“I’m so sorry,” I sob, “so sorry.”
“Do not dare to apologize! I don’t want your apologies.” The hands that clutch my arms in an iron grip grow still. Leaning down until our faces meet, he hisses savagely, breathing as though it cost him every ounce of strength in his body, “I wanted you—you, Blaire! Can’t you see? I fucking love you!”
His confession stuns me, leaving me speechless. Then Lawrence pulls me in an embrace that chokes the life out of me, but I let him because I want to stop breathing.
“To love you is to self-destruct, Blaire, but I seem unable to stop.” The words are torn from his chest. I cry in his arms for everything that will never be and all the wrongs I’ve done, and the sorrow corroding me. I’m breaking at his feet, and it’s only fair that I do.
With anger and frustration ruling his every move, Lawrence lowers his lips and begins to trail desperate, searing kisses across my face, tasting my tears and the pain hidden in them. I bury my hands in his hair, pulling him closer to me as his savage mouth continues to brand itself on my skin, the crest of my cheeks, my closed eyelids, everywhere he can reach. When my lips search for his, Lawrence yields momentarily, a tremor passing through his entire body.
I know that this is good-bye.
“Fuck!” he curses angrily. Abruptly, Lawrence pushes me away like I was burning him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Go! Leave and don’t ever come back.”
Standing by the door, I take one last look at the stoic man standing by the window. And as I stare at him, taking in his stormy features one last time, I finally understand what I’ve been too blind to see, what my heart has denied for so long. The truth becomes as clear as the morning sky and I can’t deny it any longer. I love him. I love him. It’s not the same love that I feel for Ronan, but it is just as overpowering and all-encompassing.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob and speak the one truth that I can give him. “I love you, Lawrence,” my voice breaks.
He glances back and our eyes meet for what I know will be the last time, anger replaced by despair. “But not enough to stay.” Lawrence turns to look straight ahead once more, dismissing me as an already forgotten thought.
“Good-bye, Blaire.”
Ronan
“WAKE UP, SLEEPY HEAD!”
“Hmm …” I reach out to touch the warm body that should be lying next to mine and find nothing but an empty pillow. “Come back to bed, Rachel.”
“Not a chance. Open your eyes, Ronan!” she exclaims, her voice brimming with excitement.
I grab her by the waist and pull her on top of me, feeling her long legs straddle my waist as her laughter echoes in my ears. Opening my eyes, I find her staring at me with a big smile on her face. I lift a hand and stroke the side of her small, perfect tit covered in silk with the back of my fingers, enjoying the sensation of her body trembling under my touch.
“Now, this is a view to wake up to,” I say, observing the tips of her hard nipples outline the cream material that covers them.
“You’re insatiable,” she teases. “But look!” She reaches for an item lying next to her and shows it to me. It turns out to be a magazine with my face stamped on it. The title of the cover claims me as the next prodigy in photography.
Excitedly, Rachel opens the magazine and flips the pages swiftly until she finds the article she’s interested in. Giving me a saucy look, she clears her throat with aplomb and begins to read.
“Ronan Geraghty, the face of a Hollywood heartthrob with a one of a kind, rare talent: his lens. When I first heard rumblings that the Carl Brunswick, owner of the very exclusive and what is considered to be the Holy Grail of art galleries, The Jackson, had taken under his wing a new talent, my interest was immediately piqued.” Rachel pauses to smile at me.
“The ability to impress Carl’s discerning eye isn’t an everyday occurrence. And when it does happen, you don’t want to be the last one to find out—to miss what usually becomes a storm about to rage chaos in the art scene. And what sensual, daring chaos is Mr. Geraghty about to rage on us, his poor unsuspecting victims? I was invited to go inside his studio and take a first look at his work and what I’m sure will be the beginning of an illustrious career. The photographs are thought provoking, sensual to the point of almost being indecent, and every single one of them took my breath away …”
Satisfied, Rachel places the article next to her leg. “You’re going to be a star, Ronan. I can feel it. Look at them, losing their minds over you already.”
I think of the woman who came to the studio that Carl provided and whose presence I forgot all about once I began to photograph the model posing for me, trying to capture her soul with the click of the camera.
“You think?” I ask, hating the uncertainty that tinges my voice.