" I say lightly, looking up into his eyes. They're alight with desire, deep blue eyes, begging for me to say more. "This isn't easy for me either." Hi... eyes twinkle, and he grins. "Especially when all I want to do is fuck you until you can't walk straight." He grins again as I gasp, blood once again rushing to my cheeks. "But that's not going to happen...unless you tell me what you want." He quirks an eyebrow at me. I feel so frustrated, why is it so hard for me to get the words out that I want. I went to work on my new ‘wall’—a tiny fresco. I patterned it after the thick oil that I’d painted the day after Kate came home. My image of The Prodigal, much more carefully rendered in pigment on wet plaster. When I reached the golden stage of the plaster—about seven hours later—I blended the colors to make sure each would read the way I wanted.The fresco weighed close to forty pounds—more while it was still wet, but I hadn’t bothered with the sublayers required for a real fresco. I didn’t. More

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