Chapter 18
Igroaned, letting my head flop to the side against my pillow and my eyes flutter closed.
“I really can’t go, Mom. I’m not feeling well.”
Before she’d come into my room, I’d splashed warm water on my forehead and bolted under the covers in order to sell my lie that I was too sick to go to yet another party at the country club. This week had kicked my ass and there was no way in hell I wanted to face Trenton and his bullshit right now.
I was feeling vulnerable and on edge. I needed some downtime to regroup and get my shit together.
My mother frowned down at me, her skepticism evident. She reached out, pressing her palm to my forehead. “Oh my, you’re burning up.”
I nodded solemnly, really trying to sell it.
She glanced at her watch. “It’s such late notice to cancel, but I guess it can’t be helped.” She strolled for the door. “Rest up. We’ll be back before midnight.”
I scoffed at her truly loving and motherly response to her only child being sick. I could really feel the nurturing just rolling off her.
An hour later I heard the door slam, Byron and my mother leaving with my stepbrothers. I flung the covers off and pushed to my feet.
All alone in this big house. What was I going to do with myself?
I needed to swim but I couldn’t be bothered getting into my gear, then washing my hair afterwards. Settling on a run on the treadmill, I changed into my navy running shorts and matching crop top and made my way down to the gym.
I strolled in, stopping short at the grunts and clanging of weights. My heart ratcheted up several notches, thinking someone had broken into the house, until my gaze landed on a figure across the room.
Dacre was at the squat rack, an insane amount of weight on each end of the bar. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, the dark green tank top and small black shorts showing off the muscles of his biceps and thighs. Coupled with the strain on his face and the sounds he was making, the whole scene was weirdly erotic to witness.
“Hey,” I said.
Dacre dropped his weights, his gaze sliding over to me then away again as he reached for his water bottle and took a long drink. I tried not to stare at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
I tried… and failed.
When he’d finished drinking, he went straight back to his weights as if I wasn’t even there.
I shouldn’t be hurt by it, but I was. Sinclair was always the one who acted like my presence was a major inconvenience. Never Dacre.
My mind snapped back to that day I’d been attacked by Trenton and chased down by Algor. Fear shuddered through me, followed quickly by something else. The feel of Dacre’s hands drawing slow, soothing circles across my back. And the touch of his soft lips brushing over the marks on my throat. How could someone who looked so lethal be so gentle?
“I can let you know next time I’m in here,” he said flatly, squatting low with the bar across his shoulders and pushing up tall. “That way you can come stare at me every time.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been staring. Clearing my throat, I dropped my water bottle and towel on the mat at my feet and walked to the machine a few feet away from him.
I tried not to think about him. Or even glance his way.
But there was no ignoring Dacre.
Presley was always friendly. Sometimes a little too friendly. Sinclair was as cold ice, and Dacre usually landed somewhere in the middle. I’d thought we’d bonded after he and Sinclair had saved my ass from Algor. But something had shifted between us after the fight with Trenton at the gym, and it had been there at the swim meet. It was like Dacre was permanently mad at me and I didn’t understand it.
Watching him through the mirrors lining the wall, I pretended to stretch. How was I supposed to focus on working out with him so close by, sweaty and straining and gorgeous?
It was torture.
Twenty minutes passed in silence, save for the clanking of the squat rack, as I contorted my body into different stretches. I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t enjoying the way Dacre’s eyes kept landing on my ass when I was bent over. It was better than the broody silent treatment.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, still slick with sweat, and I couldn’t help the way I swallowed at the idea of getting sweaty with him. All three of them had incredible bodies worth drooling over, but Dacre was the fittest, hands down. He was slightly shorter than Presley and Sinclair, and broader, the defined muscles on his shoulders and arms a warning everywhere he went. I imagined all too often what it would be like to have him toss me around a room.
Eventually, he slotted the bar back in the rack, scooping to pick up a towel. He wiped at his face while facing the mirrors, stealing glances my way when he thought I couldn’t see.
“Enjoy your workout,” he said coldly, gaze narrowed in my direction.
I pushed out of my stretch and got to my feet, the gnawing feeling in my stomach reaching an unbearable level now he was leaving. “Is everything okay between us? You seem… I don’t know what.”
