Midnight Muse

“I had my helmet on, and that’s what saved me, but my hands were fucked. They had to take skin from here—” I take our intertwined hands and pull up my sleeve, showing off the scars of skin grafts creeping up my wrists, then gesture to my legs. “To fix where the road shredded my hands.” I stare for a moment before chuckling wetly because I have to give up my dream of tattooing. Sitting in a room of drawings of the reasons why I have to let it go, it really sets in. “Now, I can hardly hold a tattoo gun for a long period of time, let alone draw a goddamn straight line.”

Tears spill down Quinn’s cheeks and my chest aches. I hate that I’ve made her cry, that my words are the cause of this.

I’m shaking like a leaf, my grip tight around her fingers. My breathing is harsh, loud in the otherwise silent gallery, as I muster up the courage to reach out to her like I want.

With a curled knuckle, I gently catch a tear as it rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t break my gaze. She allows me to do this for her. If this is the only touch I get, I’m thankful.

My voice is tight, a low grind when I try to speak again. “Those drawings,” I gesture vaguely around the room. “I drew the ones nearest the door as soon as I could pick up a piece of charcoal after the incident. Hurt like fucking hell.” My laugh is wet and fake. “And even more so to clean the powder from my hands.” It helped to wear gloves, but when they were still healing the tightness felt like my hands were on fire, melting in the claustrophobic latex.

I don’t have as much trouble with them now, other than the trembling.

“Knox,” she croaks, but I shake my head softly. Unfortunately, I’m not finished yet.

“This exhibition is about new beginnings,” I explain, dragging my gaze across every single piece of work I’ve created. The despair, the agony, fear, anger, slowly turning into something steadier, stronger, and happier. I’m not completely there yet, but I’m hoping that someday I can look down at my hands and be proud of what I’ve accomplished despite what they’ve—I’ve—been through.

I untangle my fingers from Quinn’s and push to my feet, reaching down to help her up. She stands and I re-twine our fingers, not quite ready to let her go. Instead of looking at the art, she’s staring at me.

And I can’t read the look in her eyes.

It’s fitting, how my exhibition is about new beginnings and this feels so much like one. There isn’t any more animosity between us; instead, a fresh, clean slate.

Quinn breathes out a hasty, “I’m sorry, too,” before her free hand wraps around my neck and she hauls me down for a kiss.

CHAPTER 23

QUINN

The kiss is searing.

It’s a desperate attempt to taste each other, devour each other as Knox’s lips part beneath mine. Our teeth clack and the sound is loud in the silent gallery, almost startlingly so, but his tongue brushes across mine in an apologetic swipe before dipping in for more, easily taking control of the kiss.

It’s urgent, and the taste of him explodes on my tongue, fresh and spicy. I can taste the champagne I’ve drank and I want to cringe, but when his hands caress my face, keeping me close, the feeling bubbles throughout my body.

I inch closer, pressing myself fully into him. He’s a solid wall of warmth that coils deliciously down my body and settles between my thighs.

My heart pounds in my chest as I lose myself in him entirely.

A new beginning indeed.

“Wait,” Knox pants between kisses. His words tell me that he wants to pause the kiss that is more dizzying than any of the champagne I’ve had tonight, but the way his hands keep pulling me closer, the way he continues to press his mouth against mine again and again, tells me that he doesn’t want this to end either. “Princess, wait.”

I freeze when the totality of his words catches up to me, rocking back from him. Is he already regretting this? I mean, I did just throw myself at him like some simpering girl.

Knox’s reassuring grip slides down my arms, keeping me in my spot. Tingles skitter in the wake of his touch, and I can’t help the part of me that’s suddenly terrified of what he’s about to say.

He must read it on my face, my worry, because his dark brows furrow like he doesn’t understand why my initial reaction would be to pull away. He’s stepping into me, plastering himself against my front. I can feel the hard lines of his body, the stiffness of his cock against my stomach.

Warmth collects between the apex of my thighs at the feeling of that. I want it pressed a few inches lower and a few inches deeper.

“You’ve been drinking,” Knox breathes, and the pinch to his face becomes more tortured when I slide my hands up his chest, wrapping them around his neck. His eyes search mine with a frantic kind of energy; I don’t show him anything but the ache, the need for him that I’ve been locking deeply inside of myself. “I need you to be sober when I fuck you for the first time, Princess.”

“I’m fine,” I whine, because holy fuck does that sound good right now. I’m clinging to him just as tightly as he’s holding me. I roll my hips to emphasize how great of an idea fucking is and Knox makes a choked noise in response. “I’m not drunk enough to where I’d forget or regret any of this, Knox.”

He shakes his head as if trying to rid his mind of whatever he’s thinking. Hopefully, he was imagining fucking me because his pupils grow with hunger.

“Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut and I grin in triumph. Knox leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine as he confesses, his breath brushing across my lips. “I want to fuck you in a bed, not on some hard floor.”

It’s a poor excuse and we both know it. I’m more than willing to have a sore back from getting fucked into the marble beneath our feet. It’s been far too long since I’ve last had sex. Knox could fuck me out in the back alley and I’d enjoy it. I’d probably even thank him.