Chapter Three
Paris
Corinne’s hands were in his hair, and her hips were pressed against his body. Paris was cupping her face in his hands, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed the lines of her curvy body until he could grip her ass. He used the leverage to bring her into the hollow of his hips. It wasn’t right, he knew that. There was no way he could explain to Corinne why he wanted her to feel his erection. His cock was a solid column between his legs, and he needed to feel it against her.
Mate her, his dragon kept on roaring in his head.
But Paris wouldn’t listen to the beast.
He couldn’t mate a woman he had just met. He couldn’t mate a stranger, and he sure as hell didn’t want to.
That’s not true, and you know it, his dragon insisted.
The damn winged pest had a point. Paris would have loved to ease off of Corinne’s mouth and tell her that he was a dragon shifter, that she was made for him. But that was a sure way of getting slapped across the face and brushed off. She could decide to call the cops on him, claiming that he was insane. Grown ass men didn’t go around believing they were centuries-old dragons.
Except for his kind, of course.
Besides, Paris didn’t have plans or space in his life for a mate.
He had seen what losing Annalise had done to York. His eldest brother had been mated, and the woman had tragically died of tuberculosis a hundred years ago. Now, York had another mate. How the man could allow himself to be pulled in by the mate sense, when he knew what it was like to lose great love, Paris didn’t know. But he also didn’t want to find out.
If he told Corinne that she was his mate, if he admitted that to her, and she died? Well, then he would never be able to paint, sculpt, or draw ever again. He would literally lose all sense of living. Death seemed to track the Warwick family, and he wasn’t going to make it easy on it.
First, his father had died.
Then his sister-in-law.
That was more than enough.
Shifters didn’t typically have to deal with so much death, and Paris had never been able to recover from those losses. That’s why he preferred being alone. When you’re a recluse with very few friends, it’s impossible to feel the sharp sting of loss. There is no one to lose. It might have been a lonely way to live, but he could take it. Loneliness was better than to know what it was like to lose a mate. He had vowed to himself that he would never feel that depth of loss.
Ever.
But, holding Corinne in his arms, kissing her, feeling her heart beat next to his, hearing her sighs and moans as he took deep pulls from her mouth, made it all the more difficult to remember why he wanted no one in his life.
What would it be like to have Corinne by his side? She had said she was a painter. For a second, as his tongue delved inside of her mouth, he let himself imagine what it would be like to wake up with her by his side. They would make love, have breakfast, work on their art together. Maybe they would help each other, maybe they would create together.
But then, as humans did, Corinne would die.
She would leave him.
And he couldn’t have that.
You are the world’s biggest idiot, and I am including London in that. She’s our mate. You can’t walk away from her.
He could, Paris argued. He could, and he would.
Corinne led him into her apartment. The space was small. So small, in fact, there was only room for a small twin bed in the studio apartment. Most of the space was filled with a staggering number of easels, on which sat a few paintings, all in various stages of completion. There were sketches piled high on the tiny dining room table.
“It’s a mess, I know,” Corinne explained. “But it’s all I can afford right now.”
“So long as you have a safe place to sleep and create, it doesn’t really matter what the place looks like.”
She gave him a warm, appreciative smile.
“This is the latest one. I want to enter it in a contest in September.” She shrugged. “It’s only a few months away. Fuck knows if I’ll be done by then.”
Corinne stepped away from the canvas, and she pulled at her top’s hem. Her lack of self-confidence rolled off of her, making Paris ache. A woman that lovely should never doubt herself. Not only was she beautiful, but she was talented as hell.
The painting was exquisite, and it wasn’t even done. Her brushstrokes were sure, and her use of color was on point. He looked at the scenery, a hazy Eiffel tower, with a homeless woman sleeping at the foot of it, while tourists passed by her, ignorant of her pained face.
It was as magnificent as it was heartbreaking.
“You’re very talented,” he said, his eyes cutting from the painting to Corinne.
She blushed, from her chest to her hairline. As she shook her head, her blonde curls flew in the air. His nostrils flared, as he tried to take in as much of her scent as he could. He wanted to bottle it and keep it with him forever. It would be so much easier to leave her side if he knew he would be able to smell that sweet flowery scent again.
“I’m not all that great.”
Paris closed the distance between them. “You’re nuts if you don’t think this is wonderful. Where did you study?”
She only shrugged. “Took classes here and there.”
He knew she was lying. He could smell it on her. She didn’t want to tell him where she had learned her technique, but that was all right. He wouldn’t press her for her secrets. Not when he was standing in front of her under a false name.
He was Johannes Galileo.
He was Draco.
He was Paris Warwick.
Thomas was his middle name, but he was still a stranger to Corinne. For one wild second, he thought of being honest with her, of telling her exactly who he was. That he could get her stuff in a gallery, if she wanted him to. But he couldn’t do that.
If Corinne was anything like him, she wanted to earn it and get there by merit. That was why he always took an artist's name to release his paintings. It wasn’t worth shit if you didn’t do it yourself. The artist’s pride was a very real and a very powerful thing. The last thing he wanted was to be pushy and ruin the erotic vibe that was thrumming through the small apartment.
“Well, I think this is amazing. Shit, you’re better than I am.”
He meant it, too, but Corinne rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.
“Okay, there. Sure. Look, I invited you up here to see the painting, not blow hot air up my butt.”
Paris chuckled. “Fair enough. I do like it, though. Even the social commentary is stark and on point. If you keep working at your craft, I’m sure you’ll go places.”
She shuffled her feet, clearly feeling uncomfortable from the attention he was giving her art. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and brushed his lips against hers softly.
“I mean it, Corinne. You’ve got a real gift.” He smiled at her as she blushed. “You invited me up to see your art, and now that I’ve seen it, do you want me to go?”
She stiffened in his arms. “If you want,” she answered.
He took her chin with the tip of his fingers so that she had to look up into his eyes. “Tell me what you want, Corinne DuBois.”
“I want you, Thomas.”