“Sure,” he grunted without meeting my eyes.
I glared at him. “Look, I know I crashed into your lives and turned shit a little crazy, but I didn’t ask to be here. And I definitely didn’t ask you to beat Trenton’s face in on my behalf.”
“I know that.”
“So… why are you so mad at me?”
He stilled, half turning to face me. “I’m not.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, at a loss for what to say. I couldn’t force him to talk to me.
He started across the room again, headed for the door, then he paused again and turned to face me, his expression stormy. “You know what? Fuck it. Yeah, I’m fucking mad at you.”
“Great,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “So now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, maybe you can tell me why?”
He tossed the towel to the floor, slowly stalking towards me. His gaze was locked on mine, anger burning there. “Trenton was the one who put his hands on you and marked up your neck, and you never said a fucking word.”
I stiffened, dread filling me. If he’d beaten Trenton for speaking badly about me, what would he do knowing it was Trent who had hurt me?
“How do you even know that?”
His voice was low and tight, like he was trying to leash his feelings. “The prick told me all about it when we were in the ring. Trying to rile me up. He asked me if I liked the hand necklace he’d gifted you. Right before I beat the shit out of him.”
I forced myself to breathe through my nose to stem the rising anger in me. That fucking asshole had bragged about assaulting me to my stepbrother. Used it as a means to goad Dacre in the ring.
There was no way someone that callous—that calculated—hadn’t done this before. No one was that confident they could get away with something like that unless they already had.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Dacre growled. “Why the fuck did you let him get away with doing that to you?”
“Pretty sure he didn’t get away with it. You broke his face.”
“And I want to fucking do it again!” Dacre shouted, his anger getting the better of him. “Nobody gets to put their fucking hands on you.”
It all made sense now. Dacre had shown Trenton up by allowing him to get a punch in, so Trenton had fought back with his words. It hadn’t been enough to insult his birth mom, he’d tried to use me against Dacre a second time too. The thought simultaneously broke my heart and filled me with a deep-seeded rage. Breaking his face wasn’t enough. I wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt someone I cared about.
Because I did care about Dacre. Watching him now, trying to keep control of the emotions roiling inside of him at the thought of Trenton hurting me, changed everything. Nobody acted like that if they didn’t care.
I already cared about Presley. The night in the pool and at the club, the things he’d shared in the limo even if he had been drunk, and the shower when he’d comforted me after the truck attack, had all meant something, no matter how hard I tried to fight it.
And realizing now just how protective Dacre was of me…
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I said quietly.
He stared at me, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling as he worked to get himself in check. “I’m not your enemy, Dempsey.”
“I know that.”
At least, I was starting to realize that now.
His eyes pinched at the corners like he was trying to bury some unknown pain. “Don’t ever keep something like that from me again.”
I nodded. He scooped up his towel and moved to the door. With one last look back at me that I couldn’t decipher, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone to finish my workout.
For the next forty minutes I ran hard on the treadmill until my lungs were ready to give out, trying to outrun the feelings I couldn’t get a handle on.
I’d been determined to stay as far away from my stepbrothers as possible, but I’d failed. I’d hooked up with Presley twice and I was all churned up at the idea that I’d hurt Dacre by keeping things from him. I had no idea he cared so much.
Pres had tried to tell me that Dacre was fiercely protective of the people close to him, yet I hadn’t really understood it until tonight. Staring into the hurt and anger in those blue eyes had almost broken my heart.
Smacking the button to stop the treadmill, I wiped the sweat from my face as I headed to my room to shower, feeling like absolute shit. Changing into a pair of soft shorts and a fitted white t-shirt, I made my way to the kitchen, pulling carrot sticks and a tub of hummus from the fridge.
The house was unusually quiet. The staff often made themselves scarce when Byron and my mother were out, busying themselves in other parts of the house.
But where the hell was Dacre?
I hadn’t heard anything coming from his room when I’d passed it on my way down here.
The doorbell rang and I wandered through the house in that direction. When I reached the entry hall, one of the butlers was closing the door, an envelope in his hand.
“For you, Miss Dempsey.” He handed it over.
