Page 40
It makes me burn.
It makes my hips ache with a familiar throb.
It makes me want to rip the clothes off his body and make him grovel for my touch until he can't breathe.
He is mine. In all his possessive, psychotic glory, he is entirely, irrevocably mine.
A familiar scent drifts into the studio, cutting through the jasmine and paint: dark roast espresso, aged scotch, and the faint, sweet smoke of a Toscano cigar.
Romeo.
He leans against the open doorway, his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the morning light. He wears tailored linen trousers, a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his usual air of terrifying, effortless dominance.
He says nothing. He just watches me, his dark eyes sweeping over the canvas, then over my paint-stained hands, and finally locking onto my face.
"The light is perfect today," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a familiar shiver straight through my core. "You're painting the sea stacks again."
"I am," I reply, dipping my fingers into cobalt blue.
He crosses the studio, his footsteps silent on the smooth terracotta tiles. He stops right behind me, his chest brushing against my back, his hands sliding around my waist to rest on my hips. His thumbs stroke the bare skin of my waist, sending a thousand tiny sparks of electricity through my body.
"You're getting paint in your hair, Kitten," he whispers, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"I'm busy," I retort, but my hips betray me, tilting slightly into his touch.
"You missed a spot," he murmurs, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head gently back against his shoulder.
He presses a slow, tender kiss to the side of my neck, then reaches up. My eyes flutter shut instinctively as I feel the light brush of his fingers against my scarred lids. He takes a damp cloth, warm and fragrant with jasmine, and gently wipes away a streak of yellow paint from my temple.
"Let me wash you, Iris," he whispers, his voice thick with raw devotion. "Let me clean the canvas."
"I can do it myself," I reply, but my body sags into his embrace.
"I know," he says, his hands finding the small, delicate buttons of my paint-stained smock. "But I like touching you. I like feeling your skin. I like knowing that every inch of your body belongs to me."
He unbuttons the smock slowly and deliberately, each button releasing the fabric until it falls open, exposing my lace chemise and the soft swell of my breasts. His hands slide over my skin, warm and possessive, tracing the line of my ribs, the curve of my waist, and the soft flesh of my hips.
"You are so beautiful, Iris," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "So fierce. So wild. And so completely mine."
He turns me around in his arms, facing him, and lifts me onto the low, leather-cushioned artist's bench. My legs part naturally, wrapping around his waist, my thighs cradling his hips.
His dark eyes are burning, dilated with hunger.
"Tell me you're mine, Iris," he demands, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Tell me you are mine."
"I'm yours," I pant, digging my nails into his broad shoulders. "Every inch of me."
"Yes, you fucking are," he growls, unbuttoning his trousers.
He strips us both, his movements quick, practiced, his eyes never leaving mine.
He lays me back on the cushions of the bench, my scarred body exposed to the morning light, to his hungry, devouring gaze. He kneels between my spread thighs, running his calloused hands up the outside of my legs, tracing the curves of my calves, my knees, and my hips.
"You are my masterpiece, Iris," he whispers, burying his face in my chest, sucking hard on my nipple until I cry out, arching into his mouth. "My beautiful, terrifying masterpiece."
He smells like salt and sun, like passion and fire. His tongue works magic over my skin, tracing every curve, every scar, every freckle, worshipping me with a reverence that makes my core pulse with a desperate, aching need.
When he finally enters me, it is slow, deep, and impossibly tender. He fills me completely, holding me tight, burying his face in the crook of my neck, whispering Italian endearments against my skin.
