Page 47 of Sinful Skulls
I fan myself. “You,” I admit.
His grin widens. “How are you feeling after this morning?”
I wiggle in my seat, and he chuckles.
“I’m a bit sore, but I love the reminder.”
He looks pleased with my response, and he nods. “I think we’ll take it easy today. We really need to talk before we do more.”He points up to the second floor to let me know what he means. “Maybe you could do some painting?”
I push my bottom lip out in a pout.
It doesn’t deter him. “I know we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other, but I want you to know I’m interested in more than one thing from you.”
“Fine,” I grumble, hiding a smile behind my napkin because again … balance.
“I set all of your art supplies in the sunroom. Don’t hold back. You said you were going to Paris to explore your art unrestrained. Do that here. Let go of your fear and just create.”
My hand rubs over my chest. “Okay.”
We clean up together, and then he heads outside to relax.
I decide to try a new medium and grab the sketchbook and charcoal pencils. The sunroom is nice, but before long, I find myself upstairs. My fingers dance over the whips and chains, and my mind begins to wander. Again, these items stir my curiosity, but it’s nothing without Brody. I pull back the curtains and watch as he stretches out on the lounge chair outside. He has his shirt off. He’s magnificent.
My feet carry me down the steps before I change my mind. I hurry outside, sliding to a stop in front of him. He sits upright.
“Can I draw you?”
His brows rise in surprise. “Me?”
“Yeah,” I say, hugging my sketchbook to my chest.
“What do I have to do?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just take a nap or whatever. Don’t worry; I’ll follow you around.”
He chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “I guess if that’s what you want to do.”
“It is.” I plop down in a chair near him and open the sketch book.
“No paints?”
I shake my head, already starting. “I felt like trying something else today.”
He seems satisfied with that and folds his arms behind his head, closing his eyes. His rugged beauty makes my heart weep. As I’m sketching, I begin to imagine myself on my knees in front of him.
It’s dark, but I try not to think about it. My art may be dark, but it’s not pitch black like my family’s. I’m breathing life into my portrait, not sucking it out.
There’s desire with no death.
Brody stretches, and my eyes trail every shadow of ink as the sun touches his skin. I pay tribute to every muscle, every scar. His hands … I could spend hours on them alone. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine them on me.
When I return to the real world, he’s staring at me.
“How’s it going?” he asks, rubbing his hand over his chest.
I swallow hard before answering. “Good.”
“Do you want me to pose?” The smirk on his face kicks my pulse to an alarming rhythm.
