Page 123 of Beyond the Lines
“Mhmm…” She mumbles, leaning into my touch, inviting more of it. “What else do you notice?”
“What else?” I murmur, trailing my fingers down the soft curve of her neck. “Everything. Your whole body is like this incredible study in form.”
She shivers under my touch, her eyes half-closed. “Is that your way of saying I’m hot or something?”
I slide my hand over the swell of her breast, feeling thesoftness beneath her clothing. “It’s my way of saying you’re a masterpiece.”
“Declan…” She whispers.
“Your breasts,” I say, voice dropping lower as I cup one in my hand, “are these perfect gentle curves. Like the way watercolors bloom when they first touch wet paper—soft edges, delicate gradients. There’s balance to them, a perfect proportion that even the Renaissance masters would’ve killed to capture.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs, but her breath catches when I squeeze gently.
“I’m serious,” I say.
My hands move down to her waist, tracing the dip and flare of her silhouette. The sweater rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin that I immediately touch, tracing small patterns with my fingertips.
“Your waist,” I continue, “has this incredible negative space—the way it curves in before flaring out to your hips. It’s all about contrast and composition.”
She raises an eyebrow, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. “Is that your way of saying I’ve got a fat ass?”
“Not at all.” I slide my hands to her hips, gripping them firmly, then run my hands down her thighs, feeling the muscle beneath the thin fabric of her leggings. Her legs part slightly at my touch, an invitation I’m more than happy to accept. “Your legs,” I murmur, “have these fantastic contours.”
My hands move upward again, this time sliding around to cup her ass. I squeeze, pulling her more firmly against me. “And this,” I say with a grin, “this is all about perfection of form. Sculpture territory. Michelangelo would’ve spent months getting the curves just right.”
She laughs. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned color theory yet.”
“I was getting there.” My hand drifts between her legs, pressing against her through her leggings. Even through the fabric, I can feel the heat of her. “The flush on your skin when I touch you here—that’s all about color. The way it spreads from your cheeks down your neck…”
Her hips rise to meet my touch, and I press more firmly, watching her eyes flutter closed. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
There’s a heaviness in the air between us suddenly, something significant shifting. I want to tell her how I feel—that this isn’t just sex for me, that she’s become essential somehow—but the words lodge in my throat, like to speak it into existence is to risk it backfiring.
Instead, I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “But my favorite thing is your face when you come for me, Lea. The way everything tenses and then releases. It’s like watching chiaroscuro in motion—light and shadow playing across every feature.”
“Dec,” she sighs, arching into my touch. “You better get to work on that…”
I slide my fingers more firmly against the fabric between her legs, amazed at how wet she is already. The thin material of her leggings is completely soaked through—textural evidence of her desire.
“Jesus, Lea,” I murmur, awestruck. “You’re so wet.”
She buries her face in my neck, embarrassed. “It’s what you do to me.”
The primal part of my brain preens at this confession. I’m torn between being gentle and letting something rougher take over. The rougher side wins. In one swift motion, I hook myfingers into the crotch of her leggings and tear, the fabric giving way with surprising ease.
Her eyes go wide. “Did you just?—”
“I did,” I promise, sliding my fingers through the tear to find her bare skin. She’s scorching hot and slick, and she gasps when I make contact.
“These were thirty dollars!” But her indignation dissolves into a moan when I circle her clit with my middle finger. “Oh?—”
“I’ll pay for them. Worth every penny.” I slip a finger inside her, watching her eyelids flutter. “The museum of you deserves an entrance fee.”
Her laugh turns into a gasp as I add a second finger, curving them upward to hit that spot that makes her thighs tremble. “That’s—oh god—that’s terrible.”
I bend down to kiss her, swallowing her moans as I work my fingers inside her. With my free hand, I push her top up, exposing her breasts. The rose-pink of her nipples against her olive skin is like a perfect color study in contrasts.
I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, circling it with my tongue before sucking gently. Her back arches off the bed, pressing her breast more firmly against my lips. She mumbles something about not stopping, but there’s no chance of that.
