Stain (Stain #1)(54)

My knees buckle and this time I don’t have the strength to keep myself up. But then he’s there. Strong, muscular arm encircling my waist as he holds my body tight against his. He turns me to face him and covers my mouth with his in a hungry, toe-curling kiss. I taste my essence and I taste him, and the combination of us is deliciously intoxicating.





Chapter 21


Aylee


Later, we’re in his apartment. Leaving the library had been one of the most embarrassing things I’d ever had to do. The instant Maddox and I came down from the stacks, I immediately knew that everyone below had heard my scream of pleasure. While Maddox waited for me outside the library, I hastily packed my things and with an extremely red face, said goodbye to my study group. Just before we left school, Maddox asked if I was able to paint anywhere. With the simplest reply that I could muster, he helped me lug my supplies to his truck and drove us to his apartment. We’ve been working on the painting for the last two and a half hours. We’re taking a small break before getting back to it.

While I wait for him to come back from the bathroom, I sit on a chair in front of my easel, staring at his likeness emblazoned across the canvas. It’s not nearly as close to the real thing, and I’m starting to realize it never will be. Maddox Moore is too much of a force to be captured in a medium. But what I have is turning out to be one of the best renditions of him I’ve ever done. He’s in there in slashing brush strokes. Crimson red and white, and then there’s the negative space in the shadows that creates the illusion of destruction. He’s a god in my painting.

Ares.

Fearsome. Insatiable. Dangerous.

“Magnificent,” I murmur in a daze as he walks within my line of sight. My mouth goes dry as I stupidly stare at him. He should be modeling, I think inanely. Underwear, jeans, skin maybe? It doesn’t matter so long as the option of much clothing is denied to him.

Only Maddox can turn a walk into a statement of sexual rebellion. Barefoot, and with a bare chest, he struts around his apartment with dark-rinsed blue jeans that hang low on his hips. Too low. He has his hair up in a ponytail, making his high cheekbones more pronounce, his stare more intense. I flush and duck my head when we lock eyes. The way he looks at me with such unrepentant thoroughness has me going up in flames. The scene in the library crashes on me like a monsoon. God, all the ways I let his glorious mouth and tongue feast on me. Thinking of it even now, hours later, and my body still tingles. It felt amazing because I wanted his touch. I still do.

“Say something?”

I hear his throaty chuckle. Shaking my head, I mutter, “No.”

“You hungry?”

He heads to the kitchen and I hear pots banging. Raising one knee up on the chair, I nod before setting my chin on it. “You cook?” I ask with a smile.

He grins wryly. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

“A little, yes.”

“I’m no culinary chef, but I’ve learned to make some pretty good stuff.” He gathers ingredients from the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer while he’s at it. “My mom…she was a great cook.”

Intrigued by the chance to learn even more about him, I ask, “Did she teach you?” I pray the question doesn’t cause him to retreat.

He takes a long swig from the bottle and then, “When she could.” He shrugs, setting his beer down on the counter to grab a butcher knife from the drawer beside where he’s standing. “It was one of the only things that made her really happy. She wasn’t happy a lot of the time. But when she was cooking…yeah, she came alive for a little bit.” There’s so much emotion in his voice, so much pain when he talks about her, even from here I can feel it.

I’m on my feet and at his side in seconds. I say nothing because sometimes silence is so much more profound than words. I simply rise on my toes to gently kiss his cheek before setting my head on his arm. And he lets me. We stay this way for a span of a small eternity. I stand as his crutch, letting him know I’m here for him, to give him whatever it is he may need. My reward, the only indication that he accepts my silent support and comfort is when he swings his arm around my shoulder. He gathers me close where I fit up against him so perfectly it astonishes me. Guiding my head to his chest, his one arm still firmly wrapping around my shoulders, he encircles my waist with the other and places the sweetest kiss on my head. My eyes fall shut and I sigh softly. Nothing and no one can take away this bliss from me.

We fall into a rhythm. He cooks while I chop and dice the ingredients he needs. It’s so natural the way we move around each other, so much so that it feels like we’ve been doing this for ages. He takes every opportunity to touch me, to kiss me. I feel wanted. And the happiest I’ve ever been. He stands behind me now, nuzzling my neck, rotating his hips so that I feel the thickness of his bulge between the crease of my buttocks. I moan, instinctively thrusting my hips back as I nearly chop my finger off.

“Careful, Aylee,” he tsks, taking the knife from my hands and setting it far away from me. “I like these fingers.” He breathes against my ear, and taking my hand, he brings my fingers to his lips and takes my index finger into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it and I quiver.

God, the things he does to me.

Releasing my finger, he takes my chin and turns my head up to gain access to my mouth. I taste the beer he just had. I taste the dark potency of his desire. I taste him. It’s a heady flavor that lingers on my tongue and coats my taste buds. He pulls away and leaves me breathless. Twitchy. In desperate need of something I can’t quite name. But it’s there, I know it, it’s just simply out of my reach. Like an itch you can’t scratch.