Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(29)

Still, with the terms of our agreement set in stone and centering around our relationship being known, it feels wrong that I’ve pretty much relegated the girl to the confines of the beach house.

Though, she certainly hasn’t complained. Not that I’ve seen much of her in the time since, unwilling to compromise my end goal for a single night spent between her thighs.

If I’m around her too much in the house, I know I’ll have no choice but to strip her bare and lick her raw. She’s always in these tiny sleep shorts or lacy, low-cut tops, feeding my depraved imagination with every little sigh or grunt of frustration.

One day, I get home from the pub late on account of having to take contractual business to the cellar. There’s a tear in my jacket and what feels like clumps of hair missing from my head because the bastard fought until I squeezed the last breaths out of him.

My bad for not restraining him beforehand, but I thought for sure a man double my age and half my size wouldn’t require such dramatics.

Lenny sits in front of the closed door to the office, where she’s set up some sort of makeshift craft studio. Tins of paint and canvases, blank and half finished, line every available surface in the room, while plastic tarps stretch over the two dark-gray cabriole sofas angled before the electric fireplace.

Since she isn’t allowed back at Primrose Manor currently, her older brothers dropped her belongings off, and her material possessions now fill the house.

I don’t particularly mind her making the space her own. Especially given that I’m rarely here, and she has quite literally nothing else.

What I mind, however, is the fact that she’s stark fucking naked. Sitting with a pillow under her knees, Lenny’s entire bare backside is plainly visible to me and the entire ocean, since the lights are on and the curtains are drawn.

“Bloody hell.” Averting my gaze out of courtesy, I stare at the marble mantel and try not to look up at the mirror hanging on the wall above it.

From my peripheral, I see her head turn to the side. “Oh. You’re back.”

“Do you often paint in the nude?”

“Yes. I find clothes restricting.”

Pulling my cheek between my teeth, I clamp down until the flesh breaks, flooding my mouth with the taste of copper. “Well, unless you want me to take that as some sort of invitation, I suggest not prancing around where other people might see you.”

She pushes to her feet, tossing a little black crayon into a bucket by the pillow. I feel her come nearer, and my body stiffens when she stops just in front of me.

Nostrils flaring, I let my gaze fall to hers, refusing to look farther down. The heat from her body emanates wildly, brushing the surface of my skin the way the sun warms the sky.

“I don’t mind if you look,” she tells me, lifting a brow. “My live-in fiancé should probably have a pretty intimate knowledge of my body, anyway.”

“Who’s going to ask about that?”

She snorts. “Clearly, you don’t know the paparazzi. And besides, it’s not about them asking. It’s about knowing your character.”

“So, what? You consider this research?” A lump lodges in my throat, and I struggle to swallow around it.

“Something like that. Trust me, I did ballet when I was younger. The performance goes better when there’s authenticity behind it.”

Considering this, I let my gaze dip. Just a fraction, slipping past her chin for a peek.

Just a peek, and just for a second.

The swell of her tits rises and falls slowly, in tune with each breath that comes from her. I can already feel my cock stirring, arousal unspooling like a cut thread at the base of my spine.

My mind wanders, envisioning how it might look to fit myself between her flesh and decorate it with organic paint.

Clearing my throat, I drag myself back up, cataloging the flutter of her lashes as I do so and wishing I could imprint her own reactions to the backs of my eyelids.

Grinning, she tosses her ponytail over her shoulder and traipses back to her workspace.

“How long have you been an artist?” The words spill from me before I can even determine if I’m interested in them, and something lights in her eyes. Something hopeful that I haven’t seen in her before, so I can’t take the question back.

She picks up a piece of what appears to be charcoal, resuming her sketch. “I think to consider yourself an artist, you have to have sold some of your work.”

“And you haven’t?”

“Nope.”

I glance at the fast-growing collection of her work in the room. “Why not?”

One shoulder lifts, and I keep my eyes on her face. It’s completely serene as she creates, almost as though she’s entered an alternate universe with her craft where she can relax and just exist.

“When I was little, my parents made me and my brothers do a lot of extracurricular activities. Mama said that it was important we had a variety of interests, so we’d be able to entertain important guests as we got older. Before we moved to Aplana, I did everything: synchronized swimming, ballet, knitting. Cooking classes and painting lessons. My brothers were lucky, but as the only girl, for some reason, I had to be extra.”

My face pinches. “That’s demented. You were a child.”

She shrugs. “Mama and Daddy were my best friends, and when you’re close with perfection, it takes a lot to keep up.” Pausing she glances at the closed office door, a faraway look in her eyes. “But when we moved here, a lot of the stuff I enjoyed back home became more difficult because I wasn’t allowed to go out and do stuff anymore.”