The dark chuckle from him has me soaked. It sounds like danger and sex. I will replay it a million times in my thoughts, of that I am certain. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He selects a tube of paint and squeezes a cold dab on my thigh, sending a wave of goose bumps over my flesh. Then after selecting a different tube, he adds another. And another. He mixes the paint with his palette knife against my skin, making me twitch, until the colors blend into that of a deep bruise.
“Told you I would paint you purple,” he murmurs.
A shiver climbs up my spine. “I didn’t know you were so literal.”
He dips his brush into the oil paint above my knee, bringing it to the canvas.
Logan works with so much dexterity and skill it’s mesmerizing to watch—and sexy as hell. He commands the paintbrush effortlessly, and his other hand snakes between my thighs, climbing higher. My chest rises and falls as he teases me with his touch, grazing the backs of his knuckles over the sensitive area.
“More,” I whisper, opening my legs wider.
“Hold still,” he says. His lips land on my neck and he sucks my flesh, biting, while his fingers trace faint circles over my inner thigh.
I exhale, a tremble building in my legs.
Lost to his art, he continues painting as if I’m not here. His forearms flex with every precise stroke, and I’m as fascinated by him as I am his talent. The hand between my legs toys with me relentlessly, moving so close to where I need him, and then pulling away—it’s maddening. I release a frustrated whimper. The longer I watch him work, the more aroused I become. He rests his chin on my shoulder, occasionally praising me for sitting still, but I’m becoming restless as each minute seems to stretch longer than the last.
Just when I think he’s going to keep me waiting forever, I’m rewarded by him brushing over my clit before his fingers penetrate me. I sigh, arching my back, and then he grips me from inside, tucking me close and massagingthatspot. I writhe in his lap, wanting more.
“Hold still,” he repeats. This time adding a corrective swat to my thigh with the paintbrush.
No.
My patience runs out. I twist in his lap, dragging his mouth to mine and licking the taste of bourbon and temptation off his lips.
“If you want to be my masterpiece . . .” he mutters, “then don’t move.”
I grasp his jaw firmly. “I want to be more than one of your many masterpieces.” I shake my head. “I want to be your obsession. The muse you chase, the piece that torments you. Something you sign your name to and never let go.”
His pupils blow wide, and something inside him comes loose. I see it—the moment he cracks.
He pulls out, wrapping an arm around my middle and yanking me up. The sudden shift sucks the air out of my lungs and my hand blindly shoots out for balance—smacking into the canvas. Wet paint slips under my fingers and I freeze, releasing a horrified gasp. I just smeared the piece he’s been working on all night. I gape at the damage, unable to believe that just happened.
How could I be so clumsy?
I open my mouth, sputtering apologies, but he simply laughs.He fucking laughs.
He carries me over to the bed and rips off the comforter, throwing it aside.
“Paint!” I remind him. My thigh and palm are covered in it. He drops me on the crisp white sheets and I bounce, transferring a handprint.Great, now I’ve ruined that too.He tosses his glasses on the nightstand and towers over me,
Skating his hand up my thigh, through the paint, over my hips, between my breasts, he smears it all the way up to my collarbone and back to my stomach again. The oil spreads like grease, making one hell of a mess.
“Logan. I’m sorry. You worked so hard—” His mouth catches mine.
“I’m about to work much harder with you,” he gruffs, unbuttoning his pants and shucking them off with his underwear. My eyes flick to his stiff length, glistening with pre-cum.Fuck.
He climbs up my body, bracing above me, every muscle straining as it tries to maintain a semblance of control. His hands clamp down on my thighs and he forces them apart. Our gazes lock, and for a brief second I drown in him—his stare dark and savage. He drives his cock inside me, stealing my breath. The growl that tears from his throat is menacing. My jaw slackens at the fullness he provides, my body accommodating his girth.
He runs his thumb over my bottom lip, smudging my chin with remnants of paint, and grins. “You want obsession? Look at my face,” he snarls. “You’re more than a masterpiece, more than a muse, or all the ways you torment me. You and I are more powerful than art, sweetheart—we’re alchemy.”
His words tighten every muscle, heat curling low in my stomach. I haul him to me, scratching my nails down his back with my own paint-covered palm.
He’s right.When we come together, it’s different, it’s more than two people fucking. He makes passion feel like magic. His soul calls to something deeper, and he charms the darkness from my depths, bringing parts of me I didn’t know existed to the surface.
It’s those times I look at him and see myself reflected in his eyes.