I took it, the sense of dread I’d become so accustomed to lately filling every part of my body. My hands trembled as I gripped the envelope, sliding a finger under the flap to pop it open.
You can’t run forever. You know better than anyone that I always get what I want.
I leaned against the side table in the entryway to keep myself upright.
How the fuck was he doing this? The letters weren’t postmarked, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think my father was hand-delivering them himself or sending Algor to do it. He only sent Al when there was serious dirty work to be done. Mail drops were beneath him. That had to mean my father was handcrafting his threatening little letters and sending them via courier. That’s surely the only way he could get them past Byron’s gatehouse.
Pulling in short, sharp breaths in an effort to keep my rising anxiety at bay, I opened the draw to the sideboard, burying the letter inside it where I wouldn’t have to look at it. I was gaining quite the unwanted collection and I hated that my father could affect me like this. One letter from him and I was a mess.
I had to calm down. I had to get my head on straight.
I had to find Dacre.
Heading towards the part of the house that housed the gym and swimming pool, I hurried down the hall, searching each room. When I turned into the second hallway, classical music filled my ears.
What on earth was that? Did Dacre play an instrument?
Treading quietly towards the door, I paused, listening intently. The music was so loud my quiet approach was pointless. If Dacre was in that room, there was no way he’d be able to hear me coming.
Trying the handle, it twisted in my palm and I gently pushed the door ajar, glancing inside. It was some kind of studio, with canvases leaning against every wall, some blank, some beautifully, intricately painted. Others hung from hooks in the walls, filled with splashes of color or dark, sombre pieces staring back at me. There were several easels in the room, some with blank canvases, others half-painted like they’d been discarded mid-thought or the inspiration had died before they could be finished. Brushes and paint tubes and palette mixers were scattered on every surface in the room, including the two enormous benches running along the middle. And two large sinks sat at the back of the room.
“You may as well come in and close the door, since you’ve invited yourself in already.”
Dacre’s voice cutting through the music made me jump, glancing to the right where he stood at one of the large tables, mixing out paints on a palette.
He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that hung loosely on his hips. His feet were bare, a streak of red paint marring his dark brown hair. A streak of black was smeared across his right pec. Heat flooded me in a rush at the sight of him. My god, I’d never wanted to climb someone so badly. Who knew tortured artist did it for me?
Gym rat Dacre had been hot. But dishevelled painter worked for him even more.
Like, really fucking worked for him.
He smirked at me, shaking his head like he could read my thoughts, then turned his back on me to face the canvas he was working on, switching the music off with a remote. I closed the door as directed, walking between the tables to the back section of the room where the canvases were set up on clear plastic that covered the floor and the back wall.
“So… you’re an artist?” I asked, stating the damn obvious.
But I was still riddled with surprise at this secret revelation. I’d already been surprised to learn just how soft Dacre was with those he cared about, but to learn that the boy who looked like a bruiser on the outside was actually a gentle artist on the inside was something else.
He shrugged, still assessing the canvas and I stared at the works on the walls and on the nearby easels. “You’re really talented.”
It was the truth. I could see any one of these pieces hanging in a gallery or any number of the giant mansions in our neighborhood.
“Not sure my father would agree with you,” Dacre muttered, and I didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice.
I moved closer, wanting to be able to read the expression on his face, but he was still facing away from me.
“He doesn’t support your art?”
He scoffed, turning to discard the palette and brush in his hands on the table. “The only thing my father supports is making money. Why do you think Sinclair is the favorite? He’s proven how good he is at it.”
So, Sinclair was the favored son. I’d always wondered if it was the case. Part of me had assumed that Byron was just an asshole who had adopted two boys only to favor his biological son. But if Dacre was right, it was his business success that made Daddy love him more. It also made me really sad for Presley, who was clearly already so fucked up about his birth mom and had to work to prove himself to his adopted dad, too.
“I guess all of us are screwed up by our parents…” I muttered more to myself as I stared at a canvas on one of the nearby easels.
It was mostly black with streaks of navy and blues through it. It was moody and deep and made me feel things I didn’t quite understand.
Dacre was really fucking good at this.
He turned to gaze at me. “Your mom seems pretty decent.”
