Chapter 23 Vince
Vince
The hotel hallway stretches before me like a gauntlet, each step toward Adrian’s door feeling heavier than the last. My heart pounds against my ribs with a rhythm that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the desperate need clawing at my chest.
I remember the way Adrian’s hands moved when he sketched during our art classes, the way his entire being seemed to come alive when he was creating.
I remember the hunger in his eyes when he looked at things he wanted to capture, the way art used to flow through him like it was essential as breathing.
That part of him died because of me, because of what my father did, of what I believed, and of ten years of silence that should have been filled with everything we never got to say.
I can’t give him back those lost years. I can’t undo the damage or take away the pain. But maybe I can give him back the one thing that used to make him feel most like himself.
I raise my hand and knock against his door, three soft raps that somehow sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
It opens after a long moment, revealing Adrian in sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, his golden brown hair mussed from the pillow in a way that makes my fingers itch to smooth it back.
His fair skin catches the hallway light, looking impossibly smooth, and those brown eyes look up at me with sleepy confusion before sharpening into wariness.
Even rumpled and guarded, he’s beautiful in a way that makes me burn from the inside.
The soft cotton of his shirt clings to his slender frame, and I can see the hint of muscle definition beneath, the result of years I wasn’t there to witness.
“Vince? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” The words come out rougher than I intend, thick with want I can’t quite hide. “I need you to see me.”
He stares at me, those brown eyes searching my face like he’s trying to decode a puzzle.
I watch his lips part slightly in surprise, and Christ, those pink, plump lips that I want to trace with my thumb, want to feel yielding under mine until they’re swollen and breathless.
I force myself to focus, to remember why I’m here, but it’s hard to think past the way his mouth looks soft and inviting in the dim hallway light.
“It’s midnight, Vince. I don’t know what I can possibly do for you at this hour.”
I step closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his shampoo, something clean and familiar that makes my heart beat a little bit faster. “I want to pose for you.”
His shoulders straighten, and I can see him trying to rebuild those walls I’ve spent all day watching him hide behind. But there’s something flickering in his expression now, something that looks almost hungry before he crushes it down.
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then show me how it works.” My voice drops lower, more urgent.
“Show me what you see when you look at me. Not the role I’ve been playing, not the man my father shaped me into, not the stranger who walked away from you ten years ago.
” I step even closer, my voice turning rough with need.
“Let me be what I should have been back then, what I always should have been all this time.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your muse.”
The words hang between us like a confession.
What I was grasping for that night at the hotel restaurant, what slipped away the moment I tried to name it, finally makes sense.
It’s that feeling of being seen and captured in a way only this man can.
I understand now that whatever exists between us runs both ways.
He captures me in his art, but I’m equally captivated by being his subject.
Adrian’s breath hitches almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, his careful composure cracks enough that I can see the war happening behind those beautiful eyes. Artist’s curiosity warring with self-preservation, desire fighting against years of built-up hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to see me, the way you used to see everyone else when you drew them, except this time it’s me and I’m choosing it.” I lean against the doorframe, close enough that he’d have to brush against me to close the door. “Unless you’re afraid of what you might create.”
His eyes flash with something sharp and dangerous. “I’m not afraid of you, Vince.”
“Then prove it.”
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other.
The air between us feels electric, charged with everything we’re not saying.
His breathing changes, goes shallow and quick, and I can see the way his chest rises and falls beneath that thin t-shirt.
His fingers have curled into loose fists at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for me or pushing me away.
Then something in his expression hardens into resolve, a flash of the old Adrian who never backed down from a challenge, and he steps back, holding the door open with the kind of resigned politeness that somehow feels more like a dare.
“Fine. But we do this my way. Come in.”
His room is tidy, his clothes draped over the chair, a book left open on the bedside table.
Adrian moves through the space with purpose, but I notice the way he hesitates before going to his suitcase, digging beneath layers of carefully folded clothes to retrieve a worn sketch pad and a small case of pencils.
He handles the supplies with the kind of careful reverence reserved for things we can’t quite bring ourselves to abandon, even when they hurt us.
“I don’t have the right setup here,” he says without looking at me, setting the sketch pad on the table and testing pencils against the paper. “The lighting isn’t ideal.”
“Just draw me. And don’t think.”
He glances up then, and for a heartbeat, I think I see something softer in his expression. Then it’s gone, replaced by the kind of clinical assessment I imagine he gives every subject.
Adrian adjusts the lamp on the bedside table, angling it to create shadows and highlights across the room. His movements are economical, professional, betraying nothing of what this might mean to him.
“Everything off,” he says, settling into the chair across from me with his sketch pad balanced on his knee. His voice is steady, but I catch the slight hitch in his breathing.
“Everything?”
“Yes. Everything.”
The command sends heat straight through me.
I grab the back of my shirt and pull it off in one swift motion, the material bunching as it clears my head.
I shove my gray sweats down, the soft fabric sliding over my thighs before I kick them off at my feet.
My black boxer briefs follow in one swift motion, leaving me bare under the dim light.
I scoop the clothes up and fold them quickly, setting them aside, aware of Adrian’s eyes flicking up before he forces them back to the page.
For a moment, I feel self-conscious under his gaze. The cool air against my skin, the vulnerability of being completely naked while he remains fully clothed. But then I remember why I’m here, what I’m trying to give him. This is what a muse does. This is my role, my offering.
“Move to the bed,” Adrian says, his voice carefully neutral. “Sit on the edge, facing the window.”
I cross to the bed, the carpet soft under my bare feet, and settle on the edge of the mattress. The position feels awkward at first, uncertain.
“Tilt your head a little. No, not like that. More natural.” His voice carries a little note of frustration. “Relax your shoulders.”
I try to adjust, but I can feel how rigid I am, how conscious of every angle and shadow. This isn’t working.
Adrian sighs softly, setting his sketch pad aside. “Stay still.”
He stands and moves behind me, and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, warm fingers pressing into the tension there. My breath catches as he guides me into position, one hand tilting my chin while the other adjusts the angle of my torso.
“Lean back on your right arm,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he positions my arm behind me for support. “Let your left hand rest across your stomach. Natural. Like you’re not thinking about it.”
His touch is professional, but I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they linger on my skin. His gaze lingers on the dark brushstroke tattoos spiraling down my right arm, something in his eyes flickering despite the calm mask he wears.
“When did you get these?” The question slips out before he can stop it, careful and neutral in tone, but I catch the pull of curiosity and something sharper beneath it. He’s seen them before, but now, standing this close, watching me arranged under his scrutiny, he can’t help wanting to know more.
I follow his stare to the abstract design that catches the light.
“About three years ago, maybe four.” I pause, aware of the tension, of the way his eyes track every line.
“We’d been out drinking after a game, me and some teammates.
We found this tattoo parlor that was about to close, but they recognized us and stayed open. ”
Adrian’s fingers hover just above the ink, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin.
“I was drunk enough to be honest about what I wanted,” I continue quietly. “I told the artist I wanted something that looked like brushstrokes…something that held the shape of someone I couldn’t forget. So I asked him to do the design on my forearm. It was just a few strokes at first.”
Adrian’s breathing changes, becoming more controlled. His hand drops away from my arm, but not before I catch the slight tremor in his fingers.
“You came back for more,” he observes, his voice carefully neutral as he notices how the design continues up my upper arm.
“Yeah. A few weeks later, when I was sober enough to know exactly what I was doing.” I meet his eyes in the dim light. “I wanted to finish what I’d started.”