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Or my fingers.
Or my toes.
All I can feel are his kisses fluttering along my shoulders. His arms wrapped around me, holding me to him, preventing me from falling to the ground.
All I can hear is my name breathed through his own panting gasps, paired with whispers in Russian that I can’t interpret but that feel like something close to a prayer.
5
PASHA
I should’ve walked away before I ever kissed her.
I didn’t.
I should’ve walked away before we set the painting on fire.
I didn’t.
I should’ve walked away before I fucked her, or during, or after, or at any point in the moments that have followed.
But I didn’t. I can’t bring myself to do it.
Even now, as Daphne chews on a French fry and gazes thoughtfully out of the diner window, I find myself lingering, though the hours keep ticking past like someone’s playing tricks on me with the clock hands.
“So tell me about that painting,” I say, if only to stop the reckless thoughts from spiraling out of control.
Daphne snorts. “You mean the five-million dollar masterpiece we just burned?”
“That’s the one I was referring to, yes.”
She sighs and stirs her raspberry iced tea for a moment. “The original sketch was mine. Of me, I mean. I was his model, his muse, his grande belle. He’d just started laying down the first layers when…”
“When they started fucking around.”
Daphne casts a panicked glance around the diner. “Shh! Yeah!”
I laugh. “It’s practically midnight. Anyone here is either too tired to hear us or too drunk to care.”
“Still.”
I have to secretly confess an admiration for her sense of propriety. Even after tasting her pussy and making her scream my name—real music to my ears—she carries herself with grace and dignity.
“Is that what tipped you off to the affair?”
She squirms in her seat. I know I’m inviting myself into her personal life, but I’m curious to know what exactly I walked my way into. I went to the gallery expo for a painting, for fuck’s sake. And instead of leaving with one, I burned five million dollars into ashes and then pounded my release into the artist’s ex.
Who is now looking at me like she expects me to backhand her into the booth seat if she speaks so much as one syllable out of place.
The fuck kind of number did Ewing do to her?
“No.” Daphne takes a tentative sip of her tea. “I did notice some alterations at first, but… artists, you know? Especially the abstract ones. No, it was the, ah, photo she sent him that popped up while he was taking a shower.”
Something ugly boils up inside me at the mental image of Daphne, naked and in Ewing’s bed, while he’s in the shower washing off whatever pathetic attempt at sex he’d just done to her body.
I shake it off. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Not my woman.
