Heartbreak Hotel (Dark Friends-to-Lovers) Read online

  Determined to get her out of my head, I left the beach and went to the garden around the back of my house, telling myself that my cock would go down. I did my best to calm myself, inhaling the ocean breeze, but I couldn’t get the daze of horniness out of me. And that morning when I smelled the island, I swore even nature was flirting with me.

  Jesus. I feel like I’m going through puberty again.

  Sex pulsed all around. I stared at the sand. Someone or something had dug holes in the garden. There were all these moist holes around my feet. Wet and tight.

  Get it together.

  My cock remained hard as a rock. So, I gave up with the garden and returned to the beach where Yaz shifted into another position. Her hands and feet were on the ground, but her plump ass was high in the air.

  That would be perfect in my bedroom.

  How good would it be to slip my cock between those thighs and feel her wet sex hugging it? I would’ve done and paid anything to stuff my cock into her in that moment. I could see it all in my head. Even her on her knees, licking my length, nuzzling my balls, sperm busting out the tip, spilling and spurting. Thick, hot white liquid, dripping down her pretty face.

  So horny, I could think of nothing else but ripping her pants down, taking her in front of the whole goddamn yoga class, driving my cock deep into her, and clenching my ass in and out as I shoved and thrusted.

  And from that moment, the days passed on, trance-like and pregnant. Sexual magic thickened in the air whenever I saw her.

  Last night, I slept for a few hours and then woke up with one thought.

  I must paint her.

  Mom used to say that art had the power to reshape reality. She’d home-schooled us. Painting wasn’t a cool activity in our house, it was life. We created because it was just like eating food and drinking water. Mom said our spirits needed it. In many ways, she was just as much a hippy as Yaz.

  I should paint Yaz. That’ll fix this. Don’t fuck her. Paint her.

  Mom thought art was the solution for everything. Feel bad? Draw something. Life’s disrupted and dark? Write about it. Want to kill somebody because they did you wrong? Put it in a song and sing yourself to sleep.

  But why didn’t Mom say that after Lisa?

  Maybe it was because Mom had been just as much of a mess as me. In fact, my whole family had grown dark. We’d all loved Lisa and she’d made us sick and contagiously depressed.

  Could I heal from this? Some wounds could be too deep. Too impossible to survive.

  By the end of the week, madness came over me. I rose from bed and rushed to my studio, taking off all my clothes. Maybe it was Yaz’s talk of ceremonies. There was a beauty in that idea of doing something symbolic to heal. It was crazy, of course, but what was the true definition of crazy? I’d seen enough insanity in these past months of court to realize that the whole world was insane.

  If I get her on the canvas, then this horny haze will go away.

  Sometimes, when I painted, I barely slept or ate. The colors represented my slumber. The easel was my nourishment.

  This will work.

  Naked, I stood around the room, rocked my head to the music that filled the space, and painted Yaz.

  On a wild and rugged electric guitar, my brother River sang, “I want to fuck your soul, dive deep until we lose control.”

  Yaz smiled at me from the canvas. Granted, my brush did her no justice. I needed her in front of me. All I could do was put down all the lovely details that I’d thought about recently as I closed my eyes.

  Since seeing her again, she’d seeped into my head and refused to let go.

  Red paint dripped from the tip of my brush as I held it in my hand. I wanted to paint away the madness, but the dark feeling inside me hadn’t left, it rose and thickened.

  If anything, I belonged to expressionism art. I liked my paintings to evoke emotion. The relationship between colors helped bring the canvas to life. Contrast mattered. The difference in tones and shades mattered. A picture painted with cool blue tones differed from the same image done in warm reds. Both triggered diverse emotions. Yellow appeared much brighter next to violet than white, and There was something about the darkness that made other things appear bright.

  Color ended where another began and was defined by the tones around it.

  I wish life was that simple. I wish a person was defined by the others around him.

  If that was reality, I would’ve surrounded myself with Yaz.

