Limerence II by Claire C Riley Read Free Book Online Page A

stand next to me, his muscled arms crossed in front of him as he continues to admire my painting. His chin is covered in a day-old beard, and my hand itches to run across it and feel the gruffness beneath my fingertips, the scratchiness of it both rough and tender. He looks down at me with a smile, his dark eyes broody. I almost roll my eyes at my childish thoughts.
    “Does this make you happy?” he asks, and gestures to my painting.
    I nod. “I think so, yes. It’s quietened her , and that definitely makes me happy,” I conclude with a shaky voice feeling nervous.
    “You’re very good. I never knew.”
    “Me neither.” I shrug. “I forgot that I enjoyed painting.” I can’t take my eyes off him. I thought he would be mad at me, but instead he is the picture of calmness, his handsome face staring in amazement at my painting, the smallest trace of a smile on his full lips.
    “You should do this more often.”
    I shrug again. “Maybe.”
    Evan turns to me, his smile just a fraction bigger. “I insist, Little Mia.” My nickname rolls off his tongue easily and I can’t help but feel a blush rise to my cheeks.
    I roll my eyes at him. “I’ve told you about calling me Little Mia, Evan.” I smile back, feeling our relationship slipping back into its old routine.
    He steps forwards and places a hand on the back of my head, his fingers moving through my hair. “Or you’ll have me on my back?” he says gruffly, his eyes turning dark and hooded.
    I quiver—no: I tremble, my entire body quaking and blossoming with desire at his words. “Yes,” I say, and swallow as we lock eyes. “I certainly will.”
    I have the strangest feeling that he might kiss me, and I wait with bated breath for it, for him. For his lips both rough and soft on mine, both calm and insistent, his desire taking hold of us both, and longing pushing us towards something that we both want and need but are scared to do. He stares down at me, his hand still in my hair. I almost moan aloud with brazen desire for him, and then at the last moment he pulls away and looks back to the painting with a deep frown, and I am left panting and frustrated. Again. And I can’t help but wonder if all of this between us is actually in my head. But when I look at him, I see his longing written all over his face—no matter how much he tries to conceal it with his cool exterior.
    “I am sorry about the other night,” he says, startling me with not only his bluntness, but the change of conversation. “Perhaps you were not ready.”
    “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I scoff. “It’s me that should apologise. I don’t even remember getting back to my room. I went completely crazy.” I sigh, both embarrassed and annoyed at myself for not controlling her yet. And seriously pissed about how he affects me so much.
    “Do not apologise, just learn.” He looks at me. “Learn and become strong, Mia. Stronger than her.” Our eyes lock, and for some reason I feel like he’s not just talking about her .
    I feel like his words are perhaps a warning to me, and I can’t shake the feeling that he is telling me more than he is saying. But then his arms fold tighter across his chest, his body becoming rigid and uptight again, though his jaw continues to grind manically.
    “It really is beautiful. Almost potent.” His voice comes out like gravel and I swallow again, my body still leaning towards him, and knowing from his shaky words that he felt it too.
    I shudder once more, not even angry that he gives me whiplash from his mood changes or that he just broke the invisible barrier between us yet again. I turn towards my painting, unable to look at him anymore. Every emotion is ten times as strong in this world—even rejection. I need time to myself, to lick my wounds and regroup my thoughts.
    The redheaded woman stares back at me, her face contorted into torment, her eyes pools of blood as flames lick the side of her face, giving her eternal torment. Her face