And give me strength, the scruff on his jaw. I want to feel it so bad, but I curl my fingers inward, digging them into mypalms. Nope.Don’t you dare touch him, Camryn.He’s all over the place, remember? Giving you hot looks and cruel put-downs. Don’t fall for it. You got rid of Reed, remember? Don’t shop around for another asshole. The store is closed!
He crosses his arms and stares at me, raising one thick, sexy eyebrow that I now see has gray hairs in it, too. Well shit. That’s hot. And don’t get me started on his damn stance that highlights the breadth of his shoulders. I feel caged in. His inked biceps bulge. My eyes travel to his forearms in the mirror. I swallow because the entire length of his arm is covered in veins.
When he opens his arms and rests his palms on either side of the sink. Hot skin touches mine, and I tremble. The sound of water rushing through the faucet makes me glance down. He removes his rings, slowly pulling them off one by one. His fingers are thick, and his rings look huge. I wonder if I should tell him I have one. The skull-shaped one he wore on his forefinger the night we first met, that is now buried in my panty drawer, where I slip it over my finger and fuck myself until my clit is raw. I shiver, eyes locked on the very fingers I fantasize about. I shift, my pussy getting wetter.
Each ring is set carefully on the edge of the sink. Snake-shaped rings with ruby eyes. Thick chunky rings, ones that look like hammered metal. The one that catches my eye the most is an owl’s head. The eyes are a mesmerizing golden color. Topaz. I want to touch it, but I keep my damp hands to my sides. He slowly pumps the soap from the dispenser. The foam builds on his palm, and he rubs both hands together. The wet sounds are loud in the room. Obscene.
I should keep my eyes away from those thick, blunt-tipped fingers that are covered in tattoos.Memento Moriis spelled letter by letter on each finger. It sounds Latin, and I remind myself to look it up later. There’s also the name Ivory just under his knuckles. I wonder who she is. His ex? His currentgirlfriend? I frown, wondering if that’s why he turned me down. Maybe he has a woman whom he fucks regularly? I can’t stop the burst of jealousy coursing through me at the idea that some other woman gets his aggressiveness, his potency.
His hands slide through the running water, rinsing the suds away slowly. When he puts back on his rings, I watch like a stalker. Wet hands slide down my arms and find my tightly closed fists. He drags them up and under the stream of warm water.
“Open, Countess.”
He breathes the word against my temple as he watches me in the mirror, and I detect the same scent I smelled before. A combination of tart and sweet flavors, with a distinct smokiness. His words feel like a double entendre. My breaths feel like enormous bellows of air.
Open your mouth.
Open your legs.
Open your pussy.
Every potential command is intoxicating.“I already washed them,” I protest.
“You missed some.”
The pressure on my wrists is almost too much. His strength is right there. He could crush my bones. We both know it, and for some reason, the implication of pain doesn’t scare me. His thumb twirls dizzying patterns over my pulse, which must be lightning fast. I open my fist and he soothes the inner skin, running his thumbs over the crescent moons in my palms.
The bottle of honeysuckle oil I use to remove stubborn paint stains. He lifts the dropper and releases the clear liquid all over my hands, massaging it into my skin. It immediately makes the paint drops. And scrub with a washcloth. I leave for clean-ups. Scrub the stubborn paint from last night and today.
“Lonicera sempervirens L.”
“Huh?”
“The oil. Honeysuckle.”
He touches the back of my hand, touching the shiny surface. He brings his thumb to his nose and sniffs.
“You have scars on your hands.”
Blinking away at his words, I stare down at his hands next to mine. The size difference. The plain skin on my hand and the bone tattoos on each finger. The words Memento Mori cover the back of both hands. I take note of it all, memorizing each tattoo, ready to study them later.
“Sometimes I cut myself when I’m working. A razor. Or pieces of metal when I use them in my art. Glass. You name it, I’ve been cut by it.”
“A knife?”
Stone traces the scar almost reverently, scraping his fingernail over the raised skin. I try to pull my hand away, getting way too turned on by his touch, but he won’t let me. He pumps the soap in his hand and spreads the slippery bubbles all over my fingers, scrubbing slightly at the dried dots of paint. His fingers are calloused. Roughened skin scrapes along my palm and between my fingers. He alternates between rough and smooth. Done, he turns off the water and leans forward. Tingles erupt all over my body when he leans forward, pushing me against the sink. He tears strips of paper towel off the roll and wraps it around my hand, patting it dry.
I spot the white paint coating the end of my braid and my arm and neck. “Shit.” I wipe, trying to remove old acrylic paint that must be from last night, rubbing it off with my wet fingers.
“Turn around.”
Stone picks up my heavy plait and brings me closer, leading me. My scalp tingles from the pull, and seeing my braid wrapped around his fist is straight out of my spank bank.
“What are you doing?”
Stone doesn’t answer me, but instead picks up the tip of my braid and puts it in his mouth. Shock holds me frozen. I look at him when he puts the plait in my mouth and slowly wets the tip of my braid with his mouth, sucking on the tip.
He groans, and my breath catches hearing that deep rumble. Holy. Shit.
