Page 76 of Untraced Magic
I pushed a hand up my face and into my hair, drinking in the silky gown she wore that covered her to mid-thigh. A naked leg was casually tucked underneath her as she focused on the canvas before her, a rough bun piled high on her head, exposing her neck as she tilted her head to the side.
Goddamn, she was a sight.
I snuck up behind her and slid my hands around her waist, nuzzling her neck.
“Tyler!” she gasped. “You scared me.”
She turned to face me, clutching her chest, and I lowered myself to my knees beside her, pulling her in for a kiss that lingered longer than intended.
Morgan laughed nervously like I’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t. “You’re distracting me.”
I grinned. “I can see that.” My head turned to the painting on the easel that looked like it should be in a gallery. “I didn’t know you liked to paint.”
Her eyes found mine, then dropped to the floor, her hand running the length of her necklace. Turning her attention back to the canvas, her brush delicately dabbed at it, and I watched in comfortable silence. Her brush moved like it was part of her, and still I waited.
Whatever was going on here, she needed to tell me when she was ready. On her own terms. A hallway full of books, a hidden room, pieces of art tucked away from sight. It didn’t make sense.
The brush stilled in her hand before she dropped it to her side.
She inhaled in a deep breath. “I was close to both my adoptive parents. But my father and I had special bond… we both shared a love of art. He taught me to paint. It was our thing.”
I let her continue.
“Ever since the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to paint anymore.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Silence.
A long breath.
“My connection with my parents and art was too raw; it dragged up memories I couldn’t bring myself to face without falling apart.”
My heart caught in my throat. It pained me to hear the words come from her. To hear the anguish in her voice.
Death speared our hearts. Ripped them open.
Left shadows of ourselves to put back together its scattered pieces.
My hand rested on the small of her back.
“You’re a natural,” I said, admiring her work. “Why today? After so long?”
She turned, studying me as if I were one of her paintings. Her irises a bronze against the daylight spilling through the room.
“It just felt… right.” Morgan shrugged.
A knowing look moved between us. I could feel it. She could feel it. Last night, walls had come down, emotions stripped back. Raw and unguarded.
It was then I knew.
I loved Morgan.
I wasinlove with her.
I pulled her lips to mine, kissing her softly, hers responding with the same intimacy.
“I enjoy watching you paint. You go into a whole other world.”
