Page 28 of Finally, His

Alexander's gaze movedto Eric, giving him a direct view of his ice-blue eyes. They nearly pierced his soul. “Eric, watch her, not me.” The man’s smooth voice did little to soothe the aching flagpole between Eric’s legs.

Eric obeyed and shifted his focus to Rebecca, whose creamy, bare ass faced him. The smattering of freckles across her lower back taunted him as her head bobbed up and down, doing exactly whatEricwanted to be doing.Shouldbe doing.

The floor underneath him shifted, and Eric nearly pitched over—again.

Alexander chuckled and shifted in his seat, probably to shove himself farther down Rebecca’s throat. “I rather enjoy your reaction to her. What she’s doing right now.” His eyes drifted down to Eric’s cock—painful and bobbing with every pothole Tony had to be aiming for at that point.

Eric lifted his gaze to Alexander. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re doing it. Drinking this whole scene in. Desiring me—and Rebecca.”

It was impossible for him to be any other way. That powerful man had chosen him—allowed him into his world and his heart. Just lately, not inside him.

Alexander sat back in the seat and put his hand on her head to still her movements. “Rebecca, love, take a breather. Sit up here next to me.”

Rebecca sat back on her heels and then scrambled to sit beside him. The little vixen spread her legs wide, giving Eric a load of both her goodsandAlexander's, which still stood at attention. A part of the man, Ericrealized, he probably wouldn't get to touch for a while.

Alexander’s hand drifted over Rebecca’s thigh, and his fingers played with her until her head fell back, and she panted. “Eric, I’m seriously considering having Rebecca’s portrait done now. I want your expert opinion.”

“On?”

“The artist.” His lips inched up into a half smile. “And the angle.”

What the devil was he talking about? “She’s perfect at every angle.” He didn’t hide his crankiness. Maybe he’d earn a punishment. Anything to end this torture of being shut out of the action.

Alexander’s fingers quickened, and Rebecca’s eyes lighted on him, mascara-stained cheeks glistening in the light coming through the tinted glass.

“Yes, but I think this pose, with her legs spread and her head thrown back, might be what I’m seeking. Who do you know who could capture such beauty?”

The vixen chewed on her bottom lip and groaned. She fought not to come. “Please,” she choked out.

“No.” Alexander’s middle finger continued to draw lazy circles between her legs.

They were both at Alexander’s mercy. Always had been. And he doled out mercy like a narcotic—carefully measured and infrequent.

Alexander’s hands stilled. “Keep them open, Rebecca.”

She panted, her stormy gray eyes fixed on Alexander. A gentle affection flickered in the ice blue of his for a second.

He turned to Eric. “You need to get closer, Eric. To really give me your fine art opinion.”

He inched closer as best he could, given his arms were unavailable. When the limo lurched, Alexander’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around Eric’s bicep, steadying him. Their gaze locked for one brief second, enough for the intoxicating spell of belonging to him to gush through his veins like an opioid.

“Sit back.” Alexander released his hold, and Eric resettled onto his ankles. The man encircled him in a kind of awkward hug but soon realized Alexander was merely reaching to untie his bindings.

“I want you”—a yank of the cord released tension in his shoulders—“to tell me”—the cords slithered against his skin as the knots were undone—“how you would paint Rebecca like this.”

The cords fell to the floor, and Eric massaged his hands, bringing the blood flow back to the surface. Alexander always did bind him tight, as if Eric might get away. Fat chance.

“No painting could adequately depict Rebecca.” He'd know, having handled many estate sales with the finest private collections available. Van Goghs. Rembrandts. Warhols. “She’s more than a moment in time.”

Alexander’s eyes danced, and a fresh course of gratitude flowed through his veins—that time because he’d pleased the man with his answer. Eric was so easy, wasn’t he? From gratitude to irritation back to gratitude in a nanosecond? Eliciting such a responsewas Alexander’s special gift.

Alexander reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a simple paintbrush, one you might find in a child’s watercolor set. He held it up. “Show me the moment you’d like to capture.” He handed it to him.

The small wood brush was thin, almost disappearing between Eric’s fingers. He ran a fingertip over the soft bristles at the end—not synthetic as he suspected, but of a fine sable. His nostrils filled with the oil paint of his old studio—a trick of his mind, of course. He hadn't picked up a brush in years, though oddly, the thought had occurred lately.

Alexander brought his arm to the back of the bench seat. His fingers, once inside Rebecca, now played with the back of her neck. “Show me.”

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