Forbidden Desires

by Jenna Hartley

  But he put so much pressure on himself. And while I could understand why, a bigger part of me wondered what he’d be capable of if he allowed himself to explore.

  “You okay?” Brie asked when I joined her at one of the tables.

  I flashed her a bright smile. “Yeah. I’m good, just busy.”

  “Busy gettin’ busy with Xander,” she teased, knowing I’d been out late the night before and the nights before that.

  I glanced around to see if anyone was listening before glaring at her. “Keep your voice down. And no, we did not ‘get busy.’ And we will not.”

  Posing for Xander had been different from what I’d expected, especially considering how little time I’d actually spent posing for him. Most of it had been us drawing together, and it had been unlike anything I’d ever created. It was different—drawing with his hand over mine, creating something that was neither just his nor mine. I hadn’t been prepared for the experience, for the intimacy it created. Or for the delicate kisses he’d placed on my neck after.

  Even though it had been a few days, my skin still tingled from his kiss. I ran my fingers over the spot, my heart quivering at the memory. I told myself he’d just been caught up in the moment, nothing more. He hadn’t done anything like that in the nights since, even though he seemed intent on touching me in other ways.

  “But you did something.” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Brie.” I rolled my eyes, my cheeks heating beneath her scrutiny. “I’m just helping him out. That’s all.”

  “If you say so,” she said, returning her attention to her laptop.

  “Brie,” I hissed, aggravated that she could read me so well.

  “What?” She shrugged, a smug smile gracing her lips.

  “There’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Okay.” I knew she’d never leave it at just that. I could tell from her expression that she was skeptical.

  I could understand why. I hadn’t returned to the apartment until well after she’d gone to bed the past few nights. But I was driven to help Xander, and it was easy to lose track of time when I was with him.

  I glanced down at my anatomy textbook. Though I was supposed to be studying the muscles of the torso, my attention kept returning to the wrist, Xander’s wrist specifically. I could feel his frustration, and I could understand it. He’d spent his whole life drawing one way, only to have to change it. It was his passion, his identity, his entire world. And now he was being forced to adapt.

  I was still trying to wrap my head around everything that had happened. He was hurting, that much was sure. And while I understood his frustration, his fear, I had a stronger desire to help him. To help him overcome his limitations and restore his love of drawing and painting.

  “Kate,” Brie whispered. I glanced up at her, only to notice her eyes were wide, intent on something behind me. “He’s here.”

  “Who?” I whipped my head around and found Xander looking at me as if my thoughts had summoned him. His gaze was intense, his blue eyes shocking. “Oh.”

  He crooked a finger, and I stood, lured to him. When I was near enough, he grasped my bicep and pulled me behind him. I startled at his rougher touch, but a part of me liked it, craved it. He didn’t speak, but I could glean enough from his expression that he wasn’t happy.

  The door to one of the private study rooms closed behind us with a snick, and he released my arm. His much larger body seemed to eliminate any space from the room, any breath from my lungs. He was always so…intense.

  He ran a hand through his curls, the gesture rough, agitated. “I’m pulling out of the exhibition.”

  My mouth gaped open. “What? Since when?”

  “Since this morning.” He glanced toward the ceiling, his deep exhale laden with regret.

  What the heck had happened? “When I left, you seemed sort of happy—well, as happy as I imagine you ever get.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a grin, but then his expression darkened. “I don’t think the piece is up to my usual standard. Actually, that’s not true—it’s shit.”

  I jerked my head back. “Shit?” I imagined the piece he’d created, and it wasn’t shit.

  “Yes, shit. It’s completely different from anything I’ve ever painted or shown.”

  I stared at him. Was he serious? “It’s also unique and beautiful. It’s your creation, and you should embrace it.”

  “Embrace it,” he scoffed. “Embrace it?” He started pacing, but in the small room and with his large frame, he couldn’t go far. “What will the gallery say? And what about the critics?”

  “How did you feel when you were painting it?”

  He paused, brow furrowed. I had the odd sensation of wanting to smooth the skin with my fingers. “How did I feel?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “How did you feel when you were drawing it?”

  He hesitated a moment before answering, “Good. It felt… No. It felt amazing.”

  I smiled, having expected as much, but it was nice to have confirmation. It was a good sign that he could admit it to himself. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Yeah, but what if no one wants to buy them? What if—”

  I stepped forward, placing my finger against his lips. “Let me stop you right there,” I interrupted him, my eyes intent on his lips, on my finger on his lips. “What if everyone loves it? What if they can’t buy them fast enough?”

  He huffed a laugh, his breath warm against my finger. And I wondered what his lips would feel like against mine. What his breath would feel like against my skin. I sucked in a jagged breath and removed my finger, tucking my hands behind my back before I made a fool of myself.

  “I love your optimism, but if I can’t create art the way I want, I’m not sure it’s worth creating.”

