Draw Me In (26 page)

I
pressed my mouth onto Leo
’
s
and it was like actually kissing him clued me in on so much more about this
man. The way he curled his fingers into my hair, cradling the back of my head
softly with his palm, showed me how gentle and cautious he was. The way his
tongue pressed at the edge of my lips, almost asking permission to enter my
mouth, hinted at a control and a thoughtfulness most men didn
’
t possess. Even the way he would open
his eyes for a brief moment, just long enough to catch my own, reflected his
overwhelming intensity.

I
was wrong in thinking you only got to know someone through conversations and
words strung together. I knew the power of a kiss. The way your soul spoke
through it. And right now, Leo
’
s
was communicating so loudly with mine.

That
ten second kiss felt just like fast-forwarding ten years.

“
Thank you,
”
I whispered as I slid back down onto
my feet and back down to earth.

Cupping
his hand under my jaw, Leo asked,
“
For
what?
”

“
That.
”
I circled an arm out and twisted at
the waist.
“
This.
”
The vineyard sprawled around us.
“
Giving me a chance not only as an
employee, but in a relationship.
”

“
If I
’
m being completely honest,
”
he started, grinning from ear to
ear. It was devilish enough that I could tell his intentions weren
’
t completely pure.
“
I actually hired you so you would
give
me
a chance.
”

“
I thought you said you couldn
’
t imagine anyone else creating the
label!
”
I squawked, slugging him in the broad dip of his chest.
“
That my talents were second to none!
”

“
Well, that
’
s true. I can
’
t and they are.
”
Leo slipped his hands out and
dropped them onto my hips, immediately shooting waves of heat throughout my
body. My chest felt heavy, my cheeks were set on fire. Cocking a brow and
bending down to bring his face level with mine, he muttered behind a coy grin,
“
Looks like you
’
re not the only one to kill two birds
with one stone now, huh?
”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He
’
d been staring at me for the past
three hours, and I
’
d
been staring down at the blank notepad draped across my lap for just as long.
Reno (as I
’
d
recently nicknamed him) did a superb job with the whole not moving thing, but
unfortunately I was also doing the same. Every time I tried to shape his brow
or shade his jaw, it all came out distorted and surreal. No matter how hard I
tried, I couldn
’
t
recreate his likeness. So I just sat there, hoping my pencil would magically
come to life and dance across my paper in a graphite trail. Evidently, things
like that only happened in Disney movies.

“
Work with me, Reno.
”
I tossed the paper to the bed and
slipped the pencil behind my ear, groaning.
“
I thought we had a good thing going
on here.
”

Maybe
if I felt his form under my fingertips, then I
’
d be able to transfer that feeling
onto the paper, too. That always worked in the past. I came up to his side,
closed my eyes, and pulled a finger down the slope of his cheek. Then across
his chin, over his mouth, and onto the other cheek. With both thumbs, I pressed
into his eye sockets, gauging the depth of them, feeling how far set back they
were. This was entirely different from the incident the other night, though I
’
m sure it looked alarmingly similar.
Once again, I still had my guilty hands all over an innocent statue.

Which
was why Leo gasped when he saw me.

Why
hadn
’
t
I learned to lock that door?

“
Not again. Seriously?
”
His hand flew to his face to cloak
his eyes.

“
What
’
s with the not knocking?
”
I didn
’
t look at him, but yanked the
sketchpad from the mattress and began scribbling from the memory held within my
fingers. First Reno
’
s
hair: the strands tucked neatly back into a low ponytail at the base of his
skull. Then the outline of his face: broad lines that accentuated his
cheekbones and sharp bone structure. I shadowed and shaded as Leo walked over.
He peered from behind me, stooping down to watch me work.

“
How do you do that?
”

“
Do what?
”
Taking the moist pad of my index
finger, I smudged the graphite into the fibers, deepening the prominent ridge
of his brow with darker lines. Things were taking shape.