I scoffed a laugh. “She puts on a good show. I’m more of an accessory than a part of her life.”
Dacre nodded, staring at the ground beneath the easel in front of him. “I get it. It used to feel like that with Byron, too. He got so caught up in what he had, what he wanted, what else he could achieve, and how he could teach us to get those things, too. Sometimes he forgot what we really needed him for.”
I nodded, surprised at the way he was opening up to me.
When I’d first met Dacre, I’d labelled him as angry and broken. Turns out that was Presley, who hides it so well behind his easy smiles and a quick comeback. But Dacre’s love of art, him opening up about his relationship with his dad, the way he’d protected me with Trenton… there was a much deeper side to him.
And it shattered the defenses I’d been so determined to have up around him.
“Have you ever thought about putting on an art show? You could sell these, especially in this community, where everyone is flush with cash. You should capitalize.”
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging and his toned pecs making my mouth go dry. It should be criminal for someone to be that hot. He really needed to put a shirt on.
“Byron would never let it happen.”
“Do you always do what your dad wants?”
He huffed a laugh. “Byron Aston always gets his way. You don’t know that by now?”
Sounded familiar. My father was the same but worse.
“I haven’t really had a lot to do with Byron.”
Dacre pushed off the table, turning to face it and gripping the edge. He leaned back, the muscles of his forearms contracting. “That’s the way it always works with him. Everyone loves him, thinks he’s so charming and agreeable. Presley’s just like him in that way.”
His tone had a protective undercurrent when he talked about his youngest brother.
“But everyone has a dark side,” Dacre went on, turning his head to look at me.
“Even you?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
Now that I understood just how little I really knew him, I wanted more.
“Especially me. Sin and Pres, too.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. For the first time since I’d arrived here and they’d told me I was one of them now, I wanted it to be true. When they declared it at the wedding, I’d resented it. Promised myself there was no way in hell I’d let these guys control me or tell me what to do. But now I could see, it wasn’t about that. They were loyal, they looked out for each other. They cared about each other. And I wanted to belong to that, too.
“Can you show me?” I nodded to a blank canvas on a nearby easel.
A slow smile spread across Dacre’s face. “Yeah, I can show you. But do you want to change first? You’re going to get paint all over your clothes.”
I let my eyes roam over his bare torso, drinking in every inch of his toned body and smooth skin. Then I reached for the hem of my t-shirt and tugged it over my head. Dropping it to the floor, I stood there in my shorts and magenta balconette bra.
Dacre’s brows quirked. “Okay, then.” Picking up the palette from the table, Dacre motioned to the canvas, handing me a brush. “Choose a color.”
I swiped the brush through a dark purple he’d mixed up.
He discarded the palette on a small table nearby, moving behind me where I stood in front of the canvas.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured in my ear, just like he had in Sinclair’s Porsche that day.
I did as I was told, letting my eyes close, relishing the feel of him at my back.
“Now focus on a memory, something that brings up deep emotions. The best way to paint is to feel something first.”
Cycling through my memories, they were all negative. Times my father had been anything but a loving parent, and my mother either turned a blind eye or couldn’t stop him. The feeling of being completely alone in a room full of people at my mother’s wedding. The fear of being chased by Algor’s truck. Trenton’s hands at my throat, cutting off my air.
A shudder rolled through me and Dacre’s warm hands landed on my arms. “Breathe through it. You okay?”
I nodded, eyes still closed, enjoying his warm, capable hands on my body.
“You want to try painting through it? Press the brush to the canvas in whatever way feels right.”
My eyes popped open and I pressed the brush to the canvas, slashing diagonally across it in fast, vicious strokes. When the brush ran dry, Dacre held out the palette. I dipped the brush in black this time, using the same aggressive strokes to paint what I was feeling.
We repeated it several times over, until the canvas was covered in dark slashes, and my chest heaved with exertion. “Who knew painting could be so physical?” I said through jagged breaths.
“That’s one of the things I love most about it.” His voice was deep and sensual, and I glanced at him over my shoulder. His eyes blazed with a heat he was clearly trying to leash. “You have to feel everything and let it all out. You can’t hold anything back.”
I stilled, closing my eyes and letting the feel of his warm body at my back wash over me.
