Page 47 of Canvas

“Yes,” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine again. They’re so intense, so focused, so penetrating.

“Don’t be nervous, princess. I’m not going to hurt you.” He lifts a hand and glides a finger over the curve of my shoulder. “I’m going to adore you.”

Just holy shit! HOLY. SHIT.

He turns and walks to where his supplies are. I realize he’s got the bag with the cheesecake along with two bottles of water and a peach as he places everything on a shelf. Opening a drawer, Rock rummages around and removes some things, but I can’t see what they are.

My breathing is coming fast and my palms are sweaty. I resist the urge to wipe them on the sheet, I know he knows I’m nervous, still, I don’t want to show it.

Jesus Christ, I hope I’m not trembling.

He shuts the drawer, then turns around. Clutching a handful of something, he picks up something else with his free hand and returns to me and sets his things down on the table above my head.

I follow him with my eyes, the sheet gripped tightly in my hands, and my bare feet rubbing against each other beneath it.

He turns and retrieves the tripod from the corner and sets it up at the edge of the bed, then goes to the shelves and chooses a camera. After positioning it on the tripod and fine tuning the lens, he returns to me.

“I’m going to get started, okay, princess?”

My stomach does a flip, hits the trampoline, soars back up, then does a twist before nose diving back down.

“Okay…”

He lifts his hand and points it over his shoulder.

He’s got a remote control.

The music changes. Lana Del Rey’s sultry voice glides through the air as he places the handful of whatever else he’s got down, then moves around the room to adjust the lights. When he finishes, the entire room is dark except for the bed I’m on. There’s a soft spotlight shining down on it, casting a soft circle of light from the only one on in the room.

Rock’s shrouded in the darkness near his supplies. I can hear him shuffling around and can only make out the skin of his arms, I can tell he’s bent over. Then he stands. And takes his shirt off.

What?!

He steps from the shadows and toward me.

Oh. My. GOD.

I’m eating him up with my eyes.

He’s devouring me with his.

Just look at him! Taut and chiseled, sin and indulgence, and nipple bars! He’s a masterpiece with his ink and his body, and his very own story printed on his ribs.

I’ve been dying to see where the rest of the tattoo that weaves around the side of his neck leads to. It’s stirs something primitive within me, bewitches me and enchants me. My eyes follow the black tribal lines down his neck, over his shoulders, and I feel a little needy ache when it ends in a point curving around his pierced left nipple. I want to tell him to turn around so my ache can be satisfied seeing the back.

“I hope you don’t mind. This is how I like to work.”

Yes.

No.

“No,” it comes out choked. I cringe and clear my throat, “That’s fine.”

He smirks at me. It’s devious, it’s wicked. It’s delicious as hell.

I’m not going to survive this, there’s no way I’m going to get through this without embarrassing myself somehow. Christ, I’ll probably have an orgasm without any contact.

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