Chapter 2

This time, he wasn’t as patient. The mood shattered. I could feel it slip away like smoke.

Disappointment stung, but something else woke up inside me, something hungry.

That night, alone in the dark, I kept replaying it. What if I’d swallowed the fear and just let go?

I pictured him slowly peeling my clothes away. I’d be shy no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I imagined his eyes drinking me in, my body trembling under his gaze, desperate for that look that says I’m beautiful, I’m wanted.

Then he’d strip off his own shirt. God, I wanted to see him bare. When we kissed, I’d felt the hard lines of his chest under my palms. I wondered how perfect he’d look completely naked—every muscle, every inch of skin.

I imagined his mouth trailing down my body, hot and slow, kissing every sensitive place until I felt like I was blooming open, coming alive under his lips.

I thought about his tongue on me, lower, softer, teasing the most secret parts until I couldn’t breathe.

I wanted to taste him too. Wanted to wrap my hand around him, feel how thick and warm he’d be, how he’d pulse against my palm.

I wondered how it would feel when he finally pushed inside, slow at first, then deep, filling me completely.

That night, frustration burned through me. I slid my hand between my thighs for the first time ever.

They always said it was wrong. Dirty. Forbidden.

But the second my fingers brushed over that slick heat, I understood why people break rules.

It felt incredible. The naughtiness only made it hotter.

I bit my lip to keep the moans inside as I circled, then slipped a finger in.

So good, but I knew it would be a thousand times better when it wasn’t just me.

That was the night everything changed. The night I discovered pleasure I’d only dreamed about.

After that, I got bolder. Guys started noticing. I kissed a few, let hands wander, waited for the spark that felt right.

None of them quite did. So two months in, I was still a virgin. But I wasn’t scared anymore. I was ready. I just needed the right moment. When it came, it was going to be electric.

One Saturday the weather turned gorgeous, with warm sun, blue sky. I felt alive.

There was a party that night. I kept whispering to myself: Maybe tonight. Maybe this is the night.

Even if it wasn’t, I’d still have fun.

I wandered the city, loving how every street could surprise me.

I crossed the park and ended up in a new neighborhood—artsy, alive. Murals splashed across brick walls. Cute little boutiques I couldn’t afford.

I told myself to keep walking.

Then I turned a corner and stopped dead.

A mural—half-finished, vibrant, wild. And the artist was still up there on the scaffold.

I couldn’t look away. The way he moved, confident, focused, brush in hand—it was mesmerizing.

Then—clatter. A paintbrush slipped from his fingers.

I flinched. It missed me, hit the ground, and a few drops of blue splashed onto my calf.

He glanced down. Our eyes locked.

“Oh shit,” he called. “I’m so sorry! Did I get you?”

“No, you missed me,” I laughed, heart tripping. “Just a little splash on my leg.”

“Hang on, I’m coming down.”

He moved fast, sure-footed on the ladder. When he hit the pavement, I finally saw him properly.

Tall. Athletic. Deep tan that screamed time in the sun. Sandy-blonde hair brushing his ears, a few silver threads catching the light. Dark green eyes that pinned me in place.

Damn.

“Hi,” he said, gaze sliding over me. I felt my cheeks heat. “I’m really sorry. I’m George.”

“Ella.”

“Ella.” He smiled slow and warm. “Let’s see the damage.”

It took me a second. Then I turned, showing him the streak of blue on my leg.

He made a low sound. “What a shame, ruining legs like that. You can’t walk around covered in paint. Come on—let me clean you up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble. This is my house.” He nodded toward the door behind the mural.

I blinked. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t usually paint other people’s walls.” His grin was teasing.

I smiled back. “Okay. Why not?”

He led me inside.

The place was pure artist—every surface covered in beautiful chaos. Canvases stacked against walls, shelves crammed with odd treasures, sunlight pouring through big windows.

I could’ve spent hours just staring.

And the whole time, I felt his eyes on me. Warm. Curious. Wanting.