Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Consequently, you felt you never measured up?” Oh yes, he was intuitive, drilling down into her words.
“They set the bar high,” she admitted, “making it difficult for me to ever climb over it.” She put out a hand, not quite touching him. “But I don’t want you to think I gave up art because of them. I can honestly judge my art very well for myself.”
She could judge her own art. She knew when she’d painted crap. And she painted over it immediately. But she also knew when she’d created something incredible. Her parents had been wrong about her.
Clay didn’t push for more, saying instead, “I have a friend whose parents didn’t appreciate his art either.” He paused long enough for her to recognize the pain in his words even before he added, “It didn’t end well.”
This time, she touched him, just her fingers on his forearm. “I’m sorry for your friend. It’s really hard.”
“I actually thought he might—” He didn’t finish, and his anguish for his friend threaded through his voice. This wasn’t an act. This was the real Clay.
She knew then, with absolute certainty, that she’d misjudged him. He was like Adrian, empathetic, even if he stood on the sidelines of other people’s artistic endeavors. She felt a great appreciation for the man guiding Dylan Beck, the man guiding all the artists in this warehouse and on his platform.
If she didn’t have so many secrets to keep, could they…? But she couldn’t go there.
Clay took away her chance to say anything when he added, “My friend was the one who got me interested in art. Growing up, I never paid much attention to it. But Gareth opened my eyes. Now I can’t stop seeing the beauty in what others create.” Then he admitted, “As well as the commercial potential.”
“There’s nothing wrong with commercial potential.” She smiled her understanding. “No one wants to be a starving artist. Someone willing to pay huge sums for your art shows great appreciation. It certainly makes San Holo feel good.”
Clay scoffed. “Even as big as he is?”
She snorted. “San didn’t become big by always giving away his art for free. He started with street art, sure, but when people liked it and wanted more, they paid.”
“What about the pop-up art he paints on walls in the middle of the night?”
That was easy. “He gets paid afterward when he sells prints and the actual canvases he worked on while fleshing out the idea.”
After a sip of beer, Clay set the glass on the coffee table. “If he loves people appreciating his art, why is he so adamant about anonymity? You’d think he’d want to be out there for everyone to shower him with praise.”
She didn’t have a ready answer and remained evasive. “Everyone has their reasons for doing something, and they don’t always share them.”
Clay cocked his head like a wolf assessing his prey. “So you don’t know why?”
Again, she hedged. “It’s not my place to ask. I’m just doing my job.”
Hooking his ankle over his knee, he gave her a long look. “How did you meet the great man?”
She smiled widely. “You’re trying to get me to say something that will help you zero in on who San Holo is. But I’m not saying another thing.” Leaning close, she zipped her lips.
Something blazed in his eyes, a fire in their depths. Hands on her shoulders, he hauled her in, kissing her as if he would die without the touch of her lips on his.
She might die without his touch too. His mouth on hers stole any resistance she might have had. Without meaning to move, she found herself straddling his lap, her sweater riding up her thighs as she pressed against him, wanting him.
When his hand dropped to her breast, he pulled back long enough to say, “You said only one night.”
Her breath burst out of her. “Okay. Two nights.” Then she laughed. “Or maybe three.”
In the next moment, his tongue delved deep, his hands everywhere, her fingers in the waistband of his jeans, feeling warm, bare flesh. Wanting him, needing him.
Clay tasted her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, drank in the fruity scent of her hair, reveled in her supple body above him. He no longer cared about street art or commissions or San Holo. There was only her.
Saskia moaned as he plumped her breast in his palm, and he thought he might lose himself completely. Arching into him, she melded with the hardness of his body. He growled his need into her mouth.
He rubbed against her intimate parts, and she moved with him, mimicking the act of love. He felt like a teenage boy, ready to let loose right now. Her nipple pebbled beneath his palm, and she hiked her sweater higher, pulled him closer, as if she were riding the ridge of him.