My life was small and simple and fine.
I didn’t need what May did.
And if there was ever a perfect description for my relationship with my ex, it was that.
What I wanted and what my ex wanted had been on two different planes of existence.
Sighing, I parked and got out of my car, making my way up to my apartment and into the kitchen, where I fueled up quickly on a bagel and another cup of coffee—caffeine was part of my process. When I was nearing jittery, I placed my mug in the sink, changed into my paint-stained clothes, and slipped into the second bedroom.
Most people would have a guest room.
With just my brother, who lived a busy life and didn’t visit often, my friends nearby with their own nicer places, I had no need for a guest room.
I did, however, have need of a painting studio, and one with bright, natural light. This bedroom, with its eastern-facing window, was a big part of the reason I’d signed the eighteen-month lease. That and being on the top floor and in the corner of the complex.
Quiet.
No loud neighbors clomping overhead.
Today I glanced out my window as I slanted open the blinds, focused on the final selling point. The park in the distance.
Which . . . now that I thought about it, made me sound like the worst type of person, creeping on people in the park. But my art wasn’t like that. I started with an image that inspired me. Sometimes a tree changing colors. Sometimes, like this morning, a trio of dogs in mismatched sizes frolicking along the path. Sometimes a kid hanging upside down on the monkey bars, pigtails sailing in the wind.
And I tried to capture the spirit of that moment.
The mix of courage, exhilaration, and fear as she let go of the green metal to dangle by her knees.
The joy in the prancing pooches’ steps, their noses pointed into the wind, their tails on full propellor mode.
The bleakness that sometimes accompanied a season changing—trees going bare, their limbs naked and frail—but hope coiled in the background, winding tight and preparing to spring forth in the form of green buds and leaves unfurling.
My mind clear except for those dogs, I pulled out a fresh canvas, slapped paint onto my palette, grabbed a brush, and began.
No sketching beforehand.
Those pencil lines stymied me, faint markings that boxed me in instead of allowing me the freedom I needed to create.
I needed paint on the canvas, I needed to not overthink, and I needed the sun shining in through my window as I worked.
And while normally, the image I’d spotted would stay in my mind, fueling that creativity for however many hours I stayed in my almost trancelike state, painting furiously, today the vision morphed, twisted, transformed.
Into brown hair and eyes.
Into a plump mouth and exposed shoulders that called out to be kissed.
Into a lush ass and thighs wrapped around my waist and a tongue in my mouth.
Minutes turned into hours, and the next time I was aware of anything, the light had dimmed. I’d blown by my usual afternoon stop time and had drifted into evening.
My feet were sore. My shoulders ached. My hands were cramping.
But I looked at my canvas, and I saw . . . Dominque.
Oh, I was so fucked.
Chapter Eight
Dominque, a month later
I was going to kill Hayden.
Seriously murder him.
Or at least hack into his records and leak his personal information on the Dark Web so that anyone with dubious morals could access it.
Except, there was a reason I’d hired the fucker, and that was because he was good. So it would probably be a pain in the ass to get through his encryptions and firewalls, and I really tried to avoid doing things that were a pain in the ass.
At least when I wasn’t paid to do them.
But the fucker . . . he’d promised that Archer wouldn’t be here.
But the fucker (Archer this time) was here.
And I’d given up information—that I had an interest in avoiding the bearded, hazel-eyed mass of yumminess—to Hayden with absolutely no return on that investment. Hayden’s interest was spiked, and now Archer was setting a glass that appeared to contain a Sex on the Beach in front of me, his rumbling voice rolling across my skin like a thunderstorm.
My nipples went hard, my pussy went damp, and I squirmed on the stool like I’d broken my tailbone when all I’d really done was broken my most important rule when it came to sleeping with this man.
I knew better.
My rule was in place because I knew that nothing good came from sleeping with men who I actually liked, who liked me, who wanted more than just mutual orgasms.
I needed to keep my distance. Stay safe.
But I hadn’t, had I?
Because soon he’d want things I couldn’t give, and then he wouldn’t be shining his sexy smile in my direction now, would he?
Of course, I thought, my heart leaping in my chest like a Labrador puppy, I’d also gone and broken another rule. One just as important. Because I’d started to like the fucker back. Because I couldn’t deny that a bubble of something swelled inside me—a tennis ball for that wriggling puppy to chase—when he rested his elbows on the bar and asked, “Hungry, sweetheart?”
I pushed the glass away, even though I had saliva building up, my taste buds prickling at the memory of the mix of tart and sweet on my tongue, my body ready for the glorious buzz of vodka to hit my veins.
I’d actually bought the supplies to make this drink, but my home concoctions didn’t taste nearly as good as when this man had made it.
I wanted to grab the glass, to feel its damp cold seep into my fingertips, to trace patterns in the condensation, to grip the thin straw and bring it up to my lips, sucking deeply.
I wanted to suck something else deep.
But . . . rules.
And I’d broken enough of them already to know that
