I was not prepared for this.
Chapter thirty-nine
Red-Hot Desire
Nyomi
Damn.
Kenji was nude and sprawled across the page like a fallen god—every inch of him captured in stark charcoal with a level of detail that made my throat tighten.
Mami had drawn him sleeping.
His head was turned slightly to the side, resting against what looked like a pillow, dark hair spilling across his forehead in messy strands. His eyes were closed, lashes fanning against his cheekbones.
His lips were parted just enough to suggest breath—soft, unguarded, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him in waking life.
She'd caught him defenseless.
And she'd worshipped every inch of that defenselessness.
The heavy muscle of his shoulders anchored the composition, broad and powerful even in rest.
She'd traced the slope of them down to that narrow waist with obsessive precision—every ridge of muscle, every shadow between his ribs rendered in loving detail.
His abdomen was a study in contrasts: hard planes softened by sleep, the ridged terrain of his stomach rising and falling with imagined breath.
The tattoos.
God, the tattoos were exact in placement and detail.
She must have spent hours on them. I could tell by the layering, the way she'd built up the dark ink with careful crosshatching until the dragons pulsed against his skin.
And she’d also captured the sharp cut of his hip bones, the trail of dark hair descending from his navel, and there, between his powerful thighs, she'd drawn his beautiful cock, half-hard. The rose piercing glinted even in charcoal, a small circle of negative space she'd left white against the dark shading of his cock.
She'd drawn that piercing like she knew exactly how it caught the light.
Like she'd studied it.
Like she'd memorized it.
Jealousy filled me.
How did she see the piercing?
His thighs were thick, muscled, slightly parted in the loose sprawl of deep sleep. One arm was flung above his head, exposing the vulnerable hollow of his underarm, the bulge of his bicep, the veins mapping his forearm like rivers. The other hand rested on his stomach—fingers long, relaxed, curled slightly inward.
Killer's hands rendered gentle by unconsciousness.
But it was his face that destroyed me.
In sleep, all the coldness had melted away. The cruel set of his mouth had softened. The calculating sharpness in his eyes was hidden behind closed lids.
He looked younger.
Peaceful.
Almost innocent.
