Page 93 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
He pursed his mouth together. “Me, huh? Haven’t you already? I seem to remember seeing a few paintings of my eyes, my hands, and my figure in the landscape you gave me. Have another part in mind?”
She leveled a glance at his lower body, and he laughed. “It’s as I thought. You secretly want me for a life model.” He threw back the sheet. “Have at it.”
He put his hand behind his head, looking off like he’d seen some subjects do in paintings. Her snort had him smiling.
“Eyes on me, Carrick,” she said, already pulling out her supplies. “Always on me.”
There was nowhere else he wanted to look. He watched her as she painted him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back to the nightstand for a paint or a brush as her hand moved rapidly over the paper. At one point she leaned forward and rubbed a mixture of paint on his chest—very arousing—before returning to her pad, occasionally brushing the mixed paint on his chest onto her brush.
“I like being your palette,” he said, only to have her mutter, “Flesh tones,” and shush him.
He let her work. Her brow wrinkled when she painted, he realized, and she brushed white across her cheek when she pushed a strand of hair out of the way.
He could imagine waking with her every morning and watching her paint this way, especially if she mixed paint on him. It was arousing and endearing, and he felt…happy. God, there it was again, the same feeling he’d had last night and when he’d awoken to hear her breathing next to him, nestled against his side.
He was happy.
The rain started to fall, pinging the metal roof. Her concertation was absolute. She didn’t even look up when a knock sounded on the front door.
“You’re frowning,” she said, her hand moving across the paper. “Why are you frowning?”
“Someone’s at the door, love,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “I’m rather hoping they don’t just walk in, but it’s Ireland and—”
“Oh shit!” She grabbed her paper and scooted off the bed, her curves a delight to his senses. Placing the paper on the dresser, she spun around. “Where’s my robe? Oh, God, there are matches everywhere.”
He laughed, remembering how she’d dropped them the moment he’d dropped his pants. “If they come to the bedroom, I’ll tell them we knew a storm was coming this morning. That we were prepared to light candles in case the power went out.”
“It’s light outside, Carrick.” She tugged on the robe, something he wished he could burn with the matches.
“I don’t think you should wear clothes again,” he said, watching as she cursed on the way to the door, scattering more matches. “I like you better naked.”
An insistent pounding punctuated his sentence. She stilled. “That doesn’t sound like Megan or Ollie. Thank God. Oh, what time is it?”
He picked up his phone from the floor. “Eight. Latest I’ve been in bed in years. Yank, I suggest you go to the door and handle whoever is there so you can come back to bed. I told my sheep to behave themselves this morning.”
“You did? Oh, hang it! Who is pounding like that? Be right back.”
Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his pants and tugged them on. He walked into the kitchen as she opened the door.
“Jamie!” she exclaimed.
Carrick shook his head.
“Kade. Brady. Declan. My God! This is a surprise.”
Those interfering arses.
“Forgive me,” Angie said unnecessarily. “I didn’t know you were coming. I’d have made coffee cake. I’d invite you in from the rain—”
“No bother,” Carrick heard his brother say.
She meant it as a joke, you idiot.
“We’ve come to deliver Carrick some fresh clothes,” Jamie said.
“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. “I’m coming out.”
He stepped into the parlor and sent his friends a hard smile as he walked toward Angie. She looked up at him, biting her lip.
