I’m babbling, and he’s looking at me with such concern and sympathy that I think my heart is going to break.
“I’m sorry, Damien,” I say. “I can’t take your money. And I can’t do this.”
20
I scramble out of his embrace and snatch my shirt off the floor. I pull it on, then stand up, brushing my tears away with the back of my hand.
I fasten my jeans and look around for my purse and camera bag. They’re on the floor by the foot of the bed, right where I left them.
I hurry that way and sling my purse over my shoulder. I briefly register that Blaine is gone. I’m grateful he didn’t make a show of leaving, even though I’m embarrassed I melted down in front of him.
“I—I can call a cab if you want. Or Edward can—” I cut myself off, closing my eyes. My entire body feels warm. I’m burning up with embarrassment.
Damien has risen to his feet and he’s standing by the bed, watching me. I can’t read his face, but I know he must be furious.
“I’m sorry, Damien. I’m so sorry.” How many times can I say it? Will it ever not sound hollow? “I’ll wait outside.”
I hurry toward the stairs, my head down.
“Nikki …” His voice caresses my name, and I hesitate, but then move on.
“Nikki.” This time, my name is a command. I stop, my back stiff, and turn to face him.
He is right there, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his eyes on my face. His expression is dark. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I have to leave. I told you. I can’t do this.”
“We have a deal,” he says, his eyes burning into me. “You’re mine, Nikki.” His hand slides behind my neck, tugging me toward him. With his other hand, he lifts my tank top and cups my breast. “Mine,” he repeats.
The warmth of his hand fills me, and I gasp. I want him, but I can’t do this. I can’t …
I shake my head. “I’m breaking the deal.”
“I don’t accept that.”
Anger pierces my embarrassment and shatters my desire. “Fuck what you accept. I’m saying no.”
His thumb makes lazy circles on my nipple. “Stop it.”
He doesn’t. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.” This, I think as desire knots through me. The way I feel. Where this will lead …
No, I’m not afraid. I’m fucking terrified.
“Bullshit.” He pulls me close and takes my mouth with his, kissing me roughly and then pushing me away. “I can taste the fear on you, baby. Tell me. Dammit, Nikki, let me make it better.”
I shake my head. I have no words.
Slowly, he nods. “All right. I won’t hold you to our deal. But at least let me see what I’m losing.”
My head jerks up to look at him. “What?”
“I wanted a portrait. And I wanted the woman. Naked, Nikki. Naked and open in my bed. At least let me see what I’m missing out on.”
The anger that’s been growing bursts out like gasoline thrown on a fire. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He is perfectly calm, his eyes flat and focused on me. “I’m not. Take your jeans off, Nikki. Let me see you.”
“You son of a bitch.” I blink, and a tear streaks down my cheek. I wanted my scars to be a weapon? Well, they’re damn well going to be. Angrily, I rip open the button of my jeans and yank the zipper down. I wriggle out of them until the denim is pooled at my feet. I kick off the damn flip-flops and stand there, my legs spread slightly. There’s no way he can miss the welts on my hips and inner thighs. “You goddamn son of a bitch.”
I don’t know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I’d cut too deep, and I’d been too scared to go to the emergency room. I’d closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I’d kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it’s still slightly pink.
“Oh, baby.” His voice is soft, like a caress. “I knew there was something, but …” He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. “Who did this to you?”
I close my eyes and tilt my head away, ashamed.
I hear his soft exhale and know that he understands. I force myself to look back at him.
“Is this what you were afraid of? That I’d learn about these scars? That I wouldn’t want you?”
A tear is clinging to the end of my nose. It falls and lands with a plop on his arm.
“Sweetheart …” I hear my pain in his voice. And then he leans close to me and runs his tongue over the inside of my left thigh. Over my flesh, over my scar. I can’t believe this is real, but it is. He’s not running. He’s kissing me there, so sweetly, and then he takes my hands and pulls me down until I’m kneeling in front of him.
I’m a mess, tears spilling, my nose running. I’m hiccuping and it’s not easy to breathe.
“Shhhh,” he says, and then he’s gathered me in his arms. I cling to him as he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, naked except for my tank top, which he very slowly pulls off.
I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to the side, not looking at him.
“No,” he says, and eases my arms to my sides. He takes some pity on me, though, and doesn’t make me look at him.
Slowly, he explores my scars, as if I am a road map, his finger tracing over each of them. He speaks soothing words, and there’s no horror in his voice. No disgust. “This is what you were trying to hide. Why you’ve run from me. Why you wanted to be painted exactly the way you are.”