“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs in between flicking at my ear with his tongue, “neither am I.”
“I meant with the discussion. Your art—”
“My art is the last thing I want to talk about right now.” To prove it, he cups my breasts in his hands, his palms smearing the paint as he squeezes my nipples just to the point of pain. “It’s nothing compared to yours. Nothing compared to you.”
“No—”
“Yes,” he grinds out. “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then his hand is on my face, his fingers stroking down my cheeks, leaving small streaks of red paint in their wake. “Look,” he says again. And waits, patiently, until my eyes meet his in the mirror.
“Your eyes slay me. So blue and infinite, sometimes I swear I can sink into them if I stare long enough. I can never tell what you’re thinking, never know exactly what that twisty brain of yours is thinking up. It frustrates me even as it gets me off.”
His words slam through me like a wrecking ball, ratcheting up the need inside of me until it’s all I can think about, all I can feel. Even before he moves his hand lower, rubs his thumb over my lips.
“And your mouth. I love the color of your lips. Love this little dip right here.” He pauses at the deep bow in the center of my top lip. “You’d be shocked if you knew how much time I’ve spent these last few days fantasizing about your mouth wrapped around my cock. Even when you were on your knees in front of me, taking me deep, all I could think about was when I could do it again. And again. And again.”
I shudder then, my head thrashing back and forth against his chest as everything inside of me grows taut and trembly. I’m close, so close, just from the sound of his voice. Just from the sensual promise of his words.
“I love the way you mouth off to me. The way you always give as good as you get. Every time you call me on my shit my dick gets hard and all I can think about is burying myself deep inside of you.”
Fuck. I’m so close. So freaking close. My eyes drift closed as I start to drown in the pleasure, but Hunter isn’t having it. “Open your eyes,” he commands, a dark note in his voice that has me instinctively following his directions.
“I love your skin,” he continues. “How soft and sweet it is. It’s why I kiss you so much, because I love to taste you—all strawberries and cream and sweet, bubbling champagne.” He leans forward, trails his tongue over my shoulder. Plays connect the dots with the scattering of freckles there.
It tickles and I giggle a little despite the scorching heat that’s pulling me under. Drowning me in sensation. “I also love your laugh,” he tells me with a wicked grin. “Almost as much as I love these.”
He moves his right arm down so that it’s banding my breasts, plumping them up. He cups my left breast in his hand, strokes my paint-encrusted nipple for long, breathless seconds.
“And this.” His left hand slides over my stomach—and the exotic stems he’s painted there—to cup my sex, his middle finger sliding through my folds while his bent index finger circles round my clit.
Heat licks through me, makes my knees tremble and my skin ache with sensitivity. With desperation. Again, I start to turn in to him, and again he stops me with his voice. With his possessive hold, which is claiming every single piece of me.
“Look,” he urges again, his voice somehow, impossibly, deeper than before.
I do, and all I see is him. Hair tousled, jaw coated with a few days’ dark stubble, green eyes glowing like lasers as he looks me over. Bronze skin. Huge, strong, talented hands. He’s the most beautiful—the most perfect—thing I’ve ever seen.
Another time, the realization might have scared me. But right here, right now, it feels perfect. More, it feels right.
“Do you see?” His voice is pure gravel now.
I nod against his chest. My voice has deserted me.
“Say it. Tell me you understand.”
“I see you.” Each word is a razor blade slicing the inside of my tight, dry throat. “I see us.”
“Thank God.” He pushes in front of me, sinks to his knees. “Keep watching,” he urges as he spreads my legs and licks his way through my already drenched folds.
“Hunter,” I gasp, my hands clutching at his shoulders in an attempt to keep my already unsteady legs from buckling completely.
He must hear the desperation in my voice, because he braces his hands on my hips and lifts me onto the vanity. Then he brings my feet up to rest inches from my ass, urging me to let my knees fall open even as he does so. I’m wide open to him now, completely vulnerable, underscoring the fact that I trust him. Underscoring the fact that, somehow, after only a few times I am completely and totally his.
“Keep looking,” he growls, gesturing at the full length mirror hanging directly in front of me. Then, when he’s assured that my eyes are wide open, he pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks gently.
My head falls back on a moan, my eyes closing because I don’t have the strength to keep them open for one more second. But Hunter won’t be swayed that easily. “Look,” he says again, and I do, forcing my eyes open despite the near-blinding pleasure.
It’s the most shockingly intimate thing I’ve done, but I don’t stop him. And I don’t look away. Instead, I watch him going down on me. Watch him taking me with his hands and lips and tongue. My own hands clutch at his shoulders and hair, my hips arching into his mouth as my need for release grows more and more desperate.