Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(41)

“Here,” she breathed, moving her left hand and resting it high on her right rib cage.

He lifted the hem of her shirt, grazing her bare stomach with his knuckles. Then his hand replaced hers under her shirt, dangerously close to her breast—that was, as it turned out, not encased in a bra.

His eyes continued burning into hers, much the way the palm of his hand burned into her skin. “What.”

She sucked in a breath, her thoughts scattering to the wind. Closing her eyes, she saw the image she’d long wanted immortalized on her skin. “A camera.”

“Lift your arms.”

“Evan.” A whisper. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

That smile grew more insidious. “Perfect.”

She laughed his name a second time, but not out of humor, out of terror. And lust. Lusty terror. Was that a thing?

“Let me see.” He spoke with intensity, and while looking right at her.

As if entranced, she lifted her arms to do as he asked, squeezing her eyes closed as she felt the material lift, the room’s cool air hit her breasts, and finally the sweep of her long hair as it swished between her shoulder blades.

She’d sensed he wasn’t near, and when she popped her eyes open, she saw him drawing the blinds on the three windows in the room. Then he closed the studio door.

They were alone. Her throat constricted as she realized there had been a fantasy in the back of her head since he’d moved here, and it involved this very scenario. Them alone. Her naked. His hands on her body.

He approached, his eyes flitting over her, and she had to resist the urge to cup her large breasts to hide them. What was she doing?

What are you doing?

“You’re beautiful, Ace.” He dipped his fingers into the paint—all four fingers—and traced them down her body, slicking multiple colors in long lines between her breasts, down to her belly button, and over her waist.

Her breathing went shallow. “Evan.”

“Gonna help me out?” he asked, mischievous glint in his eye.

“Sorry?”

He shook his head. Slowly. “No apologizing.” He took her hand, kissed her palm, then directed her to the palette dotted with paint colors. She stroked her finger through the yellow and lifted it to his face. He shook his head again, grabbing her wrist. “Not me. You.”

“Me?”

He pushed her fingertip to her nipple and drew a cool circle around the tightened bud. “You,” he repeated.

She gasped at the contact. The sensations of cool paint, mixed with the fire in his eyes as he watched her touch herself, filled her with longing. Rational thought was a faraway thing, her only focus on this moment, and the man who was using his talented hands to seduce her.

He dipped his finger back into the blue, tracing slow circles around her other nipple until it pebbled.

“A camera like yours?” he asked. More paint, another circle.

She knew this answer… her Nikon, or a drawing of it anyway, but her brain wouldn’t send the words to her mouth.

Finally, she managed a breathy, “Yeah.”

“I can do that, Ace.”

No doubt. She’d bet he could do anything.

He took her hand, re-dipping into the yellow, then returned her finger to her nipple. Knowing what he wanted, she stroked on the paint in circles while he watched. The slickness of the paint against the hardened bud lit a spark within. Her mouth fell open, and he smiled.

“Rae hated this side of me,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss her lips lightly.

Her finger stilled. She blinked. How could anyone hate this side of him? Let alone Rae. Did that mean… did that mean they’d never… done this before?

Before she could let that neurotic thought take root, he took hold of her, making her hand his brush and he the painter. Her eyes closed, her thighs clenched.

“She didn’t like when I got lost in the art.”

Charlie relaxed her hand, gave him full control, and focused on what he was saying.

“She didn’t like when I took time away from her, away from Lyon, to paint for hours.”

The admission surprised and confused her. “I thought you didn’t like when I talked about Rae.”

He dipped her finger into the red this time and moved it to her other nipple. Eyes on his work, he said, “We didn’t have the perfect marriage.”

Another circle had her struggling between listening and ignoring his words. Every part of her wanted to give into the sensations cascading over her skin, not feel the pain and guilt that would surely come over talking about Rae.

“Someone passes away, everyone idealizes them. Including me. Including you. That’s not always the true side of things. We disagreed. We fought. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues.”

Letting go of her hand, he mixed his fingers through three different colors until he came up with an orangey-yellow and then pulled another four-fingered line straight down her torso. When he got to her jean skirt, he flipped the stud.

Her hand automatically covered his.

He leaned close, breath sifting over her lips as he whispered, “Let me.”

Breasts heaving, heart thumping, she moved her hand from his. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but she didn’t want to stop him. Right or wrong, she wanted this man, had been mesmerized by him. Too mesmerized to argue further.