“Dempsey…” his voice was low and quiet, like a caress against my skin.
His hands landed lightly on my waist, and I dropped the brush to the floor, turning in his arms.
I stared up at him, my fingers gliding over his shoulders and down across his pecs. “I don’t want you to hold anything back.”
His hand slid up my back to grip my neck, our bodies pressing together.
“Then I won’t.”
His mouth collided with mine, kissing me with a passion that nearly knocked me off my feet. His tongue lashed mine, making me moan into his mouth. I clung to his waist, pulling him against me, desperate to close the space between us.
The kiss was endless, our mouths fused, our hands roaming over every inch of exposed skin. Kissing Dacre was nothing like I thought it would be. It was better. He was so full of passion and wanting, it made my core tighten and my heart soar.
Presley flashed in my mind for the briefest moment, but I shoved the thought aside. I’d deal with the possible fallout of my actions later. Right now, all I wanted was Dacre’s hands on my body and his tongue in my mouth.
His hands glided from my waist, over my ribcage, making me shiver. He moved to my back, reaching for the clasp on my bra and popping it open. I stopped touching him long enough to let it slide down my arms to the floor.
Taking my face in his hands, he tilted my chin to look at him.
“Don’t ever keep something from me again.” His gaze burned with an intensity that took my breath away.
I nodded, the hands that had been roaming over his delicious back muscles stilling as I pressed our bodies together. “I won’t.”
He kissed me again, this time slowly. The sensual feel of his tongue dancing with mine had me moaning softly in his mouth.
He pulled back and I whimpered, my mouth desperate for his.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to decipher the expression on his face.
He stared down at me, touching me with a reverence I’d never felt before.
“I’ve wanted you in here naked like this since the moment I saw you walking down the aisle at the wedding.” He cupped my face, staring at my mouth as he brushed his thumb across my swollen bottom lip. “All my fucking fantasies are coming true right now.”
A slow smile spread across my face and I wrapped my arms around his neck, my breasts pressed against his chest, our bodies fused. His hands landed on my bare back and he buried his face against my neck, kissing along my throat and making me shiver with desire.
“I want to paint your body. I want to brand you with my art.”
My stomach swooped at his words, heat flooding my core.
I nodded, making him chuckle against my throat, my voice breathy and desperate when I spoke. “I want that. I definitely want that.”
Our mouths fused in an endless dance and he gripped my waist, walking us backwards until my back hit the edge of one of the large paint-splattered tables in the middle of the room. His mouth left mine for the briefest moment so he could grip my hips and boost me up onto it until I was sitting at the edge. Nudging my knees apart, he stepped between them, his fingers tangling in my hair.
“Don’t move,” he ordered when he pulled away.
I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. The reverent way he was touching me, the fierceness in his kiss, it rendered me useless.
Dacre returned with a mixing palette full of paint and several soft brushes. He kissed me again, his tongue claiming every inch of my mouth.
“Lift your hips for me.”
I obeyed, leaning back on my hands and lifting off the table.
His thumbs hooked in the waistband of my shorts, dragging them down my legs along with my underwear, discarding them on the floor. He stared at my body, so focused on drinking me in. So attuned to my every move.
When his gaze lifted to mine, his eyes were tortured. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you laid out naked on my table. You’re a fucking masterpiece.”
“Are you going to paint me now? It’s something I want to experience at least once.”
He smiled, cupping my cheek. “You think we’re only doing this once? Now that you’re letting me have you, I’m going to turn you into a walking masterpiece every chance I get.”
Warmth spread through my body, pooling between my legs. Dacre gripped the backs of my knees, gently tugging me to the edge of the table and motioning for me to lay back.
He climbed up on the table with me, sprawling at my side and placing a loaded paint palette on the table just above my head. He swiped his finger through the red paint, then he trailed it over my collarbone, slowly making his way down between my breasts.
“You have no idea how fucking hard I am right now.”
But I couldn’t concentrate on the words, so consumed by his finger caressing my body, spreading the paint across my skin.
I swallowed, biting back the sounds that were trying to escape me.
“You didn’t want me holding anything back, so don’t you dare hold back on me either.” He swiped his fingers over the paint palette again, this time choosing a bright orange. “I want to hear every damn sound you make when my hands are on you.”
