Now, fifteen years later, that wanting hasn't diminished. It's grown, evolved, become something darker and more consuming. My body remembers hers like a phantom limb, aching for what we never had. I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my boxers, fingers wrapping around my hardened length, seeking momentary escape from this burning need that has haunted me for fifteen years.
The fantasy ambushes me, as vivid as memory. I see her now—the elegant curve of her spine as she stretches to reach a canvas, the sway of her hips. My left hand clenches into the worn fabric of the couch cushion while my right moves with increasing urgency. In my mind, I peel away layers of fabric, revealing inch after inch of soft skin beneath.
I trace the geography of her body with imaginary fingertips—the slope of her breasts rising and falling with each breath, the hollow of her throat where I'd press my lips to taste salt and sweetness, the sacred space between her thighs where I'd worship with lips and tongue until she trembles and cries out.
A groan tears from deep in my throat as I remember the little gasps she used to make, the way her breath caught when my fingers found sensitive skin. We were teenagers then, fumbling in the dark. Now? Now I'd take my time, memorize every freckle, every sigh. My thumb circles the sensitive tip as my strokes grow more desperate, the fantasy consuming every thought.
The images spiral through my mind, each imagined touch more intense than the last. I picture her beneath me, finally—finally—joined. Nothing between us but sweat and promises. Her moans would fill the empty space around us, her pleasure becoming my only focus. My hand moves faster, matching the rhythm of my imagination.
I'm drowning in it now—the imagined taste of her on my tongue, her scent filling my lungs, the sound of my name on her lips. It's too much. Release hits like lightning, muscles tensing as my body arches off the couch. I come with her name locked behind clenched teeth, pleasure pulsing through me in waves that gradually subside into hollow satisfaction.
I lie there, heart thundering against my ribs, aftershocks still trembling through me. But the ache in my chest? That hasn't eased at all.
"Fuck." I drag myself up, and head for the shower. The water can't be cold enough to douse this fire.
11
Bella
The sharp click of my heels echoes through the gallery as I do one final walkthrough before the interview. Everything needs to be perfect—lighting, placement, ambiance. My upcoming show could make or break my career, and after years of fighting to establish myself, I refuse to let anything derail this moment.
The interviewer from ArtScene Magazine arrives precisely on time, all polished professionalism in her tailored blazer. "Ms. Jenkins, thank you for making time for us today."
We start with the expected questions about technique and inspiration. I relax into the familiar rhythm of discussing my work, the passion for my craft carrying me through each answer.
"Your use of light and shadow is striking in this piece," she says, gesturing to my latest work. "The way you capture the interplay between darkness and illumination..."
"It's about transformation," I explain, warming to the topic. "How moments of darkness can—"
"Speaking of transformation," she interrupts, her tone shifting subtly, "your own life has undergone quite a change recently. Your connection to Ares Saint has certainly brought you into the spotlight."
My spine stiffens. "I'm here to discuss my art."
"But surely you understand public interest in your history with the Saints?" Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Especially given recent events. Some might say your timing is... convenient."
The word 'convenient' hits like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"Well, with your exhibition coming up, and Mr. Saint's very public break from his engagement..." She lets the implication hang in the air. "The publicity must be beneficial."
Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything except the thundering of my heart. "This interview is over."
"Ms. Jenkins, I'm simply asking what many are wondering. Your relationship with Ares Saint—"
"Get out." My voice shakes with barely contained fury.
"But the public has a right to—"
"The public has a right to nothing." I stride to the gallery door, yanking it open. "My art stands on its own merit. I don't need scandal or the Saint name to validate my work."
She gathers her things slowly, deliberately. "You know, your reaction only makes this more intriguing."
"Out." The word comes out as a growl.
The moment she's gone, I walk back to corner where my art is hanging, only to have my legs give out. I slide down the wall, the cool surface against my back the only thing keeping me grounded. The gallery—my sanctuary, my achievement, my proof that I survived the Saints' destruction—suddenly feels tainted.
My phone chimes with a text alert. Another news notification about Ares, no doubt. Another piece of my carefully constructed life crumbling under the weight of the Saint legacy.
"Damn you, Ares," I whisper to the empty gallery, my voice breaking. "Damn you for bringing their circus back into my life."
