Painted Red

by Lila Fox

  Painted Red

  Lila Fox

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1. Rosaline

  2. Dex

  3. Rosie

  4. Dex

  5. Rosie

  6. Dex

  7. Dex

  8. Rosie

  9. Rosie

  10. Dex

  11. Dex

  12. Rosie

  13. Dex

  14. Rosie

  15. Dex

  16. Rosie

  17. Rosie

  18. Dex

  19. Rosie

  20. Dex

  6 Months later

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Lila Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  For Ashley who encouraged me the entire way.

  For Serena who read this even when it was a typo-filled, fragmented-sentence, sex-ridden mess.

  For anyone who loves their romance served with a healthy dose of smut and the presence of mysterious artist heroes.

  I love you all.

  1

  Rosaline

  The backs of my knees, my forehead, every part of my body felt sticky with a warm sheen of sweat. The white shorts and tank top I wore in preparation for the trip seemed to only make the heat worse. I had always thought of Miami as a magical place, full of bright lights and old-world charm that just seemed to suck you into an intoxicating tailspin of beautiful people and bacchanalian sensibilities. With my thighs sticking to the worn leather seats of the taxi and the wet, humid air filtering in through the dirty, lowered windows, I had a hard time focusing on the cityscape at all.

  The closer the cab got to my new apartment, the harder I worked to hold off my impending panic attack. It was a wonder I survived two plane rides and an eight hour layover without completely breaking down. The reality of my hasty move, almost crippling uncertainty, my complete lack of funds and employment was finally starting to set in. The thoughts caused the sweat on the back of my knees to worsen and my heart to thump a quick staccato against my ribcage.

  The deep voice of the cab driver rang through the car as we pulled up to a small, sturdy apartment building. The exterior was covered in a sickly looking peach color under the unflattering street light stationed directly above it. It was my first time seeing it outside of a few online photos and while it was definitely nothing special, the neighborhood seemed quiet, safe enough for a newcomer, and was on just the right side of dirt cheap.

  I hastily unloaded my bags and made my way up the narrow stairs towards my second floor apartment. I collapsed with my back against the door as soon as I stepped inside, not even bothering to turn on the lights or look around, too tired to even cry.

  Abrupt banging sounds and quick vibrations against my back woke me up the next morning, startling me out of a surprisingly sound sleep.

  “Rosaline Reed?” A stocky, red-faced man with a lit cigarette hanging from his thin, chapped lips greeted me when I opened the door.

  “Yes. That’s me.” I felt his beady eyes trail up my body slowly, sending chills down the length of my spine. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah eh… I’m Joe, the building manager.” His eyes landed on my breasts. ”We spoke on the phone. Mr. Kipling told you to come see me when you got in.”

  I cursed myself for forgetting our agreement.

  “I’m sorry about that, Joe but I got in pretty late last night and I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered.” I gave him a quick smile, hoping to somewhat charm him into forgetting about it.

  It worked.

  “You can come see me anytime you like, honey.” His sharp bark of laughter made my ears ring.

  I ignored his innuendo, deciding to focus on getting him to leave me alone instead.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Joe, I have a lot of things I need to do today so-”

  “Oh, of course, of course.” He licked his lips. “I set up shop down in the basement, just let me know if you need anything.”

  “I think I’ll be fine, but thank you.” I gave him a small smile, friendly but not too big, before bidding him goodbye and closing the door.

  My exhaustion from the night before gave me very little time to look around my new home. It was definitely nothing like I was used to. Already furnished, every item in the place seemed to be completely utilitarian. The place was old, shabby, and all but falling apart. It was a far cry from the opulence and plush surroundings of my childhood home the boarding school dorm rooms I had grown up in. There was something about it though, even amongst the peeling paint and underlying scent of dirt, that stirred a certain fondness in my chest.

  After a long, hot shower and a change of clothes, I headed back out into the hot Miami streets with a few job prospects pulled up on my phone and pure determination in my mind. My foolhardy resolve had me feeling slightly optimistic but the realist in me knew that my resume only consisted of an unpaid internship at a low-rung law office and an unfinished Bachelor’s degree. I was almost positive I’d be flipping burgers at some hole-in-the-wall diner before the day was up.

  Hours of sickeningly polite rejections and a few obligatory “we’ll let you know” statements later and I was ready to throw in the towel. One last scan over the classifieds section caused one particular ad to pop out at me. It was oddly short, simply stating that an artist’s assistant was needed, no experience necessary. There was no phone number or email address listed, only an address and the request to “stop by before 6pm,” and at 5:15, I would be just be able to make it before the deadline.

  The address, as it turned out, was actually a warehouse, only one story and covered in graffiti. It had all the pretenses of being abandoned except for the dark grey Porsche parked out front and the obviously reinforced steel door, painted a burnt orange color.