“
Make something from nothing.
”

I
shrugged.
“
It
’
s not that hard. You do the same
thing with wine.
”

“
Technically,
”
Leo slid onto the bed to sit beside
me. He tucked one leg up underneath him and leaned forward. It was like he was
trying to relax, but something within him remained tense with rigidity,
unwilling to give or slink into himself.
“
But
we make wine from grapes.
”

“
And I draw with a pencil and paper.
”

Leo
sighed a little. Not an uncomfortable or exasperated sigh at all, but one that
indicated he was trying to settle in.

“
It may sound crazy, but sometimes
when I draw a statue, I find it helps to actually touch them. To imagine them
on a physical level. Feel them in 3-D before I lose that one dimension by
putting it on paper.
”

Leo
nodded. I wasn
’
t
sure if he understood, but he pretended to.

“
I got into a lot of trouble at the
Uffizi. They don
’
t
take very kindly to patrons touching their priceless artifacts.
”

“
Kinda like how I didn
’
t take too kindly to you frisking
Renaldo?
”

“
Yeah. Same sort of thing.
”
The bust was really beginning to
form under my pencil tip, and I was finally pleased with where this was
heading.
“
I
just feel like I get to know my subject better when I have that physical
contact. I
’
m
not just seeing with my eyes anymore, but with touch too. It helps to add other
senses into the process.
”

I
’
d spent all afternoon staring at the
statue and hadn
’
t
realized how quickly darkness had coated the walls and slid over the furniture.
It was nightfall, and the room was now blanketed in thick shadows, an opaque
covering. It made drawing a challenge, but I kept at it.

Leo
noticed my struggle and walked around the edge of the bed to the lamp on the
nightstand. He flicked it on, his wrist turning over. Then he followed that
same path back to me. But he didn
’
t
sit down this time.

I
was still sketching, so I could only sense him out of my periphery. A flicker
of movement. Only a few more strokes and life would be recognizable on the
page. Renaldo
’
s
life. One that had ended centuries ago, but was now birthed once again in a new
form. My fingers moved wildly across the paper.

With
my eyes still cast downward, I could see Leo grasp the hem of his shirt between
his two fingers. His arms were crossed over one another, an X over his body. In
a fluid movement, his shirt was off, tossed into a balled-up heap of cotton on
the floor.

I
swallowed thickly.

“
Wha
—
?
”
Swallowing once more, I gasped,
“
Wha
—
? What are you doing?
”

“
Draw me, Julie.
”
There was no air left in the room. I
was sure of it, because there wasn
’
t
any making its way into my lungs. It was all a vacuum, sucking the available
breath
—
and
words
—
right
out of my mouth. It pulled at my insides, twisting them, coiling them.
“
I want you to draw me.
”

I
dropped my pencil onto the paper. My mouth gaped open.

Leo
came to the edge of the bed and his shins hit the mattress. He held out his
hand the way a man does when he asks you to dance
—
almost like he
’
s beckoning you
—
and waited. A
pause.

But
I
’
ve never been beckoned before. Not like
this. This was different. He was different.

I
lowered a shaky palm into his, uncrossed my legs, and dropped one over the side
of the bed. But it didn
’
t
do a good job supporting me, and when I tried to push up and bear weight on it,
my knee gave out.

Leo
pulled me up completely.

Taking
my hand and placing it flat against his chest, he pressed his own hand to it so
mine pushed harder onto his bare skin. His eyes were searching.
“
Please.
”
His heart hammered against my palm,
uneven and erratic. Blood coursing through him, yet felt under my skin like it
was my own.
“
I
want you to know me. I need you to draw me.
”

I
wanted to know him too. I hadn
’
t
figured this would be how. I thought maybe it would be through a game of Two
Truths and One Lie or by looking at a scrapbook or watching old family movies.
But as Leo slid my hand from his chest, guiding it up to his collarbone to
trace his shoulder, then the shallow dip at the base of his neck, and onto the
other shoulder, my fingertips felt more of him than I ever thought possible.

