Page 42 of Smoke Show

"How about I show you what I was working on?" I offered.

Brady's Adam's apple bobbed, as if he sensed the invitation hadn't been made lightly.

"I'd like that."

I slipped my sketchbook from under the towel, clutching it to my chest with one arm. He clasped my hand in his, tugging me toward the living room. We settled onto his couch, my thigh pressed against his transmitting immediate heat that radiated through me. Brady snuggled me against his chest, and I burrowed closer, trying to muster the courage to show him my drawings.

"I have a healthy imagination," I admitted, deciding to go for it.

I flipped open my pad, starting with the most innocuous of the images. I'd drawn a simple sketch of Brady cupping my chin, leaning in for a kiss. There was a sweetness to it, an innocence in the curve of my mouth and the gleam in his eye.

"This is beautiful," he said, tracing the line of my jaw on the page.

"Mm," I murmured, striving for casual, as I flipped the page.

The new illustration showed a more passionate clinch, me sprawled across his kitchen counter, Brady standing between my legs, my ankles wrapped around his back. I'd drawn myself with my head thrown back, total abandon in the arch of my spine as he worshipped at my breasts through my shirt. Nothing much was revealed, but a whole hell of a lot was implied.

"Sexy," Brady rumbled, the husky note in his voice letting me know he was as affected viewing it as I had been creating it.

Hesitantly, I flipped the page.

Brady's low gasp sounded loud in the quiet room.

The last drawing was unapologetically erotic. And explicit.

I'd drawn Brady and I nude, pleasuring each other with hands and mouths. Admittedly, I'd used creative license, imagining him naked.

"Very…lifelike," Brady whispered, stilling as he took in the full details.

I squirmed, not sure how to interpret his words. Was he turned on? Disgusted?

What had started as a joke, with the intent to tease, had turned into something else. As moves went, at least I couldn't be accused of wimping out.

"So…" Brady said, shifting beneath me. The roll of his hips maneuvered me more firmly into his lap. The bulge beneath my left hip sent my heart racing, answering my earlier question:turned on, it was. Brady cleared his throat, as if struggling to find his voice. "Would it be totally out of line if I asked if you'd be up for life imitating art?"

Lips twitching, I pushed away, noting his quick frown of disappointment. I resituated myself in his lap, this time straddling his hips, a knee snugged alongside each of his hips. The new position let me see his expression more clearly, and there was only one word for it: hungry.

Eyes dilated, breathing heavy, Brady’s once-perfect hair was mussed. He smelled warm, and the hint of ginger clung to his skin.

"Brady, are you asking if you can do unspeakable things with me?" I asked, leaning back to capture a mental picture of him in this moment.

I loved the way he looked at me. Like I was his masterpiece. Like he wanted to eat me up.

"Hey, Brady."

"Huh?"

"I'm going to feel really silly if I lead you to your bathroom instead of your bedroom." I paused. "Though, I guess that has possibilities too. You want to do the honors? You have condoms, right?"

"Ye-es." As if waking from a dream, he boosted himself from the couch, carrying me with him, my ankles wrapped around his back for stability, just like in my drawing.

My heart pounded. The move jostled my hips more firmly against his, and I held back a whimper with effort.

Brady strode down the hall, straight to his bedroom. No nonsense, no hesitation.

Heat pooled low, filling me with anticipation. Brady looked like a man possessed, features sharp with need.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, gaze searching mine.

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