Anne
When I woke up, Ethan was half on top of me, his arm and leg flung over me as if preventing me from escaping. Last night he’d made me a cheeseburger and fries. Not just any burger—top-quality cut of meat, imported cheese, gherkins that were probably soaked in virgin brine.
Then we’d just sat through a movie in his cinema room. No phone, no distractions, and every so often I’d catch myself staring at him. He knew, and his fingers would begin to move along my arm. There was no sex or talking, and it was weirdly enjoyable.
His breathing changed and he glanced over my shoulder. Dark eyes stared back at me.
“I need to go home today,” I murmured, only for him to scowl.
“No.”
“I wasn’t asking for permission. I can’t wear your clothes again.”
“Why not? They look so good on you,” he said, climbing on top of me.
He began to unbutton the shirt I wore. I could feel his hard cock between us.
“This is mighty convenient,” he murmured.
“It rather is,” I said, hooking my legs around the back of his and tugging his shorts down his backside.
His alarm went off and he looked like a kid who’d been told there was no Santa Claus.
“Hey, at least you get to cut people up at work.”
“It’s not as much fun when they sleep through the entire procedure and are given pain medication.”
He sighed.
“Come to my house tonight,” I murmured. “It’s closer to your work.”
I swear he was pouting.
“Fine. I’ll leave our guests some additional food.”
First, I’d forgotten about them entirely. Second, he’d said our guests, and now his cheeks looked flushed. He glanced down at my breasts and lowered his head. I scrambled out from under him.
Over twenty-four hours contained with Ethan, and I hadn’t once tried to kill him.
“I’ll drop you home before I go to work,” he said, climbing out of bed.
His dick was poking out from his waistband. I regretted my decision. Why should I care if he went to work on time or not?
“Come shower with me,” he said as I dragged my eyes off the goods.
I followed him into the bathroom.
And he was late for work.
?? ?? ??
When I opened my front door, nothing had been moved or changed. My house smelled the same. It looked the same. But I had changed.
I went upstairs to change out of his clothes. My bedding was rumpled, my phone still on the nightstand. I raised the collar of his shirt and sniffed it. A faint trace of his aftershave. He was still in my space.
I put on some knickers and yoga pants but decided to leave his shirt on. I stared at my bedroom. He’d just sauntered in here and kidnapped me. The audacity.
Where had he learned to break and enter? He was supposed to be a medical professional, not a burglar.
He was coming for dinner. A little payback would be due.
I fixed my bed and stuck my phone on charge. I had a customer service survey from the security company about the consultation. No other emails or messages. I now knew why Gareth never messaged back.
I was about to put my phone down when I decided to Google Ethan. He was like a celebrity who never smiled. His picture had appeared in several articles. I sat on the bed and began to read.
Boring. Boring.
Hmm.
Sat his A-levels well before his peers. That explained the know-it-all attitude. Dr Hammond was a nerd. He’d probably learned to pick locks because of his big brain. How did he manage to carry that fat head around?
His interview responses were wooden. I was like that at my exhibits too. I didn’t want to be there either—so I imagined all those people, collectors, journalists, industry professionals, learning what actually lay beneath the canvas.
Their shock. Their fear. Their disgust.
Then I’d smile politely and shake their hands.
I traced my finger along Ethan’s jawline in the photo and thought of what he’d done to Eva and Gareth. Then the shower this morning. I touched my lips. Kissing wasn’t something I did often, but Ethan’s kisses were full of heat. Different.
I left my phone on the nightstand and went downstairs to my studio. Now that I knew what had been wrong in the room, a sense of calm settled over it. The torn canvas lay propped against the wall.
Gareth’s lungs and testicles would serve First Breath Born just as well as mine—but standing there, new shapes and colours began to appear.
The colour of us. Violence.
I moved around the studio to fetch a fresh canvas.