Crash into Me (Heart of Stone #1)(20)
Author: K.M. Scott

Tristan pulled a chair out from the corner of the room and sat down, motioning for me to join him. "Come sit on my lap, Nina. I want you to tell me how this makes you feel."

I sat down on his lap and noticed that he wasn’t aroused. He pulled my face toward his and kissed me hard, sending a rush of excitement through my body.

"Don’t you like watching them?" I asked as I ran my palm over the front of his pants.

His tongue slid over his lip, and he grinned. "It does nothing for me."

"Me neither," I lied. In truth, he did it for me. I couldn’t have cared less if the people doing their sex act disappeared and never came back.

Sliding his hand slowly up my leg, he gently stroked the tender skin of my inner thigh. "Nina, watch them. I want you to show me in your painting what it makes you feel."

I leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Watching them fuck doesn’t make me feel anything, Tristan. You make me feel."

He closed his eyes and exhaled again. "Then paint what I make you feel, Nina."

I stood and walked to the easel to begin painting how he made me feel. I dipped my paintbrush first into red and then blue, pushing it swiftly across the canvas as I let my emotions come out for him to see. The frustration of always wanting more. The need he created in me to make him as happy as he made me. The fear that our differences were too great and would someday tear us apart. They all came out in the reds and blues that filled the picture.

His stare felt hot on my back, and I turned to see him watching me, intently interested in my work. Could he see how much he affected me and how much I wanted him? Was my painting telling him everything I so wished I could?

I looked up over my easel to see the couple had moved to full out fucking, but Tristan remained focused on me. He gave me a smile that nearly melted my insides. "Feeling the muse?"

"Yes," I answered shyly, timid he might disapprove of my work.

"Can I see?"

"Not yet."

My paintbrush continued its dance through the colors as I blurred the lines and edges to soften the ribbons of feeling he created in me. Finally, I dipped my brush into warm brown paint and began to form the abstract images of his eyes, always on me, watching me. Showing me the tenderness I believed existed deep within him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand from his chair and walk toward me. Unsure of how he’d judge my feelings, I raised my arms to hide my work, but he moved around me and slid his arms around my waist.

In my ear, he said low and hoarse, "Tell me what you feel, Nina."

I wanted so much to tell him how he made me feel, but all I could do was let my painting speak for me. Turning my attention to the couple to avoid Tristan’s critical eye, I held my breath as he studied the colors and hues of my emotions.

He pulled me to him and softly placed kisses over my neck. "The colors are beautiful, Nina. Tell me what I should see."

"The reds and blues represent my frustration and fear. I try to understand why you keep me at arm’s length, but I can’t. Then I fear we’re too different and at the end of our time together or even before you’ll cast me aside with a one-syllable word and whatever we are will be over."

He kissed my cheek and leaned his head against mine. "Why are the colors blurred?"

Shyly, I answered, "Because I can’t express myself clearly when you’re around."

Tristan turned me in his arms to face him. Looking deep into my eyes, he asked, "And the brown smudges?"

I let myself get lost in his gaze. "Your eyes. They can be so kind and gentle when you look at me before you kiss me or give me one of your gentle smiles. They make me believe there’s more to the man who so often seems to hold me at arm’s length. But they watch me always, making me ask questions that anger you and make you leave me alone."

He was silent after my confession, and my hands shook in fear that I’d said too much, revealed too much too soon and ruined everything. He cupped my cheek, and I leaned into his strong hand. "So honest all the time, my Nina."

Pulling me to him, Tristan held me close as he stroked my hair and kissed me tenderly on the lips. In the next room, the couple continued to writhe and grind against one another, but we stood silently in each other’s arms and I felt more beautiful at that moment than at any other time in my life.

Chapter Seven

Tristan promised to have my painting framed and hung in his bedroom, thrilling me more than I thought was possible. I wasn’t a painter, in truth, but it was a true expression of my feelings for and about him, and that he appreciated that meant the world to me.

That night, after he’d had Rogers send the couple home, he asked me to stay with him in his room and we made love again. When I finally fell asleep with my head on his chest, I was exhausted but happier than I could imagine I’d be with him.

As before, I woke up alone in his bed, already missing him. This time he’d left a note on his pillow, and I groggily focused my eyes to read what it said.

Dear Nina,

I have to go away for a few days, but I’ve instructed Rogers to get your painting framed so I can see it every morning when I wake. I’m sorry I had to leave before you got up, but I didn’t want to disturb you since you looked so sweet all curled up next to me. While I’m gone, my car and driver are at your disposal. Feel free to use them to go wherever you like. When I return, your first official assignment as an assistant curator will begin.

                                                                         Love,

                                                                         Tristan

I held the paper in my trembling hands and stared at the last two words he’d written. Love, Tristan. Love. Not always, as before. Love.

Was this all a dream?

It had only been about a week since we’d first met. Was it possible there was such a thing as love at first sight and he’d felt that about me? I wanted to believe that more than anything, but something inside me whispered the doubt that anyone could fall in love that quickly, especially someone who could have anyone he wanted.