Page 42 of Burning Daylight

But here in California, away at college? That version was allowed to disappear.

At least some of the time.

I think I’m mourning whoeverthisversion is already. She’s about to die—metaphorically speaking—once I go back home.

“Is it thisthinginside of you just clawing its way to the surface, desperate to get out?” I ask. “When you draw, I mean.”

He watches me for a long moment, and then he blows out a breath. “Yeah. It’s exactly like that, actually.”

“And is this what you do for a living? Your art?”

“I do what I have to do so I can take care of my family.”

That wasn’t really an answer to my question, but I don’t push.

He sighs, setting his black sketchbook on the coffee table with athud, and then rises to his feet. I track his movements, and in a few steps, he’s looming over me like he’s about to devour me whole.

“Done already?” I ask, my voice thinner than I want it to be.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at me with something wild behind his eyes.

“What is it about you?” he murmurs, his gaze dragging over me like he’s starving.

My heart stutters. That same arousal from earlier rushes back, pinning me in place.

“You know…let loose. Just be Juliette.”Felicity’s voice whispers through my head, taunting me. AndGod, I want to.

But this feels like a line. One that my mother can probably sense me breaking from across the country.

Still, my body moves before my brain can protest, and I lift my arm from where it rests above my head, my fingers shaking slightly as I reach for him.

His jaw tightens, and his eyes are burning, but he doesn’t pull away.

I curl my hand around his and guide it down, until it’s resting against my collarbone, my pulse fluttering beneath his palm. “Touch me,” I whisper.

He does.

His hand skims across my chest and up to my throat, his fingers lightly wrapping around it like a necklace.

I press my legs together to stem the ache blooming between them, but I don’t move. Ican’t.

Every nerve lights up under his touch, like my skin has turned electric.

His other hand traces from my fingertips where they’re still resting over my head, and along the length of my arm in one slow, reverent sweep, making me shiver.

He keeps going, down the curve of my shoulder, over the top of my chest, and then lower, until he’s ghosting across my breast. My breath catches, and I arch toward him without even thinking, needing more.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.

His grip around my throat tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he’s there, and his other hand cups me fully, palming me through the thin layer of my shirt, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he does, like he’s barely holding himself together.

His palm slips from my neck and moves down my stomach, slow and possessive, until his fingers tease the edge of my waistband.

There’s a pause. A moment of hesitation, of our eyes meeting; a question in his, and permission in mine.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice low. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” I practically beg.