Chapter 18 || He is My Artwork

My bad I didnt realize it's been so long since I last updated!!

Unedited.

Life's been a bit chaotic.

I hope you guys are doing well and I'm sorry for the wait!

HE IS MY ARTWORK

"I... I..." I trail off, gulping, knowing I shouldn't tell him the truth but not wanting to destroy any little chance of an 'us' happening.

What are you thinking, Namora?

Just tell him the truth.

"I didn't mean to be attracted to you, it just... happened," seeing his astounded expression, I try to save myself, "not that I'm attracted to you... I just feel... safe around you."

Did the white lie work?

I hold my breath and stare at him underneath my eyelashes. My heart strings feel like they're being tugged as Mr. Williams' face twists in contemplation.

It's the first time I've seen these many transparent expressions on his face, and I find myself enjoying every bit of it while also fearing for my life.

It's an exhilarating feeling.

- I think I've gone crazy.

"What do you mean by that? Feeling safe around me? Has someone harmed you in the past?"

And now I find myself struggling between the truth and the lie again.

Which path am I taking?

The wrong one, of course.

Because that's the only way I can retain his attention.

"Y-yeah... but I don't want to talk about it, please..." I whimper, giving him my watery eyes, shakily putting my hands to my cheek; a habit I developed when shielding myself from looks of the passers-by.

"I'm sorry, Namora..." Mr. Williams sighs, "I didn't know you had so many..." he trails off, swallowing.

"Problems? It's okay. Most people don't. They think I'm from a normal family, leading a normal life. It's okay, Mr. Williams," I give him a sad smile, both for the half-truth of my sad reality and the half-lies I keep having to feed him.

This is turning into a game; and I know it's going to be only a matter of time before the truth starts to unravel.

I just hope I get to him before that.

He shoots me a hesitant glance, not returning the smile, but I expected that. I kissed him, for goodness' sake.

He's bound to have mixed feelings about me.

Awkwardly scratching his head, Mr. Williams remains silent.

I guess I'll have to take a step forward. Again.

And hope that it doesn't cost me my life.

Because both he and I know that I've already crossed my limits.

"Can I get a hug, Mr. Williams?"

The ball is in his court. The decision belongs to him.

The choice is his to make.

But I know that his reaction will either make or break my resolve. I just hope he chooses wrong. Because we are blissfully wrong. And that's what makes it all the more beautiful.

Mr. Williams hesitates, his blue eyes gleaming.

He opens his mouth to voice his thoughts, but before he can utter a word, I do it.

God, I hate myself.

But I do it.

I rush towards him and wrap my arms around his neck, inhaling his scent of musky cinnamon, breathing in his delicious aura of maturity and confusion and betrayal and angst and— wonder.

Because I see it in his eyes, I see it in his soul— he's beginning to cave. He doesn't seem to want me, but he's beginning to accept the idea of me. I see it now— the aura of hesitancy clouding his judgement, the thrill of having a young girl attracted to you.

Or perhaps I do it for fear of having him say no— I couldn't let him decide on a path that I'd already chosen.

"Mr. Williams..." I breathe, breathlessly, looking up into his blue eyes that are already trained on me— keeping me frozen under his icy glance. But there it is— a flicker of warmth, that has me pressing my chest into him, plastering my breasts against his torso.

He inhales sharply at the gesture, and his hands move to my arms as if to push me away, yet he only places them there warningly.

I was wrong.

The ball isn't in his court.

It's in mine.

And he's letting me govern the course this budding relationship will take.

So now, what will you do, Namora?

I stare up into those yeux bleues, my breath getting caught in my throat once again.

I lift a shaking hand, trembling fingers to trace his sharp jawline, dusted by his five o'clock shadow, and then let my cold digits press against his warm, rosy lips.

And he lets me.

How do you want me to stop when you're letting me do this?

I quake against him, and if it weren't for his build supporting me, I would have probably collapsed.

"Mr. Williams..." I murmur again, letting my other hand climb up to his face so that I now cradle his face in both my hands. His arms lie by his sides, indecisive and confused.

His blue eyes flicker over my face, as if searching for something. Again, he has that look over his face— a look that shows he's trying to decipher me, piece the puzzle together, but still cannot seem to be able to do so.

And I won't let him. I can't.

He can't see how I love him and how I would do anything— anything, for his attention.

"Namora..." He mutters, and the light seems to come back to his eyes. His arms lift and he places them gently on my hands, ready to push them away.

I've already guessed his actions.

And I won't let him do that.

My hands fall to his collar, and I pull him towards me with a small but strong tug.

He clearly isn't expecting it, and almost stumbles into me, but regains his balance a few milliseconds afterwards.

But it's too late.

Mesmerized by his confused expression, I don't give him a chance to do anything.

I lift myself to the tip of my toes, connecting my lips against his, marvelling at their softness— relishing in the taste of him, so sweet and cinnamon-y.

He is ethereal; his lips much so, as my trembling hands fist themselves in his blond locks, pulling him closer towards me.

I moan into the kiss, feeling tingles all over— but he doesn't seem to push me back. Nor does he respond to my moving lips.

His arms remain by his side as I open my mouth and lick his bottom lip, taking it in my mouth. I bite into it teasingly, and I think this is what wakes him up from his haze.

His hands move up to clutch at my arms and he immediately pushes me away— not too roughly but not too nicely.

"What...? Namora..." He gulps, looking down at me in a frenzied state as I marvel at the state I'd made him— flushed cheeks and swollen lips. He is my muse and I am the painter.

And I love him.

He is, indeed, a painter's artwork.

But not any painter's, I realize, as I stare into his blue eyes and he into my brown ones.

He is my artwork.

And I hold the paintbrush to show how this story is going to end.