  I’d always admired his work, but to consider that he might never produce more of it, that was crushing. And certainly not something I was willing to accept.

  “You know what,” I said, struck with sudden inspiration. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  “A field trip?” He peered down his nose at me, his eyes darkening. “I thought I was the professor and you were the student.”

  “This time, I get to be the teacher.” I smirked, enjoying this role reversal.

  “Mm.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, trailing his hand down my shoulder. Any trace of joking left my face at the way he looked at me, at the serious tone of his voice. “And what lesson do you intend to teach me today, Ms. Pruitt?”

  “I-I—” I stuttered, staring at his lips. I’d never had someone look at me with such raw desire. I wasn’t imagining this, right?

  He leaned forward, and I licked my lips. His eyes darted to them, and I was convinced he was going to kiss me. But then his cell phone chimed, breaking the spell. He held my gaze a moment longer before backing away.

  When he glanced down at the screen, he frowned. “We need to get back to the studio. We have work to do.”

  I shook my head, crossing my arms over my chest and feeling the sting of his rejection. “Not without the field trip first.”

  “Kate,” he growled, and it sent a wave of desire through me, hearing such a possessive tone. It also made me want to fight back, to tell him to go to hell.

  Why couldn’t I have the same response with my father? The same instinct to fight back? To stand up for myself?

  I straightened, fully intending to hold my ground. “If you want my help, then you’ll come with me.”

  He glared at me, perhaps expecting me to back down, before finally relenting. “Lead the way.”

  I passed him, doing my best not to smile. I didn’t know what had gotten into me, but I liked it. I liked the confident, brazen, brave woman I was with Xander. I liked that he gave me the courage to embrace my inner strength. I might be lying to nearly everyone else in my life, but with Xander, I’d never felt more like myself.

  Chapter 9

  Xander

  * * *
>
  When Kate said we were taking a field trip, I’d expected a visit to a museum. Maybe we’d spend the afternoon in a peaceful nature preserve or at a yoga class. Not—this.

  Whatever the hell this was.

  Small children ran around, laughing and squealing as they chased one another. I stared with horror as one stuck his finger in his mouth before attempting to shove it in his classmate’s ear. Dear god. They were savages.

  Kate hooked her arm through mine. “Come on.”

  “Oh, hell no.” I shook my head, eyes wide. She wanted me to go in—there? Into an enclosed space with the hooligans? She couldn’t possibly be serious.

  “Yep.” She grinned, making me realize I’d said that last part aloud. “Let’s do this.”

  “Do what exactly?”

  “Art, silly. We’re going to help these adorable kiddos tap into their inner Renoir, Picasso, Manet.”

  I scoffed. Right. I mean, really. They could barely speak. How could they possibly draw at a level that would compare to some of the most talented artists the world had ever known? I didn’t compare myself to the masters, and I’d been touted as a prodigy, one of the most gifted artists of my generation. At least, before my accident. Now, I’d be lucky if my art were compared to one of these budding Picassos, as Kate had referred to them.

  “Come on.” She grabbed my hand and tugged.

  For a moment, I forgot all about what she wanted me to do and focused on the feel of her hand in mine. On her beguiling smile. Only a week into spending time with her, and I was beginning to realize I was a fool for this woman. That I would do—be—anything in order to spend more time with her, to see her smile.

  “Miss Kate,” the kids shouted her name as we entered.

  “Hey, guys,” she addressed them, completely at ease. “I brought a friend with me. His name’s Xander.”

  Everyone said hello, some sitting still, their hands in their laps, others bouncing on their knees. All excited to see Kate.

  “Is he an artist too?” one kid asked.

  “He is.” Kate beamed at me, and I wanted to be worthy of that smile. I wanted to be the man she saw—the artist. “And he’s going to paint with us today.”

  “Yay!” they shouted, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “All right.” Kate clapped her hands together, and they stared at her with rapt interest. I was beginning to think she was some kind of kid whisperer or something. I marveled at the change in their behavior from wild banshees to perfect angels. It was…astonishing. And now that they weren’t screaming, even I could admit they were pretty cute.

  “Grab your supplies, and let’s get painting!”

  The kids moved about the room, gathering what they needed without further instruction. They were quiet now, focused. It was almost as if they felt they’d been entrusted with a solemn task. In a way, they had. Creating art was a task worthy of inner contemplation, of the utmost respect.

  “Come with me,” Kate said in a quieter voice, beckoning me to follow her around the room. As if I needed the invitation; I would gladly go wherever she went.

  I tucked my hands behind my back as I walked beside her from easel to easel. “What’s their assignment?”

  “To paint.”

  “Yes. But what exactly are they painting?” I asked.

  “Whatever they want. It’s all about self-expression.”

  “But surely there’s some structure? Some…expectation?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That’s the point. This is a space for them to be free. They don’t have an adult telling them what to do—or not to do. They can express themselves without judgment, without fear.”

