27. Nick
NICK
And in two weeks, I won’t even have that.
I spend the morning working on my syllabus for class next semester, but when I can no longer focus, I pull my sketchbook out again, looking at the drawing of Zinnia.
This time, I can’t stop myself from picking up a pencil and sketching her from memory.
The curve of her waist and hips, the way her hair fell across her bare shoulders in bed, her full lips.
The more time I spend drawing her, the more restless I feel, and eventually I take myself to the gym.
And as I think about the raw lust in Zinnia’s eyes when I pulled my shirt off on Wednesday night, my workout takes on an entirely different meaning.
At two, I shower and dress in dark jeans and a button-down, then take the subway uptown to avoid walking in the heat.
My pulse thrums in anticipation as I flash my membership card at the front desk and take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.
Zinnia is already there, standing in front of Pollock’s massive, messy canvas, head tilted in thought.
The room is surprisingly quiet, and I hang back in the doorway just looking at her.
God, she’s beautiful. Her hair swept up in a bun high on her head, highlighting the gentle slope of her neck, a floral dress clinging to her generous curves.
My hands tingle with the need to touch her, and all I can think about is how she wanted to have sex with me on the sofa in June’s studio, and I said no .
What the hell is wrong with me? She was ready and eager—and if the way she squirmed on my lap was any indication, wet—and I said no ?
I grimace. I’d wanted nothing more than to bury myself inside her, but that nagging sense of unease had kept me in check.
It’s hovered around me the past few days, reminding me how easy it is to make a fool of myself in front of Zinnia if I’m not careful.
That’s why I suggested meeting here, knowing I couldn’t do something stupid.
That, and my apartment is awfully close to campus. I’m terrified someone I know will see her on my doorstep.
But as I gaze at her now, part of me wishes I’d just invited her there.
As if sensing my presence, she turns, her eyes lighting when she sees me. She bites her lip to keep her smile in check, but it’s too big to be contained. That smile hits me right in the chest. She’s so fucking happy to see me, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Professor Sweetman,” she says when I cross to her. “What a coincidence.”
“Miss Sinclair,” I reply, even though no one is close enough to hear. “It sure is. What are you doing here?”
“I have a date.” Her eyes glitter, and it’s an effort not to haul her into my arms and kiss her.
“A date?” I reply, turning to stare at Pollock’s work to hide my own smile. “Lucky guy.”
“Actually, I’m the lucky one.”
Shit, she’s cute.
“Is that so?” I ask, stroking my jaw as if contemplating the painting deeply. “And why is that?”
“Well, he’s incredibly handsome,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her words. “Incredibly smart.” She lowers her voice, only for me. “And he has the body of a Greek god.”
Fuck .
My neck heats, breath quickening. Every time this woman compliments my body, I’m torn between wanting to hide and wanting to strip naked for her.
“He sounds like a real catch,” I say, voice pitching lower.
“He is.”
Her hand brushes mine, unnoticeable to anyone else, but enough to send fireworks shooting up my arm. I lose the battle, turning to look at her, and her hazel eyes darken.
Goddammit. Why did I bring her to a museum , of all places? Somewhere people might recognize me?
I swallow, forcing my gaze back to the painting. “What do you think?” I ask, motioning to Pollock’s jumble of paint splatters.
“I love it,” Zinnia says without hesitation, and I smother my smile. Why does that not surprise me? The woman who feels everything easily, who lives in the moment.
“Why?”
“There’s so much happening. I can almost feel what the artist was feeling. The movement, the emotion.”
I nod. It’s exactly how I see it, which is exactly why I don’t like it.
“What do you think?” she asks, and I consider how to answer respectfully.
“It’s a little… chaotic.”
“It’s super chaotic,” she agrees. “But look.” She steps closer, motioning to the slight border of canvas Pollock has left.
“It doesn’t fully reach the edges. That makes the chaos contained.
