Burn (Breathless #3)(2)

She was wearing a funky long skirt that swirled with the wind, baring the long expanse of one leg. Blingy flip-flops adorned her feet and he could see the bright pink polish on her toes and a toe ring that sparkled when she moved her foot to shift position. The sun caught on a silvery ankle bracelet, drawing even more attention to her slender leg.

She was busy sketching, her brow furrowed in concentration as her pencil flew over the page, and beside her was a huge bag stuffed full, with rolled-up papers extending from the top.

But what most caught his attention was the choker she wore around her neck. It didn’t fit her. He made that instant assessment. It was tight around her neck, resting just at the hollow of her delicate throat. But it didn’t fit her. It didn’t reflect her at all.

It was gaudy on her. A diamond choker, obviously expensive and probably not fake, but it didn’t go with the rest of her. It stood out, out of place. His curiosity was piqued because when he saw a piece of jewelry like that on a woman, it meant something far different than it did to most people and he was seized with interest to know if it was indeed a collar, or if it was just an ornament, chosen by her. And if it was a collar, the man who’d chosen it for her had done a piss-poor job. The man didn’t know her, or maybe he didn’t care to ensure that such an important adornment suited the woman he called his own.

If Ash could make that judgment after mere moments of studying her, then how the hell could the man making love to her not see the same? Maybe the collar was more a reflection of her dominant, which was arrogant and idiotic. A collar should represent his care of his submissive, how in touch with her he was, and it should fit the woman wearing it.

He was making a hell of a lot of assumptions. It could just be a simple necklace the woman had chosen herself. But to a man like Ash, that piece of jewelry meant something more than just an accessory.

How long he stood watching her, he didn’t know, but, as if sensing his gaze, hers lifted to meet his and her eyes widened and something like panic entered her expression. Then she hastily slammed her sketch pad closed and began to shove it into her bag. She half rose, still stuffing things into that huge bag, and he realized she was leaving.

Before he was even aware of it, he hurried forward, intrigued. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. The hunt. Discovery. Challenge. Interest. He wanted to know who this woman was, and what that collar she wore meant.

And even as he strode toward her, he knew that if it did mean what he thought it did, he was trespassing on another man’s territory, and furthermore, he didn’t give one f**k.

Poaching another dominant’s submissive was one of those unwritten no-nos, but then Ash had never been one for rules. At least the ones he himself didn’t make. And this woman was beautiful. Intriguing. And perhaps exactly what he was looking for. How would he know unless he got to her before she bailed?

He was nearly to her when she whirled around, bag in hand, obviously preparing to walk away, and she nearly bumped headlong into him. Yeah, he was absolutely invading her space, and he’d be lucky if she didn’t scream the park down. He probably looked like some stalker about to attack.

He heard her quick intake of breath as she took a step back, banging the bag into the chair she’d vacated. The bag tipped over, coming loose from her grip, and the contents spilled, pencils, brushes and papers flying everywhere.

“Damn it!” she muttered.

She bent immediately, grabbing for the papers, and he chased after one that had been caught by the wind, taking it several feet away.

“I’ll get them,” she called. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”

He captured the drawing and picked it up, turning back to her.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

She let out a shaky laugh as she extended her hand for the paper. “You did that for sure.”

He glanced down, taking in the drawing as he started to hand it over to her and then blinked in surprise when he saw himself on the paper.

“What the hell?” he murmured, ignoring her hasty grab for the drawing.

“Please just give it back,” she said, her voice soft and urgent.

She sounded scared, like he was going to freak out, but he was more mesmerized by the small expanse of her side that had been bared by the loose-fitting top when she’d reached for the paper.

On her right side he’d glimpsed a tattoo that was vibrant and colorful. Like her. The brief glimpse he’d gotten told him it was flowery, almost like a vine, and that it likely extended a hell of a lot farther up or down her body. Maybe both. He wished like hell he could see more of it, but she let her arm drop and the hem of her shirt settled back to the waistband of that full skirt, depriving him of further view.

“Why were you drawing me?” he asked curiously.

Color invaded her cheeks, making her skin rosy. She had fair skin, just barely kissed by the sun, but with her hair and those gorgeous aquamarine eyes, it looked beautiful. She was beautiful. And evidently very talented.

She’d drawn him perfectly. He’d had no difficulty in recognizing himself in the pencil drawing. His thoughtful expression, the distant look in his eyes. She’d drawn him as he’d stood there, hands shoved into his pockets. That moment of self-reflection, and clearly that was evident in the drawing. It made him feel awkwardly vulnerable that a complete stranger had been able to capture his mood in just a few moments. That she’d seen him in that vulnerable moment and had picked up on what he hid from everyone else in the world.