Free Drawn To You by Lily Summers Page A

care, so long as he’s here to catch me.
    Heat spreads over my skin and down the length of my body. My toes and fingertips tingle, and I trace them over his jaw, down his chest, over his bared forearms. I imagine myself drawing on his skin, pulling out his true colors from the bone and muscle beneath.
    He takes a gasping breath and deepens our kiss, parting my lips, soft and warm. My legs go wobbly and he supports me.
    My shuttered heart is creaking open again and I’m not sure I can close it this time.
    Ezra’s fingers work their way around to the front of my anorak and, in a lust-fueled fog, I fumble for the zipper near my throat and yank it down. His hand slips inside and brushes against my belly, his fingers tracing down until they find the exposed skin above my jeans. When he touches me there, the heat humming in my blood gathers in my lower belly.
    A fire lights in me, and I panic and cringe away from the flames.
    I gasp and push myself away, stumbling back. Now we’re a universe apart and my hands are already going numb from the sudden cold. My teeth chatter from my still-firing nerves as much as from the chill, and I zip my coat back up and cover my face with my hands.
    “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know if he can even hear me.
    I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t get hurt again. My heart won’t be able to take it. I’m not brave enough for this.
    Ezra is composed as he approaches me, gently pulling my hands away from my face. The passion that drove him before is softer now, calmer. There’s still heat behind his eyes, but it’s tempered by worry.
    “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. The post-art high is intense.”
    I pull away from him and fold my arms around my center. His touch is dangerous for my resolve.
    “I don’t know that it’s the art giving me a high,” I say, avoiding his eye and hoping my blush doesn’t show too much.
    He swallows and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. I expect to see his annoyance then, like with any other guy I’ve dated in the past, but it’s nowhere to be found.
    “I can relate,” he says. “Being around you is learning how to paint. Incredible and terrifying and I feel like a more complete version of myself. It’s bringing out passion I didn’t know I had. I’m not about to mess that up. Whatever it is that you want out of this, I’m here for it.”
    Tears burn behind my eyes and I look up to blink them away. “And if I don’t want anything at all?”
    He bows his head, thinking. I can see the war inside him, as he tries to accept that possibility. “Then I’ll leave you alone. It’ll wreck me, but I’ll leave you be if you ask me to.”
    I look past him to the painting, its vibrant colors shining in the moonlight.
    “That’s not what I’m asking,” I say.
    He gives me the slightest smile before going to pack up his paint cans. When he comes back, he reaches for me, but thinks better of it when I stiffen up.
    “Come on, Autumn,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

9
    T he following morning finds me buried in a blanket burrito of shame in my bed. I squeeze my eyes shut against the morning light and curse consciousness for reminding me what an absolutely ridiculous person I am.
    What’s the matter with me?
    I give in to the call of daylight and sit up, my comforter still wrapped around my shoulders. The drawings of Iris stare down at me and I run my fingers over her sketched curls. I’m tempted to ask her what she’d do if she were in my situation.
    But Iris isn’t here, and besides, I already know what she’d do, and it makes me feel kind of sick.
    Last night is crystal clear in my memory, and everything swirls inside my head, reminding me of the rush, the heat, the inevitable crash and burn. Ezra was incredible through it all. Not only did he create yet another painting that woke something inside me, but he understood when I shut down. Let’s be honest, I am far from a dream date. Anyone else would have washed