  I nodded, understanding the appeal. I didn’t need to know the details of the students’ home lives to understand. The school wasn’t in the best part of town, and I imagined art was an outlet for them. A way to escape from reality. I’d certainly turned to art in the past when I needed solace.

  I’d turned to art for many things throughout my life, which was why it was especially frustrating that the one thing that had consistently brought me joy, peace of mind, pleasure, was now creating only pain.

  “Hey.” Kate touched my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

  She led me over to the supply corner, grabbing a few items for herself. “I usually spend some time painting with them. You’re welcome to join us or just observe. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  “I think I’ll just watch for now,” I said.

  “If you change your mind, help yourself to whatever you need.”

  What I needed was her—painting with me, of course. I remained convinced that my piece was crap, but it was better than anything else I’d done since my accident. Kate kept me calm, gave me confidence. I didn’t want to do it without her.

  I spent the rest of the class observing the kids. They were so different from the students I taught at LA CAD. For one, they seemed to wiggle a lot more, sticking out their tongues or tapping their feet. But for another, they seemed happier, more relaxed. One little girl in particular caught my eye—she hummed as she painted, completely content. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to find that joy again.

  But it was Kate who had captured my attention, smiling at the children. She was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever met, and it wasn’t just her pouty lips or full breasts. It was her heart. It was the way she took time to help others, to encourage them. Encourage me.

  I realized that’s what had drawn me to her—she was so genuine, so honest. And I’d never been with a woman quite like her. Most of them were always “on,” always playing a part. It was exhausting. But with Kate—she was never anything but herself.

  Toward the end of the class, Kate had each of the children hang their piece on one of the walls. It created a colorful sort of temporary mural. Though some were better than others from a technical standpoint, each was beautiful in its own way.

  “Let’s talk about what everyone created today. We can start with this one.” She indicated one near the top. It was a wash of watercolors, no clear shapes or design.

  “Someone tell me what they like about it,” Kate said, and several hands flew up. She pointed to one of the students.

  “I like the pink color,” the girl said.

  “Excellent.” Kate smiled. “How about this one?” She indicated another painting.

  She continued this process until each and every painting had been discussed, some more than others. Still, the students found something positive to say about each of the pieces.

  “Great job today,” she said finally. “Let’s clean up, and I’ll see you next week.”

  The students immediately went about their task without complaint. After she’d said goodbye to each of them, I drove us back to my place.

  “Have you been volunteering there long?” I asked.

  “About a year or so. I love seeing the way their little faces light up when they’re painting.”

  I nodded. “You’re really good with them, and they adore you. Have you considered a job in art education?”

  She seemed to hesitate before answering. “I have, but I’m still figuring out what I want to do after I graduate.”

  “From what I’ve seen of your work, you’re talented.” I didn’t issue compliments easily, and I meant every word I said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”

  “Yes. My mom’s a professional photographer, so she encouraged me. My brother’s always been very supportive too.”

  “Is he an artist as well?” she asked when I pulled onto my street.

  “Talent manager. He’s actually my manager as well.”

  “Wow. That’s awesome. I think I’d kill my siblings if I worked with them.”

  I chuckled. “How many do you have?”

  “Two, both older than me, both with respectable, distinguished careers.” She affected a snobbish tone.

  I sensed it was
a sticking point for her, and I wondered if that was because it was how she felt or how her family made her feel. Either way, I didn’t like it. Being an artist was more difficult than traditional careers that provided stability, performance metrics, monotony.

  I pulled into my drive and put the car in park before leaning over, wanting to be closer to her. “Sounds boring if you ask me. And you are the opposite of boring.”

  She smiled, and I felt oddly proud of the fact that I’d put the smile on her lips. She was always doing things to cheer me up, to encourage me, so it was nice to be able to return the favor.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked as we climbed out of the car.

  “I—” She glanced toward the street as if looking for escape. “Does that mean you changed your mind about pulling out of the exhibition?”

  “It does.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, more accurately, you changed my mind.”

  She tilted her head to the side, a smile teasing at her lips. “I guess my field trip wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.”

  “Come on,” I said, turning for the door so she couldn’t see my answering grin. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Right.” Her tone was more serious. “Of course. Work.”

  “Are you still nervous?” I asked after disarming the security system. “Because it’s okay. I’m nervous too.”

  I’m nervous that you turn my world upside down.

  I’m nervous that you challenge everything I thought I knew about art, about myself.

  I’m nervous that I’m falling for you.

  I hadn’t realized what had been missing from my life until Kate. It was crazy; I hadn’t known her long, but there was a connection. She just got me.

  She nodded but said nothing more, setting down her tote bag and walking over to the easel where our piece was displayed. Well, what remained of our piece. In a rage, I’d covered much of it with angry slashes of black paint. Something I now regretted.

  “What happened?” she asked, touching the canvas lightly with her fingertips as if it were wounded skin.