Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
We headed there.
Soon, the glass walls showing the city shifted to white walls adorned with paintings.
Of course I couldn’t help but glance at each one and assess them.
One painting showed a massive green maze. It was endless and winding with no apparent exit. The walls of the maze were tall and impenetrable, leaving me—the viewer—feeling trapped and disoriented.
He thinks he can’t escape the past? Or. . .maybe it is difficult to find his way through the complexities of his emotions?
I knew I should stop analyzing him. It was all hopeless and stupid. Nothing would come from Tristan and me, besides some extravagant dates and amazing sex.
And apparently some movies.
Still. . .I wanted to truly know the man that would be moving inside of me.
We walked by one painting and I forced us to stop. “Hold on, please.”
Tristan watched me.
I took it in.
The painting showed the blurred image of a man. Even though the face wasn’t fully distinct, for some reason. . .I knew it was Tristan. There were small features here and there that pointed to it being him—the point of his nose, the sculpted view of the cheeks, those full lips.
Yet, the eyes were distorted as well as other parts of his face.
Tristan turned to the painting. “What do you see?”
“It’s going to sound weird, but. . .”
“What?”
“I see you.”
He snapped his view to me. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It just. . .kind of looks like you.”
He grinned. “But, you can barely see the man’s face.”
“Still. . .” I shrugged again. “Why? Who is this?”
He nodded. “It is me.”
“Oh really?”
“In art school, one of the initial assignments students are often tasked with is creating a self-portrait.”
I put my view back on the painting. “And this is yours?”
“It is.” He sighed. “I was nineteen.”
“And what did your professor think of your self-portrait?”
“He hated it, citing that the painting was too unconventional, overly abstract, and not adhering to the traditional self-portrait format.”
“And what did you think?”
“That he was an idiot, and had nothing to teach me.”
“You sounded like you were very humble at nineteen.”
“It is hard to be humble, when you know how great you are.” Tristan took my hand and led us to a door that stood out from the others.
It was made of dark wood and had intricate carvings etched into its surface.
“We are now at the end of our tour.” Tristan turned to face me. “This is my studio.”
My heart skipped a beat as he opened the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Canvas of the Heart
As Nova and I stepped toward my studio, I couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty. Her brown skin glowed. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. I had looked forward to this second date all morning, eager to reveal a more intimate side of myself through my home.
But am I revealing too much?
Nova walked into my studio with those inquisitive eyes.
It was well past 800sq feet. Shelves and wall dividers rounded here and there, separating the space.
She was the third woman to ever enter this studio. The other two women had only passed through it to get to my secret playroom on the other side.
But with Nova. . .since we started off with my art, I liked the idea of interweaving the artist side of me within this situation.
Usually, I kept my passion for art outside of my erotic adventure with a woman.
Is this a good idea?
Tension gathered in my shoulders.
This space reflected me. It was one of the few places where I could create and be free.
She could see too much of me in this place.
For me, opening my soul to another person was akin to peeling back layers of skin. Each layer revealed too much raw, unfiltered depths of vulnerability. When exposed, my soul was sensitive to the slightest touch.
And now, as Nova stood within my space, I felt her curious eyes prying into the recesses of my very being. It left me on edge.
Yet, in the midst of my unease, a curious part of me ached to know the thoughts that brewed behind those curious, yet enchanting eyes.
I—so used to concealing myself behind the impenetrable fortress of my art—found myself enthralled by the prospect of being seen, truly seen, by Nova.
This had my body teetering between fear and desire.
The moth drawn to the flame.
I shut the door behind me and took a step inside. The polished mahogany floor cooled beneath my bare feet.
And then there was the painting that I had done of her last night.
It was currently hidden behind a draped cloth and tucked away in a quiet corner. It was a painting that I hadn’t even meant to create, yet it had flowed from me with an intensity that left me breathless. It made me uncomfortable, this unexpected connection to her that had manifested in colors and shapes.
Why did I paint her? What did it mean?