Chapter 8 #2
Apparently unsatisfied, he reached around me to mix paint until he had a deep purple hue. As he spread it beneath my poor depiction of the sun, I watched, utterly fascinated. All that teasing talk about his creativity with the stone, and he truly was an artist.
Reaching around me once more, Brey made a mess of the pots, added more paint to the canvas, then made a mess again.
All the while, his left hand remained a steady warmth on my hip.
I soon became far too aware of how close we were, and that we’d never been this close before.
Really, he wasn’t just close. He was everywhere.
His long hair brushed against strands of my own.
Each time I dared to look at his face, his nose almost touched mine.
His muscular thighs held me effortlessly, and when I leaned back…
His erection dug into my plump ass.
Torn between relaxing and jumping out of his lap to run from the parlor, I did neither. Instead, I asked a little snidely, “To what do I owe the pleasure this time, Majesty?”
“I’m curious,” he said, still painting. “Do you think I’m offended by your refusal to call me Brey?”
“I don’t know about offended.” I pretended to inspect my sky-blue nails. “But I certainly hope it annoys you.”
“Nothing done by you could annoy me.”
“A challenge.”
He huffed. “Any energy you expend on me feeds me in ways that would undoubtedly enrage you.” Softly, he dared, “So do your worst, lethal.”
My body heated as if touched by a midday sun.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him.
But Merciless Mother, I was irrefutably attracted to him. In my defense, I doubted there was a creature on this isle who wouldn’t be. I couldn’t fuck him. Doing so would mean surrender. Though maybe there were other ways to assuage this pesky hunger.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“In regard to why I’m visiting you?” When I just hummed, a smile stained his voice as he said, “To visit you.”
My lips wriggled.
With a roll of my eyes, I asked, “How many more chests does my father owe you?”
“He’s already paid in full.” Flicking the brush upward, he cocked his head. “All of that coin is now ours.”
Ours.
Before I could wholly grasp that, he said, “Tell me about these friends of yours.”
I watched him splatter orange paint in three places on the canvas, then I blinked and frowned. “Why do you want to know?”
“To better know you.” He gave my bland sun life with just a few well-placed yet seemingly careless brushstrokes. “You said you’ve been friends for a long time.”
“We have.” I gripped my damp skirts. “I met Adythe first. She couldn’t visit this evening as she lives near the city.”
“The other two are sisters,” he remarked. “Siblings among the born are becoming rare.”
Indeed, they were. Deedra and Clovia were the only ones born in this past century. “Despite their near-identical looks, they’re very different.”
“How do they differ?”
He’d witnessed how, but I humored him. “Deedra is the kindest vampire I’ve ever met.
Too kind.” I scrunched my nose. “Sometimes I think it’s better to have a cruel friend than one as malleable as she.
She’ll do anything to please anyone, and Clovia,” I said.
“Well, although she can certainly be cruel, she’s mostly just troublesome. ”
“She likes trouble?” Brey asked. “Or creating it?”
“Both,” I said.
“Tell me more.”
Maybe it was because I wanted to see what would become of my painting—his now—but I hesitated for only a moment before doing as he wished.
While I was absorbed in the sunset coming to life before me, he seemed wholly absorbed by my every word. He listened intently as I told him sordid and dramatic tales about this past season with my three friends.
When silence eventually fell, he asked, “And how might you fit?”
Having no idea how to answer that, I scowled at him. “I suppose I just do.” I followed his gaze to the canvas. “Fit, I mean.”
I refrained from saying that I’d made myself fit. Ceaselessly, I found ways to ensure that my friends never grew tired of spending time with me, and that I was never discarded—cast out, like some women had been.
“Clovia’s normally not so bad,” I said, though I didn’t know why I felt the need to. “You chose me, and she doesn’t take rejection well. With beauty such as hers, she’s not used to it.”
Brey wiped the brush with the cloth I’d used to scrub my dress. “She is very lovely.”
“Did you even consider her?”
“For ten minutes before I finally received word from your father about your availability.”
My spine pulled straight.
Evidently, harsh attempts to dissuade him would not work. So I tried for soft. “Brey, you could’ve had anyone.”
He set the paintbrush and cloth on the table. “Anyone is not what I hoped for.”
Confused, I reared back to glower at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means I hoped for you.” Long lashes lifted with his eyes. “When you failed to express interest, I expressed my own.”
My face fell.
I felt bare, marvelously and unbearably bare, as our eyes locked.
