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Pretty sure I could get used to this every morning.
“There,” she says with a grin. “That’s better.”
A soft chuckle jumps from my lips. “Just for the record, you wake up too fucking early.”
“I know, right?” she responds on a sigh. “It’s a hazard of my job, I guess. During the school year, I usually wake up by six.”
I cringe. “Yeah, that’s way too early.”
“When do you usually get out of bed to start your day?”
“It depends on what I have going on,” I say and press a soft kiss to her lips. “But usually no later than nine thirty or ten.”
She grins. “By nine, I’m usually well into my day.”
I run my fingers up and down her back, and when my hand reaches the spot where her hips meet the curve of her ass, I remember something. “I have to admit,” I say and tap the right side of her lower back. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Expecting what?”
“This tattoo.” A red lotus flower etched into her skin. It’s delicate and feminine and yet still big enough to catch your eye.
It’s beautiful and completely wrong at the same time.
“Oh.” Her lips form a tiny O and then lift into a mischievous smile. “I guess your visions of me don’t show you everything.” We both laugh. “I got it a few years ago.”
“I guess they don’t,” I agree, rather than go into the details of what made me bring it up. If I bring it up, I’ll have to tell her there is more than one painting of her, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to do that. I’m not sure if she’s ready for me to do that.
I feel like it might be too much for her.
“Lucky for you, seeing my paint all over your beautiful body this morning is satisfying enough to make me give in to your demands.” One last kiss to her lips and I push myself out of bed. Once I slide on a pair of sweat pants, I turn around to see she’s still lazing it up in my bed. “Are you expecting breakfast in bed, miss?” I tease, and she shakes her head on a laugh.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind a shower.”
She glances down at the dried paint covering nearly every inch of her body, and I shake my head.
“Oops. Sorry. That’s the one request we can’t fulfill.”
“Ansel.”
With a swoop and a bend, I reach into the bed and pluck her out of it, tossing her over my shoulder for good measure.
“Ansel!”
“This way, miss. Your breakfast awaits.”
Indy
“What time does the clock above the door say?” Ansel asks from behind the canvas, and I glance up from my cozy spot on the leather couch to see the hour hand pointed toward the number ten.
“A little past ten.”
We were supposed to be on our way to the kitchen when Ansel claimed inspiration struck. We rerouted to the studio, Ansel tossed me a long-sleeved shirt to keep me warm, I settled onto the couch, and we’ve been here ever since.
“Really?” he says and meets my eyes. “No wonder I’m so hungry. And I’m sure you’re probably starved by now too.”
I offer a little shrug and grin. “Maybe just a little…”
“Just a little?” He is unconvinced.
“Okay, a lot, actually.”
“I figured as much, you little liar.” A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he sets his brush down and runs a hand through his hair. “How about you stay put, and I’ll run down and toss some cinnamon rolls in the oven?”
My eyes perk up. “You have cinnamon rolls?”
“I do.” He waggles his brows. “Sit tight and I’ll be back.”
A minute later, the handsome artist is out of the room and bounding down the stairs, and I’m left inside his studio, staring out the window and attempting to sit tight until he gets back.
It’s much easier to be the subject when your eyes are fixed on the gorgeous man holding the brush. It’s easy to get lost in watching his every move. The way his eyes change. The way his brow furrows. The way he licks at his bottom lip.
But without Ansel to gawk at, I can only manage to sit tight for all of two minutes.
Eventually, I get a little restless and decide to explore the expansive room.
With bare feet and curious eyes, I tiptoe around the space and take in all of the art supplies and finished paintings. I run my hand over the bottles of paint lined up in a neat row on the counters and let the various brushes tickle my fingertips.
When I notice a small, little room toward the back, I push open the already cracked door and peek inside.
More paintings. I grin and step inside, taking in the brilliance that is Ansel Bray’s mind. God, he’s talented. I let my gaze wander around the room, but when shades of brown and blue and pink catch my eyes, I stop dead in my tracks.
