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“Painting takes three or four hours. You sure you can last that long?” I tease.
“Maybe not when you’re looking at me like that,” he admits, and I feel a surge of feminine triumph.
I finish sketching him and reach for my paints. I’m painting in loose, fast strokes because I want to capture Gage’s rough, electric energy.
And, fine, partly because I don’t want to wait three hours either.
With every stroke of the brush, I feel a little more alive, a little more turned on.
“Where are you going to hang this?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His voice is low and gruff. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m coming up on the part where I paint your...you know. If this is going up somewhere public, we should probably grab a tasteful blanket and you might want to...you know.” I trail off, feeling unaccountably flustered.
We’ve been fucking for about a month, but there’s something about adding an easel and paints to the mix that turns me back into a blushing schoolgirl.
He smirks like he enjoys making me nervous. “I don’t know, Violet. You’re the artist. You choose.”
We lock eyes, and for a second it takes everything I am not to toss my brushes aside and go kiss him with everything I have.
His eyes are a dark, hungry mirror of mine.
And that’s exactly how I want to capture him.
“No blanket,” I decide.
“Good girl,” he says, and I’m annoyed by how much that turns me on.
“Have you ever painted a man you wanted to fuck?” he asks, his voice low and seductive.
“Once, in college. I had a crush on one of my drawing partners. But he was wearing clothes.” I glance back between Gage and the painting, deciding to add more color. More shading. More texture. I want him to be so carnally alive that he leaps off the page. “I don’t normally paint nude portraits.”
I wash my brush and dip it into a new color.
“What?” Gage says.
And that’s when I realize what I just admitted to.
“Oh. Um. I was just messing with you when I said I only painted nudes.” I can feel my cheeks heat. “But then you suggested this, and it sounded fun...”
Gage launches himself at me. I barely have time to set my paints aside before a very indignant, very naked man throws me over his shoulder and marches us to the bedroom.
“But your painting!” I squeal.
“You can finish it when you’re done paying for lying to me,” he says and gives my ass a playful smack.
I gasp, surprised, and turned on in equal measure.
Then he opens the door and tosses me on the bed. A second later his beautiful, arrogant mouth is feasting on mine, and I lose myself in the pleasure.
“I should teach you to behave. Make that pretty, lying mouth of yours suck my cock until you learn your lesson,” he growls.
I laugh, breathless and impossibly turned on. I love it when he gets all growly like this.
I love him.
The realization feels like getting caught in a sudden rainstorm on a bright summer day. Surprising, and breathtaking, and deeply, deeply inconvenient.
