Page 32 of Kidnapped Forced Mate

The gloominess in his voice is pitiful. As I expected, he’s sulking behind me, kicking dirt under one sneaker with his hands shoved into his pockets.

Pursing my lips, I reach out one hand and wait for him to look up. As he takes my hand, I suggest, “I’d like to paint you.”

A frown flits past his face, his eyes lighting up with wonder. “You wanna paint me?”

I nod. “I wanna paint you on this mountain.”

His lips curl into an eager smile as he climbs up on a rock near the mountain's edge. I can’t help but giggle when he begins posing there with the island behind him.

“Like this?” he asks, planting one hand on his hip, the other pointing to the sky. “Or like this?” he asks when he clutches his chin and props his elbow on one knee.”

“Naked,” I say matter-of-factly, to which Stryder straightens up and stares at me with wide eyes.

“N-naked?”

“Yes,” I nod, setting my toolbox on the floor and finding a seat on a steady rock. I look up at him and raise my brows expectantly. “I wanna paint you naked, lying on the grass with the sunset behind you.”

I’ve never been so bold as I am right now. My confidence is only boosted when Stryder nods his understanding and kicks off his shoes. I blush as I watch him slowly peel off his clothes in front of me, his cheek dimples trenching while he smirks and puts on the show for me.

When he’s in nothing but his checkered boxer shorts, I size him up from head to toe, biting my bottom lip and stifling my sudden desire to fling myself at him and have him rip off my clothes.

“Naked,” I repeat, licking my lips as I settle my gaze on his shorts.

He chuckles under his breath as he slips down the shorts, fully exposing every delicious inch of him. I can barely appreciate how beautiful the scene behind him becomes as the sun sets. The man is a natural work of art, and I must remind myself that I need to paint him right now.

While Stryder gets comfortable on the grass, I take out my equipment and unfold a blank sheet of canvas paper from the bottom of the toolbox. I set up my workstation on nature’s desktop, gathering water from the stream for my paintbrushes.

I have to take a moment to compose myself, needing to view Stryder like just another object I’m meant to paint. When I pick my first brush, my fingers tingle with a passion I’ve never felt.

“When did you learn how to paint?” he asks as he stays still in his position.

I dip my brush in the colors to match his green eyes. “It’s not something I learned. It was a hobby since I was a child.”

“You haven’t told me much about your childhood.”

“It wasn’t that interesting,” I shrug, putting a tinge of color in his pupils. “I grew up in an orphanage in Michigan, and I worked my ass off to join the FBI.”

Stryder nods slowly, readjusting his hip on the grass and propping his cheek on one hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, to which I shake my head.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I chuckle lightly. “It’s life.”

I look up from my painting to check what color I need next when I find Stryder staring at me for the longest time.

“You seem…” he pauses to find the right word. “... Different.”

A shiver passes through me as I recognize what he means. A few days ago, I was determined to get back home. To return to my job, to the mission. Now, armed with my paintbrushes, the thought of getting back to my world is actually dreadful.

Life out here, on the remote island, is peaceful and calming, allowing me to do the one thing I love more than paperwork or hiding behind an alias. Here, I’m free to be my most authentic self, swiftly stroking the bristles of my paintbrush to reimagine the beauty I see through my own perspective.

I am free to express myself. Free to speak my mind without fear of being judged.

And it’s all thanks to the dragon shifter, who doubles as a Greek God perched on the grass for my painting pleasure. Right now, I’m not even sure if I want to go back. I’m enjoying myself way too much.

I return to my painting, a sheepish smile curling my lips. “You could say it’s because I’m in my element.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles. “Ordering a man around seems to be something you’re good at.”

“Don’t distract me,” I warn playfully, deliberately not looking up as I paint the contours of his defined abs.

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