Page 8 of Darling
“I’ll go grab the sewing machine,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll only be a minute.”
It’s a large, open-plan space which is again clean and tidy, light flooding in from a wall of windows, which includes a little outdoor veranda area. The first thing I notice is the array of canvases propped up all around the space, leaning against furniture and taped to the walls. Given I just brought a painting upstairs that he’d bought at a thrift store, my initial thought is that he collects paintings, but many of them are half finished. There are also blank canvases of varying sizes piled in the corner, as well as a little trolley full of paintbrushes and paints tucked into an alcove by the balcony. Out there, a paint-splattered apron hangs on the wall, another larger canvas on its side against the railing. This one also appears to be half finished. It’s abstract but looks like a male form; musculature prominent in a palette of pinks, reds, and oranges. He’s an artist. A talented one, too. Given what I know of him so far, the way he dresses and talks, this actually makes a lot of sense.
I’m still admiring the painting on the balcony when I hear him return. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s panting a little as he carries the machine to his small dining table and sets it down. “I swear that was heavier than it was when I put it in the car.”
“Do you sew?”
“A little, yeah. My mom taught me, but I actually reckon I can fix that and sell it online for a good price.” I stare at him in wonder. “Drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He nods and goes across to the kitchen and opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water, which he drains half of before setting it down on the counter.
“You’re an artist?” I ask, gesturing at the paintings.
“I’m a lot of things,” Asher says, coming toward me. “That’s you, by the way.” He’s looking at the one outside on the balcony with a scrutinising look.
I startle with surprise. “Me?” I look at the painting again.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that day, so I tried to get you out of my head.” He lifts his bottle and drinks again. The idea of him painting this while thinking about me is...enthralling. It doesn’t look like me, but then it doesn’t particularly look like anyone. So if he says it is, then it is.
I tilt my head as I study it. “Am I…naked?”
“I paint the human form better without clothes,” he explains.
He pulls his eyes away from his painting to look at me, and everything goes very still and very quiet in his apartment. Asher is smaller than me by at least a head, and he stares up at me now with baby-blue eyes filled with unmistakable desire. His cheeks still have that delicious pink flush, and I wonder if he flushes like this during sex. I want to find out. It feels like a lifetime since I’ve felt the tight warmth of another body wrapped around mine. In truth, it’s been less than a year, but Felix feels like a beautifuland distant dream. The desire and want I used to burn with for him has faded, something of another time and place. And here is this, now. A new want, A new desire. And it is as lush and loud and intoxicating as it had ever been before.
I’d once thought Felix the exception to all of the rules I’d made for myself, but this boy—young man—brings forth those same notions. Take. Have. Enjoy. And to hell with what people might say. Asher may be even more beautiful than Felix, eyes that invite me to strip away each layer and discover him piece by piece. I reach out and take hold of him by the nape, gripping him firmly as I pull his head toward mine and bring our lips together. He lets out a sweet little whine and opens his mouth to welcome me inside it. He tastes of matcha and cinnamon, and then there’s a rush of his delicately masculine scent as he tips his head back and pushes himself into my body. Kissing me back hard, he walks us backwards until we’re stopped by his kitchen counter, then he pulls back and turns us so he can hop up onto the surface. With a little grin, he reaches for me again. His arms and legs wrap around me as his fingers crawl up and into my hair, where he tugs my head forward again. This next kiss is slower, more careful, tender almost. When we pause for breath, I gaze into the depths of his eyes, glittering blue and gorgeous.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” I whisper.
He smiles, almost shyly, and kisses me again, just a soft press of his lips. “You are.”
I scoff a little. “I’m far too old to be beautiful.”
He frowns as he pulls back. “I didn’t know beauty had an age limit. Is that a British thing?”
“No, it’s a universal thing.” I move to kiss him again, but he pulls just out of reach.
“No, not until you admit that older people can be beautiful. So, like, when I’m your age, you’re saying I won’t be beautifulanymore? Or if I was your age now, I wouldn’t be?”
“I’m not quite sure what I’m saying. I’m rather distracted right now.” My dick is hard and throbbing, and his mouth is delicious.
“So, then take it back.”
I smile indulgently. “Okay, I take it back. Older people can be beautiful, too.” He smiles triumphantly. “I’m just not one of them.”
“So then you’re saying my opinions don’t matter?” There’s a playful look on his face now. He’s enjoying this.
“Gosh, you’re quite impossible, aren’t you?” It’s charming. He’s charming. He smiles wide and leans in to reward me with another kiss, his tongue licking into my mouth lazily.
“So about that blow job…” he murmurs against my lips.
My dick twitches desperately, but somehow I manage to say, “It’s really not necessary. It was a pleasure helping you upstairs with your strangely specific items. No… payment required.”
“Oh, you think the blow job was for you? Uh, no, that was for me. Since I paid on our first date.”
First date. The words sound ridiculous. In fact, it’s the sound of them that takes me out of the fantasy I’ve been living for the last couple of hours and into the blinding, screaming reality of the thing. He and I can’t date. He and I can’t be anything more than this, and even this has gone too far. Hadn’t I sworn to myself I wouldn’t do this again? I’d had a lucky bloody escape with Felix in that somehow I’d not been completely ruined by it. He was the wake-up call I needed, the near miss I needed, to convince me that I needed to stop acting like this and be bloody responsible. What am I even doing here. In his apartment. Kissing him. A young guy I met at a bookshop, who’s the same age as my son. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing.