Chapter 30
I’m going to have a panic attack if he doesn’t stop staring at me. It’s disconcerting to look at him over my shoulder in the cracked bathroom mirror. I have plans to renovate the small, cramped space, making it much bigger, but it’s low on the to-do list.
Now I wish I had renovated it earlier because it needs to be bigger, much fucking bigger.
It’s too small, and Stone’s body heat is too warm against my back.
I feel the rugged ridge of his dick in the crack of my ass.
It’s thick, and my body is gearing up for a spontaneous orgasm.
I close my eyes and pray for control. I should tell him to get out, that I don’t need a damn babysitter to help me wash my hands, but my mouth is closed, sealed shut.
My eyes, on the other hand, are wide open, cataloging every inch of him.
The garish overhead light reveals every plane of his face.
The whitish scar that bisects his left eye.
That small heart tattoo under his eye. The knife inked on the side of his face.
Even his piercings have my attention. The rings in his lips.
The studs in his eyebrow. The sprinkles of gray hair at his temples.
And give me strength, the scruff on his jaw.
I want to feel it so bad, but I curl my fingers inward, digging them into my palms. Nope.
Don’t you dare touch him, Camryn. He’s all over the place, remember?
Giving you hot looks and cruel put-downs.
Don’t fall for it. You got rid of Reed, remember?
Don’t shop around for another asshole. The store is closed!
He crosses his arms and stares at me, raising one thick, sexy eyebrow that I now see has gray hairs in it, too.
Well shit. That’s hot. And don’t get me started on his damn stance that highlights the breadth of his shoulders.
I feel caged in. His inked biceps bulge.
My eyes travel to his forearms in the mirror.
I swallow because the entire length of his arm is covered in veins.
When he opens his arms and rests his palms on either side of the sink.
Hot skin touches mine, and I tremble. The sound of water rushing through the faucet makes me glance down.
He removes his rings, slowly pulling them off one by one.
His fingers are thick, and his rings look huge.
I wonder if I should tell him I have one.
The skull-shaped one he wore on his forefinger the night we first met, that is now buried in my panty drawer, where I slip it over my finger and fuck myself until my clit is raw.
I shiver, eyes locked on the very fingers I fantasize about. I shift, my pussy getting wetter.
Each ring is set carefully on the edge of the sink.
Snake-shaped rings with ruby eyes. Thick chunky rings, ones that look like hammered metal.
The one that catches my eye the most is an owl’s head.
The eyes are a mesmerizing golden color.
Topaz. I want to touch it, but I keep my damp hands to my sides.
He slowly pumps the soap from the dispenser.
The foam builds on his palm, and he rubs both hands together.
The wet sounds are loud in the room. Obscene.
I should keep my eyes away from those thick, blunt-tipped fingers that are covered in tattoos.
Memento Mori is spelled letter by letter on each finger.
It sounds Latin, and I remind myself to look it up later.
There’s also the name Ivory just under his knuckles.
I wonder who she is. His ex? His current girlfriend?
I frown, wondering if that’s why he turned me down.
Maybe he has a woman whom he fucks regularly?
I can’t stop the burst of jealousy coursing through me at the idea that some other woman gets his aggressiveness, his potency.
His hands slide through the running water, rinsing the suds away slowly. When he puts back on his rings, I watch like a stalker. Wet hands slide down my arms and find my tightly closed fists. He drags them up and under the stream of warm water.
“Open, Countess.”
He breathes the word against my temple as he watches me in the mirror, and I detect the same scent I smelled before. A combination of tart and sweet flavors, with a distinct smokiness. His words feel like a double entendre. My breaths feel like enormous bellows of air.
Open your mouth.
Open your legs.
Open your pussy.
Every potential command is intoxicating. “I already washed them,” I protest.
“You missed some.”
The pressure on my wrists is almost too much.
His strength is right there. He could crush my bones.
We both know it, and for some reason, the implication of pain doesn’t scare me.
His thumb twirls dizzying patterns over my pulse, which must be lightning fast. I open my fist and he soothes the inner skin, running his thumbs over the crescent moons in my palms.
The bottle of honeysuckle oil I use to remove stubborn paint stains.
He lifts the dropper and releases the clear liquid all over my hands, massaging it into my skin.
It immediately makes the paint drops. And scrub with a washcloth.
I leave for clean-ups. Scrub the stubborn paint from last night and today.
“Lonicera sempervirens L.”
“Huh?”
“The oil. Honeysuckle.”
He touches the back of my hand, touching the shiny surface. He brings his thumb to his nose and sniffs.
“You have scars on your hands.”
Blinking away at his words, I stare down at his hands next to mine. The size difference. The plain skin on my hand and the bone tattoos on each finger. The words Memento Mori cover the back of both hands. I take note of it all, memorizing each tattoo, ready to study them later.
“Sometimes I cut myself when I’m working. A razor. Or pieces of metal when I use them in my art. Glass. You name it, I’ve been cut by it.”
“A knife?”
Stone traces the scar almost reverently, scraping his fingernail over the raised skin.
I try to pull my hand away, getting way too turned on by his touch, but he won’t let me.
He pumps the soap in his hand and spreads the slippery bubbles all over my fingers, scrubbing slightly at the dried dots of paint.
His fingers are calloused. Roughened skin scrapes along my palm and between my fingers.
He alternates between rough and smooth. Done, he turns off the water and leans forward.
Tingles erupt all over my body when he leans forward, pushing me against the sink.
He tears strips of paper towel off the roll and wraps it around my hand, patting it dry.
I spot the white paint coating the end of my braid and my arm and neck. “Shit.” I wipe, trying to remove old acrylic paint that must be from last night, rubbing it off with my wet fingers.
“Turn around.”
Stone picks up my heavy plait and brings me closer, leading me. My scalp tingles from the pull, and seeing my braid wrapped around his fist is straight out of my spank bank.
“What are you doing?”
Stone doesn’t answer me, but instead picks up the tip of my braid and puts it in his mouth. Shock holds me frozen. I look at him when he puts the plait in my mouth and slowly wets the tip of my braid with his mouth, sucking on the tip.
He groans, and my breath catches hearing that deep rumble. Holy. Shit.
Somehow, he removes the rubber band from the end, sliding it on his finger, while his other hand unravels my hair, leaving the waves hanging over my shoulder.
My brain stops working. He smooths the now-wet paint chips with his fingers, removing each particle.
I watch, trapped by the sight of his tattooed fingers moving slowly between strands, finding the paint.
It should be gross and disgusting, but it’s sexy and hot.
Stone rinses the washcloth and brings it to my face, running the warm terry cloth fabric along my bare arms, then up to my neck and across my collarbone, removing the paint splatters.
It’s slow and sensual. He watches my skin the entire time, his brows furrowed in concentration.
When he reaches my cheek, his eyes meet mine.
The silence between us is heavy, erotic.
Just the gentle swipe of the cloth over my skin is making it hard for me to think.
I shiver at the cooling sensation, goosebumps popping out on my skin.
The wet slop of the washcloth lands in the sink behind me, and I don’t stop him from re-braiding my hair.
He’s quick, and I wonder about his expertise. Who did he practice with?
He pulls the rubber band off his finger using his teeth.
The small, black, circular band is positioned between his white front teeth.
He pulls it off and twists it, looping it around the end.
The heavy braid hangs, brushing my nipple.
A little moan escapes my lips, and his eyes flare.
I want to touch him so badly, but I keep my hands locked behind me.
My fingers ache from their hold on the edge of the porcelain sink.
I blurt out the question I need him to answer.
“Will you do it? Will you pose for me?” I hold my body still. I want him to say yes. I need him to say yes. He steps back, and I exhale the breath I was holding.
“Make sure you lock up.”
With that, he leaves the room, and I bend at the waist, stunned at what just happened, at the way I was ready to pull down my pants and let him do whatever he wanted without any acknowledgement of the repercussions.
I want to call him back, but I’m too embarrassed that I just moaned like a hussy because the man touched my skin with his calloused fingers.
And why is he teasing me, testing me like this, taunting me with his sex appeal?
Angry with myself, I scrub my hands again.
I need to get his touch off my skin. I keep getting lured into these moments.
The night at the club, where I thought there was something.
Then again tonight. He’s like a tornado, and I’m ill-equipped to deal with him and the fallout.