Page 108 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

Chewing on my thumbnail with nothing else to do, I inspect the man in front of me the same way he’s busy studying me.

His strong hands and corded forearms are mesmerizing as he drags the brush along the canvas and dips it back in his paint. I smile when his forehead wrinkles and he bites the inside of his cheek, concentrating on whatever’s in front of him. Then he glances back at me, his green eyes practically glowing as they roll over every inch of my skin. Hell, I can almost feel it. Like a caress. A ghost of a touch only made worse because hewastouching me a few minutes ago. And now? Now, I’m supposed to simply sit here and drool over the sexy bastard.

This is torture.

Beautiful, exquisite torture.

I uncross my legs and squeeze them together—anything to relieve the pressure building between my thighs.

The constant brush of paint against canvas ceases, blanketing the room in silence. He looks back at me, his eyes narrowed, silently daring me to do it again. But he doesn’t say a damn word.

Interesting.

When I don’t move a muscle, he dabs the tip of his brush into some blue and green, gliding it across the canvas again.

Curious, I spread my legs a little wider.

He freezes and looks back at me, cocking his head to the side. “What are you doing?”

With an innocent smile, I answer, “Not leaving the chair like you ordered.”

His eyes are nothing but tiny slits as he tears his attention away from my body and looks back at the canvas.

A burst of adrenaline pulses through my veins as I unfold my arms, resting my hands against my thighs and sitting up tall.

A sharp inhale of breath belonging to the man in front of me echoes through the room, but he keeps painting away. Like I’m not bothering him. Like I’m not affecting him the same way he’s affecting me. Like he isn’t aware of every tiny movement I’m making or how I’m so turned on right now, I might take this game of cat and mouse a step further.

Biting back my grin, I drag my fingers between my thighs, spreading them a little bit and dipping the tip of my finger inside my slick heat to find it dripping.

The paintbrush clatters to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Milo growls––again––his breathing heavy.

“Not leaving the chair,” I repeat as I finger myself a little deeper, imagining his hands on me instead of my own. I squeeze my eyes shut. The slow build I’m familiar with gradually rises to the surface. With a soft gasp, my lips part.

Shit, it feels good.

“You touching yourself, Mads?” he murmurs, his voice low and husky.

I look back at him. “You told me not to leave the chair…”

“Fuck it.” Milo shoves his palm in the paint, marches over to me, and covers my right breast with his massive hand, leaving his handprint on my bare skin as he slams his mouth against mine. I gasp, and he dives in, punishing me with his kiss before sliding onto his knees and spreading my thighs wide. The hand I’d been touching myself with is slapped away, and he laps at my folds, swirling the tip of his tongue around my clit as his clean hand finds its way to my entrance.

“Milo…”

“Damn tease,” he grits out, pumping his finger inside me.

Arching my back, my mouth opens wide. “Yes. Yes.”

“Can’t focus.”

I shift my hips closer to him. “More.”

He adds a second finger.

“Yes,” I pant. “Yes.”

“Damn tease,” he repeats, eating me like I’m his last meal.

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