I tab through my music and choose Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and the moment it starts to play, she sighs. “Perfection,” she says, a smile not just on her lips, but in her eyes.
I relax into the wall, intending to reach for my files, but when the music lifts with a dramatic chord, I find myself watching Faith. Every stroke of her brush mesmerizes me as I wait for that red streak that she has proclaimed the beginning of a story. To me this symbolizes a feeling of hope, a look forward, not behind.
My mind goes back to the night we’d met, sitting in front of her fireplace, talking over pints of ice cream:
“Why black, white, and red?” I’d asked of her trademark colors.
“Black and white are the purest form of any image to me. It lets the viewer create the story.”
“And the red?”
“The beginning of the story as I see it. A guide for the viewer’s imagination to flow. I know it sounds silly, but it’s how I think when I’m creating.”
I cringe with the words: The beginning of the story as I see it.
The beginning of our story is nothing like she sees it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Faith
There are things in life that are inarguably perfect: Milk chocolate. Good ice cream. A perfect sunset. A cold night with a fireplace. And me with a paintbrush in my hand for the past few hours, while Nick sits a few feet away, working, with Beethoven lifting in the air. There is just something about that combination, that inspires me. Nick manages to calm and center me, which is really incredible considering he’s intense, demanding, controlling and arrogant, while I am someone who is far more zen. But as I reach for the red paint to put the finishing touches on the mountain top of my painting, I debate the reasons that might be, and an amazing list of answers come to mind that I decide I might just talk over with Nick.
Satisfaction fills me as I stroke a brush through the red paint to complete my work-in-progress. In another fifteen minutes, I set my brush down. I’m done and Nick is behind me almost immediately.
“Stunning, Faith,” he says, his hands on my hips, and I find myself leaning into him, his big, hard body like a shelter in a storm that he’s now helped me quiet. He really is a shelter, and there lies the core of why he calms me, why he works for me. He makes me feel like the rest of the world can’t touch me.
“I like it,” I say, inspecting my work. “But I’m not sure I’m going to use it for the show.”
He turns me to face him. “Why?”
“It doesn’t feel special. It’s safe. I have to be cautious everywhere else. I don’t want to do it on the canvas.”
“You don’t have to be cautious with me, Faith.”
I reach up and pull his hair from the tie. “I know.” I reach up and run my hands through his hair. “Because you’re…”
He arches a brow. “I’m what?”
“Tiger.”
“Tiger is for my enemies, remember. Not the woman I’m falling in love with.”
There is that word again: Love. It’s terrifying and thrilling. “It’s okay to be Tiger, Nick,” I say. “That name is a part of you. I’ve met him.” My lips curve as I think of the many sexy times we’ve shared. “I’m okay with him coming out to play.”
He doesn’t smile. “Tiger’s not a nice guy, Faith. You remember that, right?”
I flatten my hand on his chest. “He’s tough. He’s hard. He’s cold. And I really like him best when he’s naked.”
He remains expressionless for two beats, and then laughs. “Ah, Faith. Woman, what you do to me. Maybe you need to put a little Tiger on your canvas.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You are nice, Faith, but you have a darker side. That part of you that can take on the Tiger side of me, and hold your own. That’s the part of you that wanted out when you were in the club, it just wasn’t the right place or way for you to do so. The canvas is your place. Put whatever you found in that club on the canvas. We both know nothing about that will be safe.”
It’s as if a switch flips in my mind. I’ve been boxed by everyone’s expectations of me on and off the canvas. I twist around in Nick’s arms and walk to my canvas, and I start to pick it up and move it off the easel. Nick is quickly there to help. “Where do you want it?”
“Against the wall seems to be the best spot,” I say, already grabbing a blank canvas and setting it on the easel.
“I’ll order you extra stands for your completed works,” he says as I turn to my blank canvas, inspiration starting to form. “We don’t want your work to get damaged,” he adds, as I reach for my brush. Nick intercepts, catching my fingers and walking me to him. “The food will be here any minute, sweetheart.” He glances at his watch. “And it’s almost ten. We both have early mornings.”
I blink. “We ordered food?” I ask, and then shake away the cobwebs, giving a low laugh. “Oh right. We did.”
Nick laughs, that deep, rough sexy sound I could really turn on and play like music, if it were possible. “We did.” He motions toward the doorway. “Let’s head to the bedroom and settle in so we can go to sleep after we eat.”
“Well, as much as I want to argue, my hands are cramped and my stomach is growling.”
He unbuttons the cover-up I have over my clothes. “You can spend some time with Sara at Allure tomorrow and then come back here and paint.”
“Yes,” I agree, “but you know what? Let me just put a few strokes on the canvas. Just to get the inspiration started.”
“You’ve painted for eight hours, Faith.” He is suddenly lifting me, and I yelp as he scoops me up and over his shoulder. “Nick, damn it, the blood is rushing to my head.” He smacks my ass and I arch my back.
“Nick!”
“Now where is that blood flowing, sweetheart?” he asks.
“You’re evil,” I say, thinking about the spanking he teased me with earlier today. “Really evil.”
He keeps walking and doesn’t stop until he’s set me on my feet beside the bed. “Evil is your beautiful ass teasing my hand, sweetheart. You do need a good spanking.”
Oh God. Why is just the promise of this man’s hand on my backside so incredibly sexy? My nipples ache. My sex clenches and my hand settles at his hip, my thumb intentionally placed near his cock. “I asked,” I remind him. “You didn’t answer.”
He cups my face. “Sweetheart, when I spank you again, you won’t be hiding from anything, especially me. I’ll do it because you trust me and you want to feel that trust, and no other reason.”
The doorbell rings. “And that would be the food. I’ll bring it up here.” He kisses me and heads for the door. I inhale on his words, that were sexy, and intimate, and about us, but I turn and stare at the card from my father lying on the nightstand, where I’d set it Friday night, my mind replaying my exchange with Nick. It was the first time I’d seen his house:
“Where is your bedroom, Nick?”