He swirled orange paint around my nipple, so close but not quite touching it. We’d barely started and already my body was lighting up like lightning in a storm with every swirl of his finger against my skin.
When he dipped his fingers in the paint again, they came away covered in green. This time he brushed them directly over my nipples, making me gasp. My back arched off the table.
“You’re so fucking beautiful laid out for me like this, Bambi.”
His mouth dropped to mine, our tongues meeting in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. His fingers caressed my breasts while his tongue explored, the needy feeling growing between my legs.
He pulled back, reaching for the palette, his fingers coming away red once more. He trailed a finger between my breasts again, grazing over my stomach and creating a swirling mark around my belly button, before trailing them lower. He dropped his mouth to my throat, lips closing over my sensitive flesh and sucking hard while his fingers dipped between my legs, finally touching me exactly where I needed him.
“I need more,” I said breathlessly, clinging to his shoulder while his beautiful, artistic fingers tortured me in the best way.
My back arched again, my painted breasts brushing against his chest. His soft strokes over my clit, mixed with the hard sucks against my throat, were sending all kinds of sensations barrelling through me.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” he murmured against my throat.
Reaching between us, I unzipped his jeans, pushing them down his hips. His hard cock sprang free, resting against my hip. My mouth watered at the sight of it.
Raising my hands above my head, I reached for the palette. He pulled back, watching me with a half smile on his face as I smeared my hands in blue and green paint. I gripped his shoulders, imprinting on him, before moving over his pecs and doing the same.
I was desperate to mark him the same way he’d marked me. Brand him as mine.
Gliding my hands over his pecs, I lowered them, caressing the ridges of his abs until my hand wrapped around the hard length of him.
He let out a soft groan at the contact, his eyes closing. When I moved my hand, stroking him, he bit the edge of his lower lip. The sight of him weak for me only heightened my need for him.
“Dacre,” I said quietly and he opened his eyes, staring down at me, his hands absently moving over my skin. “I need you.”
Gripping my hip with one hand and wrapping an arm around my back with the other, he rolled onto his back, taking me with him. I straddled him on the table, his hard cock beneath me.
“Ride me so I can admire the most stunning piece of art I’ve ever created while I’m buried inside you.”
Spurred by the heated desire in his gaze, I lifted up and he held me by the waist. I lined him up with my entrance and sank down on him, impaling myself.
We both moaned in unison at the feeling of utter fullness.
“Fuck, Bambi, you’re so damn tight. You’ve got my cock in a chokehold.”
I gave him a lazy, pleasure-induced smile and started rocking my hips, my fingertips digging into his hard pecs.
He gripped my waist, helping me rock against him. He lifted his head, staring down at where his cock was buried deep inside me.
“That’s it, baby, ride me, my perfect fucking muse.”
We picked up speed and the friction between our bodies intensified. I tipped my head back and moaned his name over and over, the words falling from my mouth against my will. The pleasure was so damn overwhelming I couldn’t think or feel or see anything but him.
He reached out to cup my breast, his thumb teasing my nipple, making my pussy clench around him. “Tell me you’re mine, Dempsey,” he demanded through our panting breaths as we rocked together.
I nodded, the sensations he was drawing from my body making my head spin.
“I’m yours,” I said breathlessly. “I’m yours. I’m yours.”
His hand dipped between my legs, his thumb circling my clit, making me cry out.
“Dacre…” I breathed, the combination of his fingers on my clit and his cock buried deep pushing me closer to the edge. “I’m going to…”
An orgasm ripped through me so fast I barely had time to catch my breath.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you let go,” he gritted out, thrusting hard several times before he spilled inside me, hot and fast.
He gripped the back of my neck, tugging my mouth to his as we rode out our orgasms chest to chest, our tongues tangled together through our comedown.
When we broke apart, I collapsed on top of him, my body needing more than a minute to recover.
I lifted my head, resting my chin on his pec. “People weren’t lying when they said artists are the best lovers.”
Dacre’s face lit with a smile just for me, the sight so damn beautiful.
If I’d been as talented with a brush as he was, I would have painted that moment so I could keep it forever.