But
I wasn
’
t
brave. I couldn
’
t
command my hands to trail along his skin on their own, so he continued leading
me until I was ready. He slipped out my finger and drug it along the stubble
forming on his chin. Fine sandpaper that I imagined chaffing my skin as he
kissed me, a delightful mix of pleasure and pain. I closed my eyes, envisioning
the dotted strokes of my pencil that could match this shadow. I was drawing him
—
not on paper
—
but in my mind.
Etching him into the recesses of my heart.

My
eyes were still shut when my finger felt the ridge of his upper lip, followed
by the fullness of his lower one on my thumb, pulled slack against the friction
of my skin. My eyes flew open and it was the most intense thing I
’
d ever seen or experienced: my finger
outlining his carved lips, his eyes permanently meeting mine, even when I
’
d closed my own. We were connected,
in our gaze and with our touch.

I
swear it was like that pottery scene from
Ghost
.
I could even hear Unchained Melody ringing in my ears. Or maybe that was the
buzzing that floods your eardrums right before you passed out. I didn
’
t know which.

“
Julie,
”
Leo sighed, a groan. He cupped my
hand in his along his jaw and leaned into it, closing his eyes as he pressed
against my palm. Content. Tortured.

I
decided to take over.

Steadily,
I moved both of my hands onto his broad shoulders, then ran them down the
length of his arms, feeling the muscle and veins that wrapped around them. His
skin was hot. It radiated out of him and into me, like we were somehow joined
and were passing back and forth our emotion through touch and temperature. A
part of me here. A part of him there.

When
I got to his hands, I lifted one to my face, studying it. His rough knuckles
that were strong and masculine. The lines and creases of his palm. Even his
fingerprints. I examined everything that made Leo uniquely him. I don
’
t know if I
’
ve ever appreciated an artist more
than I did whoever or whatever it was that created Leo. He was perfect. Every
square inch of him. Perfection.

I
could see his chest rising and falling fast. Something in me wanted to calm
him, to bring his breathing down to a steady, maintainable cadence. But the
other part saw the vulnerability in his shaky breath. In his quickened pulse.
It was raw. Real. Emotional and beautiful. Four new words to describe him. Four
news ways to know him.

I
dropped his hand and placed my own onto his chest. Just my right one. I kept it
there. With my left, I slid it down the front of him, my hand flipped over and
my fingers pointed downward. It slipped down to his stomach where his muscles
contracted against my fingertips. The distinct ridges deepened with every
breath he sucked in, like they were being carved out every few seconds. I lost
count as to how many there were as my hand pressed onto his chiseled abs, my
thumb running up and down over the sections of defined muscle.

Leo
laughed a little, maybe from nerves, but it made his stomach clench and tighten
under my hand. It was such a strange sensation to
feel
him laugh. Not just to hear it.

I
placed my fingers to his mouth to feel his smile there, too. It was like I
needed to not just hear or see, but actually touch every reaction he had. To
truly know him. To take him in with all of my senses. To experience the very essence
of him.

I
was certain with all of this sensation pulsing on my skin I could not only draw
his exact likeness, but I could carve a statue from marble and it would be
identical to this man standing in front of me.

I
memorized everything about him as my hands skated along his body. I replicated
him in my mind. In my being.

At
some point I stopped breathing. There was a dizziness that infiltrated my head,
rocking me back and forth like I was tossed at sea. I think Leo sensed it too.
Like he could give me some of his own breath, he pulled me into him and
suddenly crashed his lips onto mine. My chest pressed up against his, feeling
so much more sensation than just my fingers had earlier. I curled my hands
around his neck, tugging him toward me so he bent forward, bowing me backward.

His
mouth was warm. The heat of his lips melted my own, making them putty that he
could coax and shape without applying much pressure. His tongue traced their
outline, then slid into my mouth, exploring it slowly, cautiously. Everything
he did I mirrored, reflecting his actions and his movements. I
’
d become his echo. I mimicked
everything about him, duplicating him.