  I stared at her eyes on the canvas and was left wanting more, knowing that I needed to paint her while she was in front of me, not from images in my mind.

  River continued to sing, “Every part of you I want to penetrate.”

  I spent several seconds forming her lush lips and the sexy curve of her chin, but still it wasn’t enough. I could play with the composition and light as well as toy with color, but in the end, a living model provided the true energy.

  I needed Yaz naked in front of me.

  “With you, I’m a beast,” River groaned over the song. “I’m a primate.”

  Yaz flashed in my head—her smile, scent, voice. How beautiful it would be to make her come?

  “I’m a thief in the night!” River screamed as the drums came in. “I’m a creature fucking your insides!”

  The more I painted her, the more my cock went stiff in my pants.

  “The closer to you, the closer to death, the closer to God. Then, I lose my breath.” River roared over the heavy bass. “I want to fuck your soul, dive deep, until we both lose control.”

  River would’ve been happy to see me dancing and painting to his song. If Brett saw I was out of bed, he’d probably lose his mind with joy. He’d brought a few women around the house, asking them if they wanted to model for me, on three separate occasions. All three women had said yes, but I’d said no. They’d been pretty, but none were the one. The right model. A perfect muse became the very source of an artist’s expression. And I’d found no one to fit that place.

  I’d explained this very fact to Brett.

  He laughed. “Bullshit. You just want to paint and fuck Yaz and she won’t let you.”

  “Yaz would be perfect. Her look is unique. The blood red hair and the chocolate skin. The curves. Those beautiful eyes.”

  “Jesus. It’s like we’re fucking kids again. Are you going to follow her around the Keys like you used to?”

  “Things are different.” I flexed the muscles on my chest just to speak his douche bag language. “I follow no one.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You’re a stud.” He laughed some more. “This vacation is going to be interesting. How long will we be here?”

  “A few months at least. I don’t know.”

  “Months? Before, I couldn’t even get you away for a day. Now, it’s months.” He shook his head. “So, basically, we’re staying as long as Yaz is here.”

  I shrugged.

  “Good. You’re finally on the Yaz hunt. Now I can really take a vacation. All my work paid off.”

  I eyed him. “What work?”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  The studio door opened. I figured it was Brett, but it ended up being one of his chicks. She’d barged in on me before, and I’d nicely asked her to leave.

  “Every part of you I want to penetrate—”

  I turned the song off and set the paintbrush down. “Brett’s room is in the other direction.”

  She didn’t turn around and leave like I hoped she would. She shook her head. “You’re naked again?”

  “And you’re barging in again?” I reached for my jeans, put them on, and rushed to put on my shirt.

  I barely took off my clothes due to the ribbons of damaged flesh decorating my abs. The area was a mad woman’s canvas of sick artistic pleasure. During those two days of torture, Lisa had painted on me with hooks and knives, a lighter, and even her own teeth. She’d even cut a smiley faced O near my heart.

  What the hell does this chick want?

  Brett�
�s fuck buddy glanced at my stomach and her face twitched at the scars. “What happened to you?”

  “I bumped into a door.” I pulled the shirt down.

  “It looks like a dog chewed at your stomach.”

  I zipped up my jeans. “What do you need?”

  “Do you remember my name?” She sashayed further into the studio.

  In the past week since we’d been here, Brett brought a new female home every night. But this one was his day girl—the only woman he hung around with when the sun was out. And this one had left a big impression among the staff as she moaned all afternoon from my brother’s bedroom, and never wore clothes when she grabbed food from the kitchen.

  Thankfully, she has clothes on now.

  Not a bad body, this evening her white dress clung to big breasts and slim hips. She shouldn’t have been in that color. She was too dirty for that shade.

  I crossed my arms around my chest. “Your name is Olivia.”

  She clapped. “Thank you. That’s not hard, right? Your brother can’t seem to remember my name.”

  “Maybe you should wear a name tag.”

  “Funny.” She began to walk over to me.

