I spent the afternoon locked in the spare room I’d turned into a makeshift studio, fan whirring against the thick heat, charcoal dust smudged across my fingers. The art showcase was three weeks away, and my portfolio still felt half-finished—raw sketches of tangled bodies and shadowed secrets that hit way too close to home now. Every curve I drew reminded me of Damien’s hands. Every dark line, his tattoos.
I needed to focus. Needed to pretend the ache between my legs was from yesterday’s workout and not from getting railed on the kitchen counter like some desperate housewife in a bad porno.
The door creaked open behind me.
I didn’t turn around. “I’m working, Damien.”
“Looks intense.” His voice was closer than I expected. He stopped just behind my stool, looking over my shoulder at the
