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)
Christian waved me over again.
Sighing, I put my view back on Nova. “Speaking of desire. I can’t pretend I don’t want to rush this between us and taste you immediately.”
She blinked again.
“But, I won’t rush this.” I dropped my gaze to her breasts safely hidden by the buttoned up blue shirt. “However, I will see you tomorrow for our date.”
“Tomorrow? Well. . .a date? I don’t know. I have a lot of research to—”
“Be ready at 8 pm.”
She parted her lips.
Hunger rippled through me.
“And, wear red.” I headed off.
She called back, “But. . .you don’t have my address.”
Heading away, I smirked.
She still has no idea who I am, and what I am capable of.
I was the moth.
She was the flame, drawing me closer and closer.
Already an overpowering need surged through me.
Once she passed my tests, her fate would be sealed.
I would have her in every way I desired, and nothing would keep me away.
Chapter Three
The Sexy Artist
I texted my twin brother, Dylan.
Me: I met someone.
Me: An artist.
Me: He was super sexy.
Me: You would like him.
I put my phone in my purse and sat in the back of the Uber.
Wow.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Tristan. The way his eyes pierced through me. The way his dark voice caressed my skin.
Irresistibly handsome, he was tall with broad shoulders and a lean muscular built. Dark hair and bright green eyes. Intense and mysterious.
Although a short conversation, our back and forth had told me that he was a charismatic man.
Where the hell did he come from?
After talking to Tristan, I was feeling hot and lusty, the kind of feeling that I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Erotic thoughts consumed my mind. The way his eyes had smoldered with intensity. The way his words had set my body ablaze with desire. The way he exuded confidence and power.
And that sculpture collection of his. . .
It was stunning.
Thrilling.
The very embodiment of desire.
In fact, looking at just one piece made me feel like I was about to orgasm. Only a genius could cause such a reaction through glass and metal.
Therefore, Tristan had to be a highly sexual being who was unafraid to explore his desires and fantasies.
He would. . .rip me apart. . .and I would love every second. . .
Surely, dating him would be exciting.
An adventure.
Plus, I’d done some quick research on Tristan, and could only find information about his art career. He’d gone to Rhode Island School of Design and earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Sculpture and Painting.
After that, Tristan was an Artist in Residence at the Studio Museum in Harlem, New York.
Then, he did his first solo exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. There, he created an installation that merged sculpture and painting together and explored themes of identity and memory.
The older he became, the more his works shifted to provocative and controversial.
One collection called Pissy Country, presented tons of upside down urinals shaped like America. He’d painted the historical horrors of our country on each one—scenes of slavery, images of Native American Genocide, scenes of Japanese Internment camps during World War II, and even visions of African Americans being experimented on in the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment.
Then, there was his temper.
At his last art showing, an art critic screamed that he was the Anti-Christ of Art. Tristan beat the critic until he passed out, and then wiped the man’s blood on his nearest sculpture which ended up selling for over a million dollars that night.
Yet, there was absolutely nothing about his childhood or where he’d come from.
His past represented a complex mystery that I instantly yearned to uncover.
I had a thing for a tortured man, someone in desperate need of fixing.
No. No. Stop thinking about this man. You have bigger problems. Focus on a solution to your own life.
I glanced at the driver—a red headed woman. She was probably college age and doing this for extra money.
She turned up Taylor Swift’s song, Anti-hero and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.
Maybe I can get a car and do uber or something. That might fix my money problems.
I gazed out the window as the car passed through Paradise City’s bustling downtown. The buildings that lined the streets stretched towards the sky, casting long shadows on the ground below.
Think about getting money and independence. Not the sexy, mysterious artist.
I had to finish my PhD and find job opportunities.
Unfortunately, my mother represented a textbook narcissistic parent. For her financially supporting my academic career, she expected me to call three times a day and tell her how amazing she was, even when she was being cruel.
Meanwhile, she could be as overly critical of my life as she desired. And the only acceptable response was silence on the matter.
That stuff I could deal with.
How she crossed the line was that I was now in my third year of my PhD in a rigorous program that focused on the study of human sexuality. It covered many topics— sexual development, sexual behavior, and kinks.