  Sighing, I held up my hands. “Please, take off your shoes.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She huffed, went back out to the doorway, slipped her heels off, and came back in. “I don’t get why we need to be barefoot in here.”

  “I’m trying to make this my sacred space. When bare skin meets the earth, a connection is formed, and energy ripens into creative form.”

  “Damn.” She giggled. “That’s deep.”

  “I read it somewhere and memorized it. The real reason is that I don’t like dirt in here.”

  She studied all the blank canvases leaning against the wall. “So, you’re an artist?”

  “No, it’s a hobby.”

  “This studio is pretty impressive for it to just be a hobby.”

  I shrugged again. “Are you looking for Brett?”

  “No, he’s sleeping.” She frowned. “He goes right to sleep after we—”

  I held my hand up, not wanting any more details. “Do you need something from me?”

  “Yeah. I need a pen. Brett wants me to write these stupid letters. I don’t get it.”

  I pointed to a table on the right. “The pens are over there.”

  Olivia grabbed two pens and then walked to the unfinished painting of Yaz. “She looks familiar. I think I’ve seen her on the beach. Not too many black girls with red dreadlocks, right?”

  I gave her no response.

  She turned to my way. “Will you paint me?”

  “No.”

  “What?” Shock hit her face. “Why not?”

  “I have a model.”

  “You can’t have two models?”

  “No.” I gestured behind me. “Brett is in his room. You should go in there or go home.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was just being friendly.”

  “I’m not the friendly type.”

  “I see.” She stomped off.

  When she left, I made sure the door was locked.

  Something about Olivia rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after my ex, I’d learned to trust my intuition. If a woman gave me a dark feeling, I moved on to someone else and didn’t over-rationalize why.

  Fuck. Now this Olivia broke me out of my concentration.

  An unfinished Yaz gazed back at me, begging me to complete her.

  This isn’t enough. I need the real thing in front of me.

  I walked over to the window.

  Damn. The sky is beautiful today.

  A pale blue sky hovered over. The clouds glowed in many colors—burning oranges, dots of lavender, striking violets. Darkness lay off in the distance, threatening to bring a storm with it. Already the trees swayed back and forth with a wind that had picked up its pace.

  I scanned the beach and spotted Yaz talking with some of her sister’s guests pointing off to the uninhabited mangrove out-islands a few miles away. And then, she gestured off into another direction known for its snorkeling and deep-sea diving.

  I couldn’t move away. I stayed by the window and continued to watch her, not ready to leave that view yet. Yaz was wearing jeans and a simple black shirt with words on the front. I read them and chuckled.

  “Introverts Unite! We’re here. We’re uncomfortable and want to go home!”

  Although her jeans and shirt were loose-fitting, she still couldn’t hide that amazing body. Her breasts were lush melons, but not fake or over-emphasized with tiny clothes. They barely hid as they stretched the t-shirt a little, taunting me with a little jiggle as she walked over to another group and pointed toward the waters. Those hips curved just right.

  What does she look like naked? I wonder if she would skinny-dip with me again?

  The image of that tight little sex came to mind. I bet it was barely touched, if not at all. Yaz didn’t look like she had many lovers. I doubt she’d ever been with a real man. If she had, she wouldn’t be here. Any man would’ve held onto her.

  If she was mine, she wouldn’t be here by herself.

  Fire blazed in my chest. This wasn’t the sort of feeling I enjoyed, this sort of fascination to learn everything about a woman. This burning hunger to want to dissect her, grab her and open her mind up, letting her contents spill all over the floor—the heartbreak and trauma, the anguish and bad memories. Let it all fall around me and use it to paint.

  Fuck. What am I talking about?

  Frozen, I stood right there like an idiot. Why couldn’t I move? My erection pressed against my jeans. The tip swelled so bad I wanted to grab it and stroke the need away.

  She would be a lovely distraction from the nightmares.

