Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(50)

It’s much easier to change perspective and add to something than it is to stare at a blank slate, hoping inspiration eventually strikes.

“Okay.”

Confused, I lift my chin. “What?”

Jonas’s hands come to his leather jacket, unzipping and shucking it off. “I said okay.”

My eyes bulge, and the paintbrush falls from my fingers, rolling to the edge of the frame. Hooking a thumb in the neck of his black T-shirt, Jonas tugs the material over his head, revealing a broad chest and well-sculpted hips.

Any saliva present in my mouth dries right up. My eyes scour over every rigid plane, soaking in the defined muscles and the hair trailing down his belly button, disappearing into his jeans.

“Y-you can’t.” I pause, forcing a swallow over the ball of nerves in my throat. “Get naked, I mean.”

“If you are, why can’t I?”

“We can’t both be naked.”

A slow, wicked grin appears on his face. “Why not, my little puppet? Don’t think you can control yourself?”

“Please. You’re the one who can’t seem to keep your hands off me.”

“Nor do I wish to.” His gaze heats, stirring arousal in my stomach like thick honey. “Right now, though, I’ll behave. Perhaps you can teach me a thing or two.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me.

Apprehension threads through my shoulders as he toys with his bracelet, loosening and setting it aside. As he reaches for his belt, my hands lash out, halting him. Paint gets on his fingers and the denim of his pants, and both his brows arch.

I’m stretched awkwardly, my balance hinging between my grip on his buckle and my knees. One wrong move and I’ll mess up the piece I’ve been working on since yesterday morning.

Clearing my throat, I consider my options. I can redo the painting if I fuck it up beyond repair. Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times before—nearly every piece I’ve created has at least two versions of itself in my attempts to perfect the craft.

Or I can let him strip. Take that step into a slightly more vulnerable place with the man who’s occupied most of my thoughts for the last few weeks.

The man who hates my family and tried to murder my father.

A man who’s made it clear that, if we did get together, the sex would be very, very good.

Phenomenal, even.

The memory of his hand between my thighs at brunch resurfaces, and warmth floods my cheeks. Short tingles radiate up and down my limbs, making me feel liquid as I recall how it felt to have someone touch me when their intent was not malicious.

How interesting that a man with so much blood on his hands is the only one who seems capable of refusing to harm me.

Still, as I slip the pin from its notch in the leather belt, there’s a little voice in my head saying yet.

He hasn’t hurt me yet.

But I ignore it, choosing instead to focus on the sound of him sucking in a breath. My fingers tremble as I unhook the buckle, slowly dragging the end through the metal square. His eyes stay on mine, wide and unblinking, like he’s trapped and can’t possibly look away.

Somehow, my chest feels the same. Caged tight and quickly running out of air.

“I was joking, love,” he rasps. The words sound forced and scratchy, like he has to reach in and tear them from his throat.

Acid bubbles in my chest. There’s something painfully erotic about our stance—him towering over me as I kneel before him, trying to… well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to do.

Maintain what little power I have here, maybe. If I let him disrobe on his own, all it does is prove my discomfort.

If I take the initiative, it proves I’m okay.

Popping the fly of his jeans, I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down over his hips. His cock bobs free, partially erect, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek at his size.

Far bigger than Preston even as it is now.

My clit pulses, the muscles in my thighs clenching.

Glancing up, I let his jeans pool at his feet, then push the canvas aside and sit back on my haunches, clasping my hands behind my back.

Jonas squeezes his eyes shut, drawing a stuttered breath.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing, my little puppet?”

Resentment and shame coil in my gut, and I give him a dirty look. “I’ve sucked dick before, you ass—”

His arm lashes out, one hand coming around my head, gathering my hair in a ponytail and tugging back at the base. My neck bends at an almost ninety-degree angle, and goose bumps spray down my arms and legs, making me shiver.

“It’s in your best interest to not speak of those before me.”

My mouth twitches. “Why? Ego can’t handle knowing yours isn’t the first dick I’ve seen?”

“I can handle it just fine,” he says, gripping the thick shaft with his free hand, giving it a single pump in front of me, “I just don’t want to. When my cock is in your face, I don’t want to imagine all the others you’ve taken because they no longer matter.”

“’Cause you’re so good in bed?”

Tightening his fist in my hair, he pulls back even farther so I have to press up on my knees to keep my spine from snapping. When he shifts, I feel the mushroom head brush my lips, leaving behind a salty residue as it drags across them.