  For a second, I contemplated turning around and heading home. Biding my time until the next morning and heading out again. The thought of my steadily dwindling bank account made the opportunity too good to pass up.

  I pressed the high-tech buzzer stationed next to the heavy door and a rumbly, deep voice sounded out over the speakers. “What?”

  “Uh…” I swallowed, something about the commanding tone made me nervous. “My name is Rosaline Reed, I’m here about the job.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the buzzer and for the second time since I had reached the warehouse, I tried to drum up the courage to not walk away.

  “Wait just a second.”

  Less than a minute later the heavy door swung open, revealing what was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. He towered over me, clad in only a pair of dark jeans and a torso full of colorful tattoos. His dark brown hair sat unruly on top of his head and his handsome face was covered with a short, soft-looking beard. The man gave off an aura of pure confidence, something that, unlike most of the attractive men I had encountered in my lifetime, seemed almost unwavering.

  His dark green eyes peered down into mine, making my tongue feel dry and heavy in my mouth. I suddenly felt heated in a very unfamiliar way. This time, the sweat on my palms was caused by something foreign and not at all by the murky Miami atmosphere.

  “Hi.” A singular greeting was all I could manage and even that sounded pathetic.

  The man raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You comin’ in or what?”

  Somehow, I found my footing and stumbled into the warehouse, my nervousness momentarily forgotten as I took in my surroundings.

  The e
ntire back wall of the warehouse seemed to have been replaced with collapsing glass windows that opened up to let the dusky purple sunset bleed into the large, open space of the building. The floor was covered equally by a dirty white tarp and plentiful paint splatters. While the room itself was littered with paintings and various artistic structures. It, just like its owner, was like nothing I had ever seen.

  “You like it,” he said.

  “I’m… It’s…” I couldn’t seem to find the words to describe how I felt about the place. “I don’t know your name, yet!” I blurted out instead.

  “Dex Quinn.” He reached out to grab my arm, spinning me around to face him. Gooseflesh quickly followed the rough hands he laid on my skin.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dex.” I reached my hand out to initiate a polite handshake, but he ignored it.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Am I supposed to?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but while it was obvious that he was an artist I had never been too interested in the art world.

  He paused again, looking at me curiously for a few seconds. Unlike the sickly gaze of my landlord this morning, the heated stare from Dex sent a chill up my spine for a completely different reason. It made me feel nervous and needy at the same time, two feelings that I couldn’t remember feeling together before. I couldn’t decide whether I hated it, or enjoyed it.

  I started to speak again but he raised a hand to stop me.

  “You’ll do. Be here tomorrow morning at 8. Dress casually.” With that, he walked further into the warehouse, leaving me behind.

  “Oh, and Rosie,” He turned around once more, that gorgeous smirk back on his face. “Don’t be late.”

  I quietly made my way back out onto the street, my cheeks flushing with blood in time with the harsh thumping of my heart.

  He called me Rosie.

  2

  Dex

  Rosaline Reed. Rose. Rosie. The sound of her name sat heavily on my tongue, and her gorgeous as fuck image remained in my head, even hours after she left my presence. I wasn’t sure if it was her obvious appreciation for my studio or the sight of her deliciously body covered in a pink form-fitting, knee-length dress and a pair of sexy little black heels that made me imagine her under me. Probably a healthy mixture of both.

  I knew it was irresponsible to hire her, I should have gone with the nice, older lady I had interviewed earlier, not some young piece of ass that I hadn’t even bothered to interview. Thinking back to the way her plump, creamy thighs looked in that dress and knowing that if she lasted long enough for me to get a taste of her, I wouldn’t regret it.

  The next morning, she showed up to the warehouse 15 minutes early, a fact I couldn’t help but be pleased about.

  After I let her in, I took another minute to look her over, pleased that nothing had changed since the last time I’d seen her. Her straight, dirty blonde hair fell all around her shoulders and her gorgeous brown eyes shone brightly in the morning light coming in the windows. She wore a skintight pair of jeans and flimsy little t-shirt for her first day of work. I couldn’t decide which ensemble I liked better on her, the dress or the jeans.

  “So I guess it’s time for the introductory course, huh?” Her sweet voice broke our silence.

  “Not that I’m complaining of course,” she continued to babble at my silence. “It’s just a little weird, kind of makes it seem like you have ulterior motives.”

  I took a step closer to her, looking down at her, taking in the fresh, clean scent of her body. “Do you want me to give you an interview, Rosie?” I leaned down a bit to stare into her deep brown eyes. “Because my interview process is a little intensive.” My eyes dragged down to her long, exposed neck. “I’m not sure a little thing like you could handle it.”

  I was totally bullshitting, of course. Trying to see how far I could push my flirting before she got fed up. I may have been an artist but I didn’t tend to take my business lightly. I lived in Miami; I saw beautiful women every day, but it wasn’t often that those beautiful women had me behaving like a goddamn idiot.

