If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(35)

My dick is harder than it has been in a long time and I know Mila can see it. I can’t help but stare at her. She’s so f*cking beautiful.

She stares at me from around her easel and I can see the curve of her breast. It’s creamy white and soft and I ache to stride across the room and stroke it, to pull the nipple into my mouth and feel it harden into a pebble. With each movement of her arm, I can see the curve of her hip, the length of her thigh. Her legs are the perfect length to wrap around my hips.

My groin tightens even more.

Dead puppies, nuns, cold fish. I envision these things, but it doesn’t work. Damn. My dick twitches.

Mila smiles.

“You won’t burn me,” she tells me confidently as her hand moves across her canvas. “You already promised.”

I swallow.

“I promised to try,” I remind her. “But I’m not as perfect as you are.”

She smiles again, her eyes focused intently on what she is painting. I can only see the silhouette of her side and her slender arm moving. I strain to see more.

“I’m not perfect,” she tells me. “Far from it, actually.”

I roll my eyes and shift my weight. It’s surprisingly hard to remain in one place.

“I somehow doubt that.”

She looks at me sternly. “You’ve got to stay still,” she reprimands me. “I need you in one position.”

“What position might that be?” I ask, trying not to smile. “Missionary? Doggy-style? Shall we check out a copy of the Kama Sutra from the library?”

“No need,” she says as she steps around her easel and walks toward me, absolutely gorgeous in her nudity. “I have one in my bed stand.”

I suck in my breath and stare at her and she laughs, enjoying my shock.

“Kidding,” she tells me as she draws to a stop in front of me and moves my arm. Her touch, although it’s merely on my arm, sets my skin on fire. As she leans forward, ever so slightly, her breast presses against my chest, soft and warm. My dick is rock hard now and curved toward the ceiling. I fight the urge to grab her and bury my tongue in her throat.

“Funny,” I say drily. And then an idea occurs to me.

A wicked one.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell her and she is standing so close that I can feel the heat of her naked body. Her nipples are exactly as I thought they’d be. Pink and tilted toward the sky. I groan silently. This girl is hotter than any one girl has the right to be.

“Oh?” she asks innocently as she adjusts my other arm. I nod.

“Yep. I want to paint now.”

She’s surprised. “You do? I thought you said that you aren’t an artist.”

I smile, the grin stretching from ear to ear. She’s walking straight into something again and I’m enjoying it.

“Oh, I think I can be,” I tell her. “If I have the right canvas.”

She is still puzzled and I break form, grabbing her hand and leading her back to her easel, to the little stand that holds her tray of paint. She’s staring at me in confusion, one eyebrow cocked as she waits for me to explain.

I stare into her eyes, which is incredibly difficult to do since the rest of her body is naked. I deserve a medal for this show of restraint.

“I know that you want to go slow and I respect that. I promise to stop at any time that you tell me to, okay?”

She looks uncertain and I fight the urge to look at her tits again.

“I promise,” I assure her. “I have an idea for something fun. But it involves me touching you. Do you have a problem with that?”

She looks even more hesitant, but she shakes her head. She trusts me. I don’t know how or why, but she does. That knowledge clenches my gut into a vise-grip.

“No,” she says quietly. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

I smile and will my stomach muscles to relax.

“Good. I’m going to need you to stand still. An artist needs to concentrate.”

Mila rolls her eyes and stands still, her hands dangling beside her perfect hips. I swallow hard. My dick is so f*cking hard it could cut glass.

Reaching around her, I scoop a glob of red paint onto my fingers. And then without hesitation, I touch her chest, gliding the crimson color in a swoop across her skin. It looks like a red bird is flying in a V across her chest.

At the contact, she gasps and her eyes fly to mine.

“Finger painting,” she manages to eke out. “Interesting. I did this in kindergarten.”

“Oh, not like this,” I answer confidently, as I slide my fingers down her soft side, toward her hip. “I guarantee you that.”

She looks like she swallows her tongue as I trace the outline of her butt, and then slide my fingers down her slender thigh toward her knee. I bend on my own knee and kiss the back of hers. She inhales shakily.

I can hear it, and I smile.

Reaching over, I choose black paint this time, tracing the color across her back and up to her shoulders, in swirls and swoops. I don’t have a particular picture or word in mind, I simply slide the color across her flawless skin. I enjoy the friction of my skin against hers, and I can’t help but wish that she was pressed against me.

I reach around and pull her toward me, my palms flattened against her flat belly as I press my lips against her smooth back. I bury my face in the top of her butt, the soft rounded flesh against my face. Her feminine scent fills my nose and I breathe deeply, soaking her in.