  Yaz was the answer. Already, I painted her face in my canvas. Already, I whispered her name on my lips and tasted how sweet it would sound. Already, I wondered if someone had touched her, and how I could teach her so many things. Already, upon just looking at her, the spark ignited in my chest and my fingers itched to create something amazing—something as amazing as her eyes.

  On the beach, she left the group of people and walked toward my house’s direction.

  Seconds later, she looked up at my window, smiled, and waved. I wondered if she felt me watching or had she been glancing at my house all day, wondering what I was doing? My cock threatened to come out of my pants. Thank God, I had some control of him or she would’ve been in my house, on the floor, pants down, and my face buried between those thighs.

  I waved back.

  She blew me a kiss.

  I pretended to catch it as I whispered to myself, “Careful, Cherry Bomb, I really want to fuck you.”

  I bet no one’s ever showed you the right way to make love. How good it can feel. I bet any guy you’ve been with was immature and unskilled. Fuck. I want to show you.

  My eyes picked up every distinct shade of color that made her so breathtaking. I’d already decided which paints I would put on my palette to capture her. And I would capture her—on paint and even... in other ways. My body was this constant drumming of hunger.

  If I could just get her image on the canvas, maybe I would gain control.

  I have to talk to her. There’s no other option. She has to model for me.

  Off in the distance, her sister Cindy yelled her name. Yaz shook her head, headed back to the bed and breakfast, and escaped out of my view.

  She’ll just model for me. Nothing else. It’ll be fine.

  Now on a mission, I showered and threw on some clothes. I had to approach this situation with a subtle gentleness. I knew damn well that I wanted her in front of me and naked. Painting would be the start, but my hands had to touch that soft flesh, my lips had to taste her. I couldn’t rush this, but I couldn’t let this go on for too long. Time brought emotions and love. We could never take it there.

  How do I figure Yaz out? How do I get her to say yes?

  Hours later, I found myself in
the island’s local bookstore.

  “Words Forgotten” was the top book spot in the area. Many came from three hours away to experience its quirky decor and amazing treats. It was known not only for its impressive architecture of marble ceilings and statuesque pillars, but rather for its narrow hallways jam-packed with books upon books. Besides the plush carpet, novels covered every single inch of space. Many dangled from the ceiling. There must’ve been thousands of them.

  People packed the place. Any time I visited the island I served as a regular and had my own seat near the café section. A signed picture of me shaking hands with the owner hung on the wall near images of others.

  Today was the first time I noticed a picture of Yaz near the middle room. The image was old and had been taken when she’d had a book signing here.

  One of her books should be here.

  It took barely five minutes to find a shelf with her works.

  There you go.

  I held Yaz’s first book in my hands like she stood right in front of me. As a secret bibliophile, for me, choosing the right book was like choosing a lover. One had to take their time and caress each new cover. But I already knew this book would be good. It would be a secret look into her world, her sexual thoughts.

  What turns her on?

  Curiosity burned in my fingertips. I wanted to open the book and devour every page. Even more, I wanted to open her like this book.

  The clerk came up to me, an old man with a receding hairline. “Do you need any help?”

  “No.” I didn’t know why but I hid the novel behind my back. “I’m fine. I know what I want.”

  “O–kay.” He glanced at the shelf where I’d taken Yaz’s book as if trying to figure out what I was hiding. “If you need help, just let me know.”

  I’ve been staring at the damn book for a good twenty minutes. He probably thinks I’m crazy.

  Just as I was about to head to the clerk, Yaz’s beautiful voice interrupted my thoughts. “You don’t have to buy that. I can send you a copy.”

  Yaz?

  I turned around.

  Damn.

  Our gazes met. Although I towered over her, she made a strong presence in front of me. Energy buzzed around her.

  Why does she do this to me?

  She captivated me, piercing brown eyes and waves of red locks that fell to her waist. I could’ve spent all day just painting those strands alone. They had a spicy hue. Her skin looked soft. I already knew the colors I would use to get her glow just right on the canvas.