A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)(38)

She was painting. It was an art studio, and it was set up so if an artist was in process, the windows were placed where people on the street could watch. It was set back and off the sidewalk so it wasn’t totally visible to just anyone driving by. But if you were coming specifically for the studio itself, or if you were someone like me, you could sit and watch to your heart’s content.

Her head was down. She had paint covering her hands, her arms, her shoulders. When she turned once, I saw more on her face. She didn’t look outside. I didn’t think she was even aware she was on display, but I was guessing there was music because her head kept swaying from side to side. She dipped her hand into the paint and turned to the canvas, going at it.

She painted with her hands. No brushes. No pencil. No charcoal. Just her hands, and the canvas was set to the side so I couldn’t see the painting itself, but it was taller than her. She stood up on her tiptoes more than once to reach the highest parts of it, and it was set on the floor, so she bent down as well. She disappeared from sight for those moments. A cupboard or table blocked my view.

I wanted to see the painting, enough where I got out of the vehicle and approached the building.

I moved to the side, propped a shoulder against the wall, and turned so I had a view through to her. I still couldn’t see what she was creating, but I could see her.

She was mesmerizing, moving in a rhythm where it was obvious she was in some sort of trance.

I stayed there even when the cold seeped through my jacket and into my bones, deep in my bones, but I still remained. It might’ve been hours. I didn’t know until suddenly, the lights turned off, and I straightened, shaking from how cold it was. I started for my vehicle.

“Last time I saw you, I told you to leave me alone.”

I turned slowly, thinking how her tone matched the weather. Fucking cold.

She was standing outside a back door, in the alley that my back was turned to. One of her feet had the door propped open. She was staring at me.

“You said we were done.”

“What’s the difference?” Her nostrils flared, because she knew there was a difference. “I told you another time to leave me alone too.”

I started for her, going slow. “You said I should leave you alone.”

Should.

I kept going. She wasn’t shutting the door.

Should had a whole different connotation because she was right. I should’ve left her alone, but I hadn’t, and I saw the yearning in her eyes. It was there. She hid it quick, but I still saw it.

I moved, knowing how much of an idiot I was being, but at this point, unless she shut the door in my face, I needed to touch her again.

Her eyes widened, seeing me coming at her, but she didn’t move. She didn’t dart inside, and I was fully aware of the line I was treading here.

Five feet.

She stayed.

Four.

She was still there.

Three.

I could almost touch her.

Two—she moved inside, but I caught the door.

“Tristian—” She backed up.

“Trace.” I moved with her, taking in the room. A small light was on in the corner, enough so I could see my way inside. My hand went to her waist, propelling her backward.

Damn me to hell, but I needed this.

“Wha—” she started to say, her eyes so alive, and a new light had been lit in them.

She’d get angry. It was sparking in her, coming, and my god. I was a damned man because that’s when I knew. Her spirit made my dick twitch. I groaned, my mouth taking hers, hoping she wasn’t going to hit me with a hammer or some other weapon. I let her wrist go because if she did, I’d deserve it, but after a surprised gasp, after a moment where I swear my body sagged in relief at the mere touch of her, the fire swept through both of us.

It lit her, and she became alive. Her mouth opened under mine. The hammer dropped. Her hands were on me, pulling on the back of my head, and she was trying to clamber up.

Finally.

I lifted her at the same time she jumped.

She was yanking at my clothes as I angled my head, my tongue sweeping inside of her, needing to taste her that way, knowing it would be fucking heaven. It was.

I needed more.

She had my shirt halfway up my body, her hands exploring me in return, and I glanced once, making sure the door was shut. She had turned the light off. My god, I needed to have her. I didn’t know if she’d let me taste her again.

I moved down her throat, tasting her as I went, and she arched her neck, her breasts pushed upward toward me. My hand moved down, pushing under her leggings, finding her thong and ignoring that it was even there, and then I found her, and my finger sank in.

Fucking. Goddamn. Heaven.

I hissed at how tight she was, and her legs wrapped tighter around my waist in reaction. She held still, panting in my ear as I worked a second finger inside of her. I went slow at first, drawing it out, and then deeper with each stroke, building pace and tempo.

I knew her. I knew this woman. I knew her body. I didn’t know how, but I did. Other lifetimes maybe. I would’ve believed it if someone told me in that instant because it was like I’d already had lifetimes worshipping her body.

I kept working her, sliding in and out, my thumb moving over her clit. A nice slow circle rub and she was moaning in my arms, barely holding on. Her body fell backward, her head coming to rest against the wall behind, and her eyes opened a little bit, a haze over them as she gaped at me, but I needed more. I reached up with my other hand and tore her shirt apart. Her bra was shoved aside, and I sank my mouth over one of her tits. I needed this taste of her.