Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(42)

He unzipped her skirt and tugged, and she wiggled her hips until the denim fell in a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of the circle of material, kicking off the new fawn sandals Sofie had gifted her. He brushed the pile of clothes aside with his foot.

Fingers returned to paint, and this time he raked them along the swell of her hips and down to her thighs while he spoke, smearing greenish-blue with one hand and creating orange-yellow swirls with the other.

“I loved Rae. Loved her half my life.”

When guilt would have stabbed her, he fisted her panties and stripped them off her legs. On his knees before her, he admired where her thighs came together, a long look that made her want to cover herself. Something about his rapt attention, and the way his rough palms moved along the skin on her legs, kept her from it.

“Beautiful.” He stood, going no further, and she couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved. Kind of felt like a dab of both.

He raised her unpainted hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one.

“I miss her, Charlie.” He placed a soft kiss to the inside of her thumb.

“I know,” she whispered, the emotions in her heart rising to her face. “I do, too.”

“Been grieving for years.” He stroked his tongue along her index finger, kissed her fingertip. “Four years,” he whispered.

Tears stung the back of her eyelids but she refused to let them come forth.

“I know.” How she must look now… naked, half-covered in paint, Evan’s attention on her body while he talked about his late wife. She tried to imagine an outsider looking in, tried to cast judgment, but she couldn’t. She was too into this moment. The here and now of him turning her on and on, of being under his unwavering attention and focus.

“We deserve to be free.”

His words stunned her.

“Sorry?”

He sucked her middle finger into his mouth, letting it out in one, long, slow pull. Then he positioned her finger between her legs, slid into her folds, and directed her to stroke herself.

“We deserve it, Charlie. It would have killed Rae all over again if the two people she loved most in this world died right alongside her.”

He was right, but her thoughts didn’t get any further as he increased the pressure of her fingers.

A fractured, keening sound escaped her lips as he continued guiding her fingers over her clit. Once he was satisfied with her speed, he left her to it, dipping his fingers back into the paint and returning to her breasts. Pinching and pulling through the sticky, wet paint, he plucked her while she thrust against her own hand.

“You don’t have to feel sorry, Ace.” Another slick pull on her nipples had her bucking against her own fingers.

He tugged his shirt off and she opened her eyes to see all his exposed, inked flesh, the dark, detailed lines etched along each shoulder, curving down the ample biceps to his bare chest, taut abs, and defined obliques.

Beautiful.

Every inch she’d seen so far.

Grasping her hips, he tugged her close and rubbed his body against her, painting himself with her breasts as he kissed her hard on the mouth. A hand came around and palmed her butt, then the other, squeezing and lifting, pressing her closer and tighter against his form. When his tongue entered her mouth to clash with hers, her head vanished from this plane altogether.

There was only the feel of the slide of her finger, her building release, the hot insistence of his tongue and body.

He ended the kiss long enough to say, “Let go, Ace.”

Her moan almost a whimper, she watched him from beneath hooded eyes, loving the heat she saw there, loving that heat was for her.

He kissed her again, then grinned against her lips. “So f*cking sexy. Let go, baby.” His hand reached between their bodies to clasp her wrist and increase her speed and pressure, and she felt herself going over.

“Evan.” She tried to speak, but it was more of a high-pitched squeak. “Evan.”

“I know, Ace. You need it. Take it.” He kissed her again, guiding her arm with one hand while the other clasped her butt and his chest rubbed against her sensitized nipples. “Take it. You deserve it.”

“For you,” she heard herself say, cresting, the wave nearly rolling over and drowning her beneath.

“For me, baby,” he agreed.

With a broken sob, she came, and his mouth closed over hers, kissing her deeply, mercilessly, swallowing her cries. As she wound down, her body pulsing, her thighs wet, her body damp with drying paint, she lost the ability to hold her head up and dropped her forehead on his chest. Vaguely, she registered his body moving, him cleaning his hands on a nearby cloth, before sliding his fingers into her hair.

“How much better does that feel?” he asked, kissing her temple.

“Mmff,” was all she managed.

His deep, rumbling chuckle bobbed her head and echoed around the room, making her heart swell. “You’re a good finger painter, Ace.”

Somehow, she lifted her head and smiled.

Still holding her, he stepped away and showed her his chest. Two round smudges of mixed paint from her breasts, and mirroring lines streaked his torso and marked his jeans.

“One of a kind,” he said. “You’ll never find another creation like this one. And if we tried it again”—he winked—“and we will, it wouldn’t come out the same way twice.”