Hurts Me

“Theo, you’re sweet?—”

“I’m not being sweet. If you want to be a painter, then paint. It’s that simple.”

“Making art is more complicated.”

“Nothing is complicated if you have discipline.”

I set my fork down and looked at him. “I think you’re being a little pushy.”

“You need a push, sweetheart. You said it’s your passion in life. So, either do it…or accept that it’s not your passion.” His elbows were on the table, and he looked at me as he held his fork in his grasp. “Except the second option isn’t really an option.”

I looked down at my plate again, my crêpe half-eaten. I didn’t usually eat breakfast, and I forgot how scrumptious it could be.

He let it go. “Are you free tonight?”

My gaze returned to his. “I haven’t even left, and you want to see me again?” I didn’t know where this relationship with Theo would lead, but I did wonder if he would drop me after we fucked. After he got what he wanted, he might lose interest and turn his attention elsewhere.

He took a drink of his coffee. “Is that a yes?”

Bolton wouldn’t be home until tomorrow afternoon. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Then come by after work.”

I’d expected to spend my night alone, but I had another night with this man, another evening with his warmth and affection. That filled me with a jolt of excitement that I didn’t anticipate feeling. He fucked me good and left me satisfied, but it only made me want more. “Alright.”

I usually enjoyed being at work, but now, it felt like a drag. One of my regular clients came in to see the new shipment of artwork we received, and normally, I was excited for these kinds of days, but all I could think about was the man who had asked me to sleep over another night. Nothing else seemed to matter.

The hours dragged by, and finally, five o’clock arrived.

I texted him when I got to the car. You still want me to come over?

His attitude was in full force. Did I say otherwise?

Okay. I’m on my way.

Good.

I drove to his villa then parked in the parking garage, in the same spot I’d left that morning. I took the elevator and entered his dark and brooding villa, the place that was always quiet, like a beast lurked on the top floor and never left.

I didn’t see George, so I made my way upstairs, assuming that was where Theo was. I entered his primary suite and found that it’d been tidied while I was out for the day. All the surfaces were shiny, like they’d been dusted. His bed was made, and the pillows were fluffed.

But there was no Theo.

I entered the room with his bed and stopped when I spotted the new addition to the furniture. An easel with a blank canvas was sitting there. Paints and brushes were placed on a table beside the stool. It was on top of a black rug, something to capture the spilled paint and protect the hardwood floor underneath. The curtains were open, showing the fading light as the winter sun set.

On the table was a note written in a man’s handwriting. Sit your ass down and get to it. I’ll see you at dinner. I read the note multiple times, absorbing his handwriting and the words he’d written by hand, hearing his powerful voice in my head.

I set the note aside and stared at the blank canvas, releasing a slow breath when I felt the daunting task in front of me. It’d been a while since I’d felt creative in any capacity. After Bolton asked for an open marriage, everything in me felt stunted. I took a seat and noticed the apron sitting there, crisp and white, ready to be destroyed by paint. I decided to take off my clothes so I wouldn’t ruin them, leaving only my thong on, and then got to work.

I didn’t hear Theo when he walked in. I felt him when he drew close enough.

In just his sweatpants, he came close, examining the canvas that was now splashed with color. His arms crossed over his chest as he looked at it.

“It’s nowhere near done.” It didn’t look like much right now because I layered the background with color, trying to capture the dining room with the window in the background, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “I start on the outside and work my way in.”

He didn’t compliment my work and give me false praise. “How long does it take to make a painting?”

“It’s different every time, but at least a week for me.”