Why do I always do this? Why am I such a glutton for danger and darkness? Why is the good girl in me always wanting to do bad things?
“Yes,” I answer him, a challenging smirk on my face. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
BRANT
I drop the keys twice on the way back to the car.
I can barely say anything on the ride over except stupid shit, like asking how she thought the steak was, or whether the restaurant felt too cramped for a Monday. Who cares, Brant? You’re driving to her place! And if you play all your Kings and Aces right, you’ll win the Queen!
“Here,” she murmurs.
I pull to a stop in front of a tall building just past the bridge over Jefferson Brook. I’m a bit turned around and possibly too intoxicated by horniness at the moment to process whether or not this is the nice side of town. From the look of the seemingly abandoned vehicles and boarded-up stores down the road, I might make a guesstimate as to which side I’m on.
She opens the door to a rundown warehouse-like building and we start ascending a narrow staircase which goes on forever. I’m about to complain until I realize I have a beautifully hypnotic view of Nell’s tight ass all the way up the approximately nine hundred flights. I think that’s enough motivation to shut up and bear the sore thighs. I could almost feel thankful for the lack of a working elevator.
We finally arrive at a sliding metal door, which she unlocks and pulls open with a heavy grunt. She flips on a switch inside, which actually lights up an array of different sized and shaped lamps that line one wall, giving the long room a multihued glow of various oranges and ambers. She lives in an industrial loft that overlooks the Jefferson Brook and the buildings below through its wall of windows that stretch the length of two walls—as we’re in a corner of the building. I’ve never been to New York City, but instantly I could believe I was there right now, staring out the window of some high-rise. I might be wrong, but I think I can even see Klangburg University in the distance. That is, if I’m even looking in the right direction.
“Want a drink?”
I turn away from the window at the inviting sound of her soft voice. She’s in her kitchenette, which is a modest L of countertop, a stove that’s seen better days, and a fridge that groans like it’s clinging to its last breath. Beyond the kitchen is a shadowed space I can’t see too well and a bed farther off by the window. I don’t even see the door to another room, leading my mind to wonder where the hell the bathroom is. I’m not used to such an open living space. I envy it, considering my own cramped living situation.
“I’m good.” I offer a smile, tucking my hands away in my pockets. “This is quite the pad you got here.”
“It’s alright. I hate the lighting in the evening; sun’s right in my face. Horrible for work.” She pulls out a bottle of something, cracks it open on the side of the counter, then kicks it back. I watch her in half-admiration, feeling as if I’m discovering a new facet of her every damn second. I’ve learned more about her tonight than I did all last week.
And I even still have my clothes on.
“You do your work here?” I ask.
“Yes, some of it.”
She takes another swig, leaning back against the counter. It’s very difficult not to stare at her sexy thighs, imagine the warmth between them, and reckon how horny it’d make me to put my face in all of that. Just the thought stirs my cock.
“Want to show me your work?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you that much in a hurry to get chained up naked and turned into another art piece again?”
I grin, a jolt of excitement coursing through me. Honestly, I might totally go for that exact situation again, provided it’s just her and I in the gallery. “Cuffed,” I correct her sassily, unable to resist giving her another onceover with my hungry eyes.
Nell chuckles, then pushes herself off the counter and heads for the shadowy area. I follow, our footsteps echoing all over the room. This loft has to be twice the size of my apartment. How does she afford a place of this size off-campus? I immediately answer my own question, figuring that in a rundown neighborhood like this, even a makeshift loft probably doesn’t go for much in terms of rent.
Or maybe she’s the sole heir to some family fortune and I’m a total judgmental prick.
She flips a switch, startling me, and three overhanging lights I didn’t notice before now bring into existence a cemetery of easels and tiny platforms upon which half-finished structures are perched. I see what looks like a big clay animal without its head—either a puppy or a pig, judging from the tail. There’s a giant papier-mâché spiked heel shoe, painted a glossy black. My eyes move to the easels and I see only two of them that carry drawings. Upon closer inspection, I realize one is a painting, in fact. It’s on a tall canvas—a familiar painting.