Page 26 of Fallen Angel
Chapter Twelve
Angel opened her eyes and was greeted by beams of morning sunlight slicing through Ethan’s bedroom, alighting warmly on her face. For a moment, she panicked, thinking about work, but then she remembered she had already talked to Suzi and got the day off. The next two days were her regular days off, which meant she was taking her first ever mini-vacation.
She snuggled beneath the soft, thick duvet. Dancing flames crackled in the fireplace. She could not have imagined a more idyllic moment; the only thing missing was the one thing that could tempt her to leave her warm cocoon—Ethan. She pushed the covers back and rose, crossing to his closet. She stepped inside and found one of his crisp, white shirts that she pulled on and buttoned. The edge of the hem skimmed above her knees, and she cuffed the sleeves several times to find her hands.
Leaving his room behind, she started toward the stairwell, but then she stopped, curious about the other doors down the hallway. She opened the first door and gasped at the sight of the spacious bathroom, complete with soaking tub and sauna. Promising the dreamy dry heat that she would return later, she continued her exploration. It was the door at the end of the hall that drew her interest. She opened it and found herself in a breezeway. Again, she was surrounded by windows that revealed mountains and clear blue skies. She continued through to the next door. Smooth, white canvases were piled in a corner, waiting to become something greater. Full cans of paint were stacked and scattered throughout the room, many with colorful dried streaks running down their sides, showing their use.
“Here you are.”
Angel didn’t look at Ethan when he entered the room. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the paintings leaning against the walls or resting on easels, awaiting his finishing touch.
She slowly shook her head in wonder. “You painted all these?”
He nodded, his eyes watching her intently.
“They’re incredible.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, reaching for her. “Particularly in my shirt.”
She smiled. “Ethan, I’m being serious. These are so beautiful. How do you do it? Where do your ideas come from?”
He shrugged. “I never paint with a preconceived idea in mind. Each piece begins in the same way. I just start throwing colors around, and I follow what feels right.”
She noticed a canvas set up near the window. She circled around to view the subject and gasped.
It was her.
Still unfinished, the lines of her jaw were yet undefined, the length of her hair only partially painted. But it was her. She stepped closer and looked into her eyes. They were perfect. It was clearly where he had put most of his focus. She stared, unable to tear her gaze away. She saw her soul in his painting. In her eyes, she saw it all—her strength, her heartache, her fear. She saw herself through his eyes and it mesmerized her—she was damaged, but beautiful.
He came up behind her. “I told you. I only paint what feels right.” He turned her around to face him and slowly undid the buttons on her shirt and eased it off her shoulders. She stood in front of him, naked, but then she glanced once more at her eyes in the painting and knew her very soul was laid bare to his gaze. He bent his head and kissed her. His fingers grazed her nipples, setting her heart to race and her body to tingle. Then he pulled away and laid a white sheet on the floor. “Lie down so I can finish the painting.”
She started to kneel, but then she stopped and smiled wickedly. Taking his hands, she turned them so that his palms were facing up. Then she reached for one of his brushes and dipped it in the open color, a deep blue, and painted his hands. Replacing the brush, she raised his hands in front of her. “Spread your fingers wide,” she said. Then she pressed his hands onto her breasts. When she stepped back, his blue handprints remained.
“My body is for your hands only,” she said.
His eyes darkened with hunger. He licked his lips. “Turn around,” he rasped. He grabbed her bum, leaving behind his mark. “That’s my ass.”
She laid down on the sheet and spread her legs. “I am all yours.”
His eyes narrowed on her, hot and hungry. He tore his shirt over her head and yanked down his jeans. Then he stretched over her and eased his full length inside her. He flicked the lid off a nearby paint can and dipped his fingers. Slowly, he stroked down her neck and over her breasts and waist. She looked down at herself. Dark, blood-red mingled with the blue, creating purple streaks. He swirled the colors erotically around her nipples. She spread her legs wider, lifting her hips to take more of him in. His fingers painted down her cheek and throat. Then he gripped her face and kissed her hard, thrusting his body into hers, deeper, faster. His lips tore away. He dipped his hand in the blue and splayed his fingers wide before caressing down her torso. She arched her back into his touch, running her own fingers over her breasts, spreading streaks of color over her body.
Her legs squeezed his waist. Paint dripped down her thighs as she lifted her hips to meet each thrust. She dragged her hands down his chest. Seeing her fingerprints on his skin shot a tremor of excitement and hunger throughout her whole body, fueling her touch and her kiss to frantic heights. The higher she rose, the greater the ache that fought so hard for release. Grabbing his shoulders, squeezing her eyes tight, her body seized. Trembling, she cried out against the relief that tore through her.
Sweat dripped from his body, spreading through the color, pooling and splashing with her sweat as he continued to penetrate her, prolonging her sweet release. Then he threw his head back and cried out the instant before he collapsed on top of her.
When their hearts ceased pounding and their breathing quieted, he turned onto his back. Her head still spinning, her body spent, she glanced down at the myriad shades of blue, red, and purple streaking their bodies. “We’ll have to make use of that amazing bathtub I saw.”
He leaned onto his side, resting his head on his elbow and swirled the paint across her stomach. “Your body is the perfect canvas.”
She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You can paint me anytime.”
∞∞∞
Three days passed. Angel couldn’t remember ever feeling so content—peaceful, secure, wanted. She had awoken before Ethan that morning and quietly tip-toed downstairs to make pancakes.
“Morning.”
Angel whirled around, her heart pounding. “Who are you?”
