21 Dorian
21
Dorian
A woman’s nude body is tucked against me, one tattooed leg hooked over mine.
Her bandaged hand lies over my heart, paint-smudged fingers slightly curled. Her breasts are pressed against my ribs, her pink-and-black hair trailing along my arm. She smells like floral deodorant and sea-salt air and the sweetish tang of oil paint.
We’re lying on sheets with a thread count lower than my IQ, yet I could stay here comfortably for years.
The air conditioner in the motel room hums loudly before knocking off with a faint clunk. I lift my head slightly, careful not to disturb Baz. On the bureau across the room is the chaos of chip bags and candy bars she brought back from the vending machine last night. Not a drop of alcohol in sight. I’m used to starting my day with whiskey or wine.
A line of bright-yellow sunshine glows between the heavy curtains of the window. Unease crawls through me. By now, I’d usually be getting up to check on my painting. I spend nights away from it sometimes, but not since I noticed its decay. The compulsion to go to it, to check on it, to stare at it rattles my contentment, gnaws deep into my calm. The care and safety of the portrait is my strongest addiction.
I need a cigarette, a drink, a needleful of heroin—something. I tense, ready to rise.
Baz’s head shifts slightly against my shoulder, and she sighs gently in her sleep.
I look down at her face.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
I’ve seen beautiful—all kinds—and I don’t understand why this particular face, this specific collection of delicate, symmetrical features should hold such charm for me. There’s something in the sly, sensual shape of her lips, something in the rounded pertness of her chin, the soft contours of her cheekbones, the arch of her eyebrows. Something in the slight upward tilt of her nose and the shape of her small ear, studded and pierced with so much metal. Her heart, too, is pierced, thrust through with excruciating memories, still bleeding around the embedded iron.
I have to leave my studs in my earlobes all the time, or the holes will heal. If only her heart could mend itself as easily. The agony of her father’s death stands in the way of what I want. Guilt and fear prevent her from embracing her gift. Unfortunate, for both of us.
Idly, I sweep my hand along the tempting inward curve of her waist, then up over the arch of her hip. She sleeps on, lips parted.
When I came inside her last night, my whole body tremored with the best orgasm I’d had in months—maybe years. I don’t understand how I could come that hard in fucking missionary position, without drugs, alcohol, toys, multiple partners, or my usual kinks.
The sex was basic. Simple. But when I looked into her eyes, damn it if I didn’t feel my heart seizing up. It was like she was pulling my wretched soul back into my chest, and a riptide of emotion along with it.
Her ability doesn’t work like that. I know that’s not what happened; I can still feel the tether between me and the painting. Thank fuck, because the last thing I need is for my soul to be back in this body. I’d be vulnerable again. I’d have to heal and age like everyone else, and I can’t. I can’t. I won’t do that. I won’t be that. I won’t be common and weak and mortal.
She has to comprehend that. She has to see that putting me back together isn’t the solution. She must be made to understand.
I’ll show her the painting today, and if she suggests pulling my soul back into my body, I’ll show her something else. I’ll reveal the cruelty of time, the great tragedy of the human race. Whatever we may pretend, we are corrupted husks, fragile and flaking.
But I have transcended, by luck and by love. I will not yield what I’ve gained or give up the privilege I’ve held for over a century.
Baz’s fingers uncurl, her palm warm against my chest.
“Dorian,” she murmurs. Then her perfectly arched little brows furrow with pain. “Ow. My hands hurt.”
“I’ll get you more painkillers.” Gently I ease her off me, onto the pillows. I rise from the bed and walk to the bag on the dresser, where I left the supplies I bought.
“It’s not fair for you to be naked,” she mumbles. “You’re too damn gorgeous.”
I turn to smile at her, but the sight of her body is like a gut punch, all the breath knocked out of me. I can find the beauty in almost any human body, of any gender, but her body affects me in a way I can’t quite define. Before I met her, if I could have had women custom-made for my pleasure, none of them would have looked like her. But now it’s as if my very DNA has changed, been recoded to find her unequivocally the most beautiful thing in the universe.
“What?” Baz raises her eyebrows, looking alarmed. “Why are you staring like that? Do I look awful?”
I shouldn’t have slept with you. It has changed everything.
I grit my teeth, because that’s not how I react to a hookup. It’s pleasure, pure and simple. An instinct, a need, a pastime. I’m no simpering rom-com hero. I don’t do whatever this is.
“You look fine,” I bite out and turn my back to her, rummaging for the pills. Maybe I’ll take a handful. They’re nothing good, though—just weak crap off the shelf.
I toss her the bottle, trying to ignore the pang in my heart when she catches it between bandaged hands.
“I’m going to smoke.” I pull on my boxers and shorts from yesterday. They’re slightly sandy but dry. Snatching my lighter and a pack of cigarettes, I shove back the curtains, haul the sliding door open, and escape to the balcony.
The smooth, papery roll of the cigarette between my fingers, the snick and burr of the lighter, warmth spreading through my lungs as I inhale—it’s a comforting ritual.
Everything is the same.
“Dorian.” Her voice behind me, and my heart jolts, a thrill of frantic pleasure shooting through my chest.
Not the same.
I close my eyes. Breathe in, then out, slowly and deeply.
“What?” I ask, glancing at her.
She’s wrapped in a sheet, her fingers raking her hair over one shoulder, looking damn adorable. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” It comes out as a growl, so I try to lighten my tone. “I’m an asshole in the morning sometimes. When I’m done with this, we’ll get some breakfast and coffee before we head back.”
“Okay.”
And then she reaches up and squeezes my shoulder lightly before going back inside.
Phantom prints remain on my skin, burning lines where her fingers were.
I take a hard, frenzied pull at the cigarette.
This can’t be happening.
It’s not possible.
I’ve pushed aside my feelings for Baz so many times… They should be dead for good. There shouldn’t be anything left inside me that can feel this deeply. Why the hell do I have to feel this way for the only person in the world who can save me? The person against whom, if she doesn’t relent, I will have to commit the greatest of all my sins?
Lloyd was right. I can’t love.
At best, I’m capable of an idle fascination, a fragile crush, or a narcissistic obsession.
But if this pull toward Baz is that —if it’s love, and I have to destroy it—what will become of me?