Needing to say something, to do something, I rasped, “This is hardly proper.” I cleared my throat. “Sitting like this.”
His eyes flared. “Do you enjoy being proper, lethal?”
Those words sank beneath my flesh and threatened to melt my bones. I stared at him, tried to glare at him, but I found myself shrugging. “Sometimes.”
“Well,” he murmured. “Now that there are more stools, you could certainly sit beside me instead.” His attention wandered to my mouth. “If you’re uncomfortable.”
A dare.
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m comfortable.”
“Are you?”
“Quite.” To return breath to my struggling lungs, I turned awkwardly toward the painting. Then, because the subject was in desperate need of changing, and because I was more curious than I wanted to be, I asked as I reached for the paintbrush, “And what about your friends, Majesty?”
He answered with ease. “There are none to speak of.”
The paintbrush stilled above the pot of white paint. “None?”
But that was impossible. Despite all his years in hiding, he was the king.
“None,” he affirmed.
After I dipped the brush into the paint, he pointed a long finger at the shore on the very bottom of the canvas. No longer worried about my lack of skill when he’d already seen it, I slid the brush along the edge.
“Such heights can create such loneliness.” Low words that stirred and tickled my hair, and I realized he’d sniffed it when he released a long exhale. “It’s one of the uncountable reasons I look forward to you joining me.”
Unable to even imagine living with him at Saltblood Palace, I couldn’t respond. I could barely endure staying seated on his lap, and offered him the paintbrush while thinking of an excuse to leave.
But he didn’t let me release it.
He clasped my hand over the wood and took me with him as he leaned forward to make the waves appear more frothy.
I wasn’t doing anything. It was all him.
I didn’t mind.
The warmth of his hand on mine and the insight into how his mind worked made me want insight into more. Far more than painting. The urge distracted, and I failed to notice his hand had left my hip until it settled over the soft swell of my stomach.
I pulled my hand free of his and arched a brow at him. “Cat indeed.”
With a smirk, he lifted the brush.
To put paint on my fucking cheek.
Aghast, I nearly toppled from his legs to the floor.
His hand firmed against my stomach, stilling me. “Looks like you have a little paint.” Using the brush, he gestured unnecessarily at my cheek. “Right here.”
His pleased half grin and heavy-lidded attention on my face caused an odd squirming in my belly. Regardless, I gave him an unimpressed look. “Really?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he set the paintbrush down on the easel. “Really.”
A fluttering sensation rushed through me as his thumb slid across my cheek. It warmed instantly beneath his slow touch.
“Won’t budge,” he murmured, leaning close to inspect it.
Then he licked my cheek.
Breath burned within my chest. I turned to stone, engulfed by his buttery-citrus scent and his inescapable nearness. As he eased back, our eyes caught, his own hooded and utterly feline. I wasn’t sure I was breathing.
Wasn’t sure it even mattered or why I needed to.
“There’s something I must confess.” So softly, it grazed like another touch on my skin, he said, “I’m not comfortable.”
“No?”
“No.” His head shook a little. “In fact, I’m in exquisite misery.”
Unsure if he was jesting, I searched those eerily beautiful eyes. Watched the dipping of his lashes create shadows above his steep cheeks before I raised a brow. “Then perhaps I should sit elsewhere.”
Gazing at my mouth like one would an open vein, he swallowed. “Or perhaps you could end my torment by allowing me to kiss—”
I kissed him.
Quick yet gently, I placed my mouth over his. I let it sit there while I savored his shock, his harsh intake of breath, and the silken feel of his lips.
But I wanted so much more.
I wanted to part his mouth with my own to taste the paint he’d licked from my cheek on his tongue. I wanted to know how he’d react to me biting his lower lip—if he’d groan or curse. I wanted to push my lips into his so hard that the punishing press spilled blood.
I wanted more so badly that it didn’t feel like want at all. It was, quite possibly, the most ruthless form of hunger I’d ever experienced.
Fear sprouted like thorns in my chest.
I drew back. Unwilling to let him see the conflicting feelings darkening my mind, I forced my lips to curl into a teasingly small smile.
“You,” Brey finished on a sigh.
As if they’d grown impossibly heavy, his lashes rose slowly to reveal those slit emerald eyes. They settled on my smile. His brows sat low in a slight frown, and his mouth remained parted.
He appeared dazed. Starving.
It thrilled me. So much so, I simply enjoyed the sight of him—and failed to anticipate his intentions. By the time he’d taken my face in his hands, callused thumbs glossing the crests of my cheeks, it was too late.