And when it’s contained, it’s safe.” She pauses before adding thoughtfully, “It’s intense emotional expression, safely contained. That’s powerful.”
My gaze slides to Zinnia. She’s still studying the painting intently, eyes mapping every streak of paint, but I can’t stop looking at her.
My head spins as I try to process her words, how easily she reframed Pollock’s piece from unruly chaos to contained emotion.
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I’m continually surprised by the way she sees the world, the way she makes me see the world differently.
And it makes me forget where we are.
I step closer, sliding my hand under her chin to tilt her face to mine.
Her brows pop up in surprise, but that doesn’t stop me from lowering my lips to hers.
They’re as soft and sweet as I remember, and I nudge them open, sweeping my tongue into her mouth.
She melts against me, arms twining around my neck, and every drop of blood in my body rushes south.
Fuck, I need her so badly it hurts.
But the sound of voices nearby snaps me out of it, and I step back on unsteady legs, putting distance between us.
Holy shit, what am I doing?
My heart pummels my ribs as I glance around in panic, but it’s only a couple with a stroller passing by. Inhaling slowly, I try to pull myself together. We’re in public, for fuck’s sake. Someone who knows me could see.
Jesus Christ.
I take my glasses off to wipe them with shaking hands, and when I slide them back on, I see Zinnia studying the painting again, as if nothing is wrong. As if I haven’t just crossed a huge line, kissing her here.
She turns to me with a polite smile. “While you’re here, Professor, we could look at a few more paintings,” she suggests innocently, but I catch the glint in her eye. The one that tells me I could kiss her again at any moment, and she’d be fine with it.
She’d love it.
God, I want that. I want to kiss her all over this city, in the open, for everyone to see.
But it’s not in the cards. Even if she is about to leave town, I can’t risk it. Can’t risk someone from the university discovering I’m involved with my former student.
Instead, I offer her what I can. “Sure. Let’s look at some art.”
Zinnia and I spend the next two hours at MoMA, respectfully keeping our distance from one another, but I can’t shake what she said about Pollock.
And when we step out into Midtown in the early evening, I know I’m not ready for the day to end.
The longer we talked about art, the more I wanted her. Now, it’s not a question of if.
It’s a question of where .
“What are you doing now?” I ask thickly.
“Nothing.” Zinnia’s eyes sparkle as she gazes at me. “What about you?”
“Nothing.” I glance around, making sure there’s no one I know nearby. The busy street creates its own kind of privacy. “Want to come back to my place? We could order in. You could stay over…” I trail off, letting the suggestion of what else I want hang, and Zinnia nods vigorously.
“I very much want that.”
Happiness warms my chest. That she’s as eager for me as I am for her. Maybe it’s risky to take her there, but given she’s staying with her grandmother, her place is out of the question, and I need to be alone with her again. Need to undress her and touch every inch of her beautiful curves.
I rake a hand through my hair, considering the best way to get us there. The subway is too exposed, but we could take a cab. As long as no one sees us getting in or out of it together, we’ll be fine.
I motion for her to follow me, and we head along to Fifth Avenue, where I hail a cab.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I usher Zinnia into the backseat, then slip in after her.
She turns to me with a grin, sliding her hand into mine.
It sends a thrill through me, and I lift it to brush a kiss on her soft skin.
It occurs to me that she won’t have her things to stay over, and even though she managed fine last time, I’m sure she’d be more comfortable with them.
“Do you want to stop in at your place to get anything?” I ask, and she shakes her head, patting her purse.
“I came prepared,” she says, smiling sheepishly. “In case.”
I glance at the small bag on her shoulder, surprised. “You pack light,” I joke.
“Yep.” She laughs awkwardly, glancing out the window.
I’ll be gone by Labor Day.
Her words echo in my head, and my hand tightens on hers. She’s probably made an art of packing light, given how frequently she moves. Something uncomfortable stirs in my chest, but I push it away as we head toward my place, telling myself not to think about it.
To make the most of what little time we have.