One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 43

It is my last night with Julia. That’s all I can think about. After we made love in the hot tub, we went inside, showered, got dressed, and ate dinner. We chatted about normal things--our pasts, likes and dislikes, the sort of things that drive conversation. Then, she went into the art room to paint some more while I sat and watched. All I could think about was how I wanted to untie the dress she wore, a bow at her neck the only thing keeping my hands from the soft mounds of her breasts. I didn’t do it, though, not while she was working. I watched her instead, watched how her mind moved her brush across the canvas, each stroke an ingenious work of art. It amazes me to see true talent at work, regardless of the medium, and when it comes to Julia and her painting, it is clear to me that she is remarkably talented and deserves the opportunity to explore what might be with a few lessons and the chance to show her work to the world.

She’ll never get that with Jeff. Not only does he not have the connections on the money to provide her with what she needs, he doesn’t believe in her. That much is clear from the way he refuses to let her paint. If he spent half of what he wastes on pornography and call girls in a month on supplies for his wife, she could already have many finished masterpieces ready for exhibit or sale. Instead, she has only the paintings in her mind that are fighting to be unleashed. So I wait patiently for her to finish her piece, a vase of roses from my garden the servants have brought in for her, and I pray that Julia will not let this be the last night, even though the contract the Thompsons have signed with me expires in the morning.

Normally, on a night before I must get up early for work, I try to be in bed and asleep by 11:00. Tonight, I don’t think I’ll sleep at all, so if it takes her until early morning to finish her painting, that is all right with me. My thoughts slip to making love to her again. I hope I will get the chance to do so, at least one more time, but if she would rather spend her time here, in the art room, I can respect that. When it is nearly midnight, she puts her paintbrush down and says, "There," and I am relieved that she has gotten her fill.

For the first time, I move to look at her work. It is beautiful. She has captured the colors so elegantly, and the flowers seem to be moving, as if caught in a breeze, just like her last painting. "I love it," I tell her.

"Good because I want you to have it," she says, looking into my eyes. "To remember this night."