  “No I-” she stammered a bit. “We should get started right? Do you have any paperwork you need me to sign?”

  Her abrupt change of subject left me amused, I knew she was trying to give off an air of confidence but her rapidly rising chest and complete inability to meet my eyes let me know that she was feeling the heat between us just as much as I was.

  Attraction and lust definitely weren’t new feelings to me. But there was something about the heat that seemed to burn between Rosie and I, even after only having known each other for a few hours, that felt completely foreign. I still wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not, but I was leaning towards the former rather than the latter.

  “We’ll deal with all that official shit later.” As much as I wanted to have her confined in the tight space of my tiny office, I wanted to show her my work even more. I wanted to see her face transform like it had the night before when she saw my studio for the first time. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

  I took the lead as I gave her a tour of the warehouse, making sure to stand close enough to catch the faint fruity scent of her hair. She seemed to be genuinely interested in my paintings, and not just because they were Dex Quinn originals, but because she was intrigued by what they represented. That level of untainted fascination wasn’t something I experienced a lot.

  At the ripe old age of 30, I had been selling my art professionally for over a decade. After a few years of making a grand or so here and there and hawking my favorite pieces in local flea markets, I finally earned a nice life for myself. I had enough money to buy myself a luxury sports car, two houses on two separate continents, and garner the attention of some of the most influential people in the world. Of course, all of those things also came with expectations. Expectations of hastily produced paintings, stuffy dinners with rich benefactors, and tons of other shit I definitely didn’t want to do. Expectations that I was tired as shit of having to entertain.

  Managers and gallery owners were constantly up my ass, demanding work without giving a single fucking thought to the artistic process. I was tired of it. I was tired of the lights, the flash, and all the rich pricks who bought my art to sit above fireplaces they never even used.

  My work didn’t tend to have any overt political inspiration or heavy social statements, but it still meant something. Every brush stroke, every perfect color mix, every seemingly artistic mistake meant something special to me. Seeing Miami socialites and rich dicks flaunt my work like it was nothing more than mantle decoration made me sick to my fucking stomach.

  I was the same sellout piece of shit I always promised to myself I would never become. But seeing Rosaline stare at my work like that, her eyes full of light and a thousand questions made me want to paint something that didn’t feel completely worthless.

  Rosie’s tour of the warehouse went much quicker than I originally wanted but seeing her fawn all over my paintings started to fuck with me a bit too much. I quickly steered her away from one of my progressive paintings and into the tiny office space in the corner of the studio.

  I pointed her towards a neat stack of papers on the desk. “Here’s all the shit you need to sign.” I flopped down in the only chair as she leaned over the desk to start flipping through the stack. “My last assistant put it all together so I guess it’s all there.”

  “You didn’t look through it?” She looked up at me with confusion written all over her face. “Are you going to look through it when I finish?”

  “Probably not. I’ll have you file that shit away somewhere so I’ll have it on record, though.” I dug my teeth into my thumbnail. “My accountant will handle payroll.”

  “How are you going to know I am who I say I am?” She placed her hands on her rounded hips, a move that made my mouth water. “How do you know I’m not going to try to scam you or something?”

  “You’re not going to scam me, Rosie”

  She swallowed harshly.
“How can you be so sure?”

  I stood up in front of her, towering over her for the second time since she showed up that morning. I leaned down until our faces were almost touching. A simple purse of my lips and I could have been feeling those plump pink lips against mine. The thought of it caused the front of my jeans to tighten a little.

  “You’re far too sweet to lie to me, Rosaline.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can see it all over your face. I doubt you’ve ever lied about anything in your life.”

  “You don’t know that!” she exclaimed. “I could be some type of con-artist, attempting to seduce you to-”

  She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushed a deep red color that extended down to her long, exposed neck.

  “I’ll tell you what. If you lie to me, I get to punish you.” I sat back down in my chair, making sure to spread my legs out, showing off my half-hard cock under my jeans. “Now fill out those forms, Rosie. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  3

  Rosie

  My first day as Dex’s assistant passed by without a hitch. After the little ordeal in his office at the beginning of the day, he somehow managed to keep the flirting to a minimum. Well, what I imagined to be a minimum for a man like him. The heated stares, lip licking, and smirking were still just as present. I tried my hardest to ignore them but it never seemed to work. Instead of spending my first day immersed in a mountain of paperwork and new procedures, I finished the day off with soaked panties and brief flashes of imagining his dumb smirking face between my thighs.

  Around 6 P.M., Dex returned to the little office where I spent the majority of my day organizing all of his files to my liking and silently panicking about the overwhelming task of being someone’s assistant.

  “That’s it for the day, kid.”

  I looked up surprised, checking the time on the computer, and noticing I still had 45 minutes before the next bus arrived at the nearest stop.

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, I still have a little bit more to do here so I’ll probably be a little while.” I hoped the admission would dismiss him. “I will make sure to lock up before I leave.”