Fur vs Skin | on hold

13.

Flickering between us two, registering my flushed cheeks and Arsen's darkened orbs, realization lights her eyes with amusement, her feet slowly carrying her to the kitchen where she resided her frame behind the counter.

"Did I miss anything?" she asks slyly.

"No," I answer.

She raises a brow, flicking her gaze toward Arsen again before sliding down the front of his body, the amusement that lingered growing with each second before she turns away.

"Suree. . ." she drawls, chuckling to herself as she turns, handle on the fridge, and begins to scavenge through its content.

Curiosity gets the best of me as I turn to Arsen, his complete focus on my being. It wasn't until I let my eyes roam down the front of his body did I notice the tent in his jeans.

"Oh my god. ." I whisper into my hand as I quickly swivel around.

The image of his print embedded itself into my mind with no intention of leaving, the awareness bringing forth a heat to my body. Walking toward the sofa, I plop myself in the cushion and keep my eyes on the flames that swayed to an invisible breeze and brought an extra glow to the room.

"Arsen head upstairs and fix yourself," Santha tells him, mirth laced in her words. "Food will be ready by the time you come down."

I use my sense of hearing to dictate his movements, nothing happening for a short moment before the thud of his footfalls resonates and carries up the stairs: his stare continuing to burn the back of my neck. His steps grow distant and the squeak of the bathroom door opening and closing puts me at ease.

A short minute of silence follows before Santha speaks up again.

"You sure you don't want to—"

"No!"

Santha's laughter rings through the air, the clicking of her turning the stove on signaling there would not be any further questions. I finally unwind my taunt muscle from their coils, slouching further into the sofa.

× × ×

My hand glides effortlessly across the page, pressing the pencil harder into the pad to create a darker shade for color. My mind creates an image before me, my hand translating what my mouth cannot describe into a drawing. The crackling of the fire brings a sense of nostalgia to my veins, my toes curling in the cushion of the chair: angled near the fireplace.

As the sun dips below the horizon, a golden hue illuminates the surrounding area, bouncing from objects and presenting my drawing with a realistic appearance as I place the last finishing touches.

"Are you done?"

Shifting my attention, Santha closes the distance between us, pushing a few pieces of strands that escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. She steps into a single ray of the fading sun, the glow heightening the melanin in her skin, her steps bring her to the back of the chair, her eyes cast to the sketchpad on my thighs; the object borrowed from one of the drawers in the bedroom.

"Wow. That's an amazing drawing Amelia."

My heart stutters at the praise, shyness getting the best of me as I look down at said drawing. A rose filled the middle of the page, sketched in a 3D format. Its stem was littered with thorns, some small and some big as two petals peeled off to the side in a motion of falling from the core.

"Is there a meaning behind it?"

She reaches for the pad and I hand it to her, mulling the question into my consciousness with a frown. Does it? Now that the question was being asked, I wasn't sure, my hand was in charge of the movements while my mind played as the fuel for something I did not have the answer for.