Page 12

twelve

Damien

“Here,” Lucy says as she slaps a piece of paper down on my desk, her dark red fingernails stark against the white sheet.

That shouldn’t be hot. That shouldn’t make me imagine what those nails would feel like dragging down the skin of my back.

This is why I’ve put two days’ worth of space between us. Because of that intense moment in the shower, when I had my hands all over her wet, curvy, fucking delectable body. Because she’s starting to unravel me and it’s making me go insane.

And also because I had to find a way to dispose of yet another dead body.

“What is this?” I say as I glance down at the sheet on my desk as my pen drops from my hand.

I slide my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I haven’t shaved nor worn my contacts in the last two days. I’ve been too erratic and all over the place to focus on even the most mundane tasks. My hair is probably wild, but I could give a fuck less.

All I care about is trying to get those shapely, creamy looking thighs out of my mind. Thighs that are now bare and in my line of sight as her black skirt starts to ride up as she crosses her long legs and plants her plump ass right on my desk.

I rip my eyes away then, locking them onto the piece of paper.

It’s the contract. And it’s signed.

Ah, so she is a good girl.

“I have a condition,” she says simply and I roll my eyes and take my glasses off as I lean back in my chair.

Should’ve known.

“Of course you do,” I sigh as I pinch the bridge of my nose with two of my fingers, the week starting to wear on me.

She ignores my comment and continues, turning to face me full on, those legs dangling in front of me as I drag my gaze up the length of them until I am locked on her full breasts that push against the thin fabric of her white, short sleeved body suit.

Jesus Christ, she’s wearing a bodysuit.

Fuck me.

“I want to take my allowance and use it to go back to school. I want to finish my degree,” she says quietly, and the statement takes me by surprise.

I meet her eyes then. Her face is almost bare except for the bit of smoky shadow that accentuates the cat like curve of her eyes and the gloss that plumps her pink lips even more. Her hair is smoothed back into a tight ponytail. She looks…breathtaking.

And once again, fuck me.

“Fine,” I growl, looking back down at the contract before I rip open my file cabinet to put it inside and slam it shut.

“But you’re going online,” I hiss as I go back to my computer.

“Okay,” she says, a simple agreement.

No rebuttal. No bratty refusal.

Just okay.

Just…acceptance and obedience.

What is she up to?

“Great. Now get off my desk. I have work to do,” I grumble, and she raises her hands like I’m a cop about to handcuff her.

Which I would very much like to do.

Jesus, Damien. Get a grip on yourself.

She turns to walk out of the room, but I hear her pause at the door as I open the tab for my email.

“What?” I bark and she sighs.

“Do you have like…a library or anything? I ran out of my art supplies and I’m a little bored,” she explains and I pause for a moment, mulling over her words.

“Down the right hall, past the dining room on the left side,” I say distantly, and she mutters a low thanks before walking out and closing the door to leave me in silence.

Overwhelmingly still silence.

I sigh and lean back in my chair as I rip off my glasses and throw them onto my desk. I pinch the bridge of my nose, angry that she has distracted me once more. And even though my mind has been filled with images of her wet, naked body, now it’s filled with her long legs beneath that short skirt. Now it’s filled with the outline of her breasts pressed against her tight body suit. And to make matters worse, now it’s filled with all of those paintings that once filled her bedroom at her family’s home in Connecticut.

Paintings that nobody gave a fuck about, except for her.

There would be countless times her mother would be running late to yet another one of her husband’s political events because neither she nor Megan could pull her from her bedroom in time. And when they did, she would be wearing those same oversized overalls splattered in paint. She would be chastised, mocked and then harassed.

A pointless hobby. A useless endeavor is what they would call it. And though I never paid much mind to it, I often admired that she had some form of talent, a hobby or obsession that didn’t involve fucking people over. Rather, it involved creating life outside of the one she suffered in. It involved color and hope, something I’ve never truly had myself.

And while I appreciate art, expensive art at that, I prefer much darker pieces, less abstract and pretty. If it’s not simple, or modern or black and white, it’s a Da Vinci that depicts an image of suffering. Whereas Lucy is all flowers, all beautiful, lively landscapes or abstract lines woven with vibrancy.

And that is why her family mocked her. Not because she wasn’t good, but because she was. She was great at something they were incapable of seeing. Life, beauty, color.

I pull out my phone and text a quick errand to Bruno. He’s supposed to meet with me at Fleur de Femme in a couple of hours, but an idea has come to mind.

An idea that will occupy the woman that has slowly taken over my mind and taken it hostage.