CHAPTER 21
XAVIER CLIMBED THE stairs quickly, adjusting his c**k in his pants as he went. Every time he ventured near Georgia the f*****g thing stood at attention, and it was driving him to distraction. He needed to paint. Painting calmed him. Painting left him empty. When he got angry, his creations were dark and edgy, sharp brushstrokes and blurred faces. Sorrow brought landscapes, bleak and melancholy as if the paint had been poured straight from his heart and the canvas wept with him. Happiness, the rare whispers of it he had, cascaded out in a riot of colour, his feelings transferred to the people brought to life in front of him.
Ever since he’d retired, since he’d come to hide in his little cabin in the mountains, since he’d shunned human interaction, his paintings had been flat. D
