♛Chapter Four♛
Lola
I sit before the canvas, fingers streaked with red, black, and deep, feverish gold. The brush glides, twisting and curving, a frenzy of strokes that I barely control. The painting consumes me.
Just like him.
Last night left my body aching. Incinerated. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I’ve been reliving it over and over. Obsessing over the way he drove himself over the edge, the way he moaned.
Does he know about the cameras? Maybe he wanted me to see, to suffer, to burn with it. If he knew, would he have given me such a show? Would he have let his seed spill out like that?
No, he doesn’t know. I got lucky. I smear another messy stroke onto the canvas. I need to get a grip. If I had been just a little slower, just a little less clever…
It would have been a disaster. I barely managed to convince him I wasn’t snooping around in his apartment. Still, I can’t shake the way he looked at me. As if he was trying to unravel me, to pick apart every little thing I said.
Abandoning my painting, I scrub my hands clean, the water running red as I rinse the remnants of my obsession down the drain.
The painting can wait… he can’t. I move fast, peeling off my stained shirt and tossing it aside.
Yanking open my dresser, I reach for my favorite pair of leggings.
They cling to my curves, painting my ass like a second skin.
The sports bra is so small it barely holds me, my tits spilling over the top.
Makeup isn’t ideal. He runs hard and fast. Sweat will ruin it. But I swipe on mascara anyway, a hint of lip tint, just enough to make me look effortless.
Standing by the door, my breath stills. I press my eye to the peephole.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
His door opens and he walks out.
I wait a little longer.
Then, I slip out.
The park is quiet this early. His pace is relentless.
And he sure as hell doesn’t look back. I follow at a distance, matching my steps to his.
He runs like a machine. It’s hypnotizing, really.
Ten minutes in, my lungs are on fire. Jesus Christ, does this man ever stop?
I push harder, forcing my legs to move until I’m finally close to him.
"Hey, neighbor," I pant, flashing him my most dazzling smile. "Didn’t expect to see you here."
He ignores me and keeps running, as if I’m an annoying fly buzzing around his ear.
I huff dramatically, keeping pace.
"What are you doing here?" He grumbles.
"Morning exercise, fresh air, maybe bumping into a handsome neighbor—total coincidence, obviously."
I could swear I hear him mutter something under his breath, but I don’t catch it. "Not excited to see me? You wound me, really."
"Try keeping up." He sighs.
Asshole.
But also, challenge accepted. “Who the heck are we running away from?”
His scowl deepens. “I’m running away from you.”
Ouch.
I press a hand to my chest, pouting. “So cold. And here I thought we were forming a special little morning routine together.”
He picks up the pace. I match it, my leggings clinging to every flex of my thighs. “You know,” I continue, my breath coming shorter, “I heard running with a partner improves stamina. Maybe I should start joining you every day?”
“Don’t.”
God, he’s so grumpy. It only makes me want to push harder. “Come on, neighbor,” I purr, “it’s good for bonding. We could be running besties.”
His eye twitches. “I don’t do besties.”
I bite my lip, pretending to think. “Workout buddies, then?”
“No.”
“Morning motivators?”
His sigh is borderline murderous. “Not happening.”
I lean in slightly, voice lowering. “Lovers?”
He damn near trips. But instead of slowing down, he speeds up, his long legs eating up the trail, leaving me to practically sprint to keep up.
Alright. So that struck a nerve.
I push forward, keeping up as best I can, but Jesus, his legs are twice the length of mine, and it feels like I’m being punished for my sins.
I swear to God, if he goes any faster, my soul is leaving my body.
I can’t. I physically cannot. I let my body drop to the grass, my back hitting the cool earth as I sprawl out, panting.
“Go on without me,” I wheeze to no one. “Tell my story.” I let out a few dying seagull noises as I clutch my chest. Because I’m sure he left me behind. He’s probably halfway home by now, basking in his victory.
But when I crack my eyes open, he’s standing over me. Brows drawn, arms crossed, buzz cut glowing under the morning sun. I grin up at him from the grass, absolutely shameless. “Didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you still here?”
He acts like I’m the most exhausting thing that’s ever happened to him. “Because we have to get the ten thousand steps in.”
We?
Oh, I’m beaming. I try to school my face into something less delighted, but it’s impossible. He said we. I want to. I really do. But my legs are currently staging a rebellion.
“I think I’ve already died,” I inform him solemnly, arms sprawled out. “You’re talking to my ghost.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, his strong hands grasp my shoulders and haul me up.
Oh.
His touch burns, and I barely stop myself from melting into him. He’s close enough that if I stood on my tiptoes, our lips would touch.
I think he might kiss me. Instead, he turns me around with a firm push between my shoulder blades. “Go on.”
“Bossy.”
“Slow.”
I spin on my heel, walking backward. “You just like watching me walk in front of you.”
His eyes flick—so, so briefly—to my tits.
And I know I’ve won this round.
The run is brutal. Every step burns, every breath is a battle, but I’ve never been happier.
He doesn’t snap at me as much anymore, or try to outrun me like he’s actively trying to leave me in the dust. He’s still broody, but I swear, there’s something a little softer around the edges.
Or I’m just delirious from the cardio. I know his routine.
After his run, he always heads to the café down the street from our building.
“How about a cup of coffee?” I hum, casual, as if the idea just popped into my head.
He grunts, but his feet are already carrying him toward the café. That’s a yes. The bell chimes as we enter, and my eyes immediately land on the barista who flirted with him before. Still, she tries again, straightening as she spots him.
Sliding up to his side, I loop my arm around his, pressing close.
Mine.
His whole body goes rigid. Will he push me off? Growl some grumpy protest?
He doesn’t move at all. I tighten my hold just a little, fingers brushing over the firm muscle of his forearm. The barista’s smile falters.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
"I'll take a black coffee."
"Just black?"
I nod. "Bitter. Harsh. Hard to swallow… reminds me of someone."
He chuckles before ordering. "Two black coffees."
I stir my coffee slowly when we take a seat.
“You know, I never pegged you for the social type,” I tell him.
“I’m not.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He takes a sip of coffee. “You talk a lot.”
“You’re not the first man to tell me that. Though usually, they say it in a very different tone.”
His fists clench around his cup like he’s imagining it’s someone’s throat. Butjust as quickly, he’s back to normal.
Is he Jealous? God, I hope so.
“You’re very—” He stops himself.
“Very…?” I press.
“Persistent.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You don’t have to say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you like me.”
He scoffs, but I see the heat in his gaze.
“You’re trouble,” he hisses.
“And you like trouble.”