These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

Because as exposing as his gaze is, as naked as it makes me feel, I love it.

I love that he’s staring at my shoulders, which are decorated with flowers. I love that he’s watching my chest go up and down with rapid breaths. I love that his eyes take in the shine of my necklace, the little trails of my bracelets.

I love his eyes on me.

And I can’t wait to show him. More.

I can’t wait for his eyes on the rest of my body, that’s even more decorated — with his name — and hidden under my skimpy dress.

But all in good time.

For now, staring into his dark eyes, I say, “Your turn.” As eager as I am, I still stumble when I say the next words. “Could you take off y-your sweater for me please?”

I don’t know what I was expecting here.

Maybe I was expecting him to make a protest. Or maybe clench his jaw in that angry but delicious way of his.

But nothing happens.

His expression remains the same — as intense and watchful as ever — as he snags the back of his dark gray sweater, all sexily, and pulls it off in one go.

I swallow then.

I have to because my mouth has gone dry.

At the fact that when he took off his sweater, he rumpled his long-ish hair a bit and now the strands are hanging over his forehead, brushing the corners of his eyes and cheek.

At the fact that while I carefully dropped mine on his bed, he carelessly throws his aside.

A direct contrast to his very neat and organized habits.

Not to mention, I can finally see his shirt, of which only the collar was visible until now.

White and crisp.

“Uh,” I clear my throat. “You can take a seat now.” I motion with my chin. “On that armchair. Just behind you.” Then, “Please.”

He does that as well.

All gracefully and smoothly.

Although I’m not sure how because he doesn’t even look where he’s going. Because his eyes are still on me, all steady and staring as if he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do next. But somehow he simply, slowly sets himself down on that brown leather armchair with a high back.

And I swallow again.

Because again, my throat has gone dry.

At how kingly he looks right now. How godly. Sitting like that on his high-backed throne-like chair. With his jean-clad thighs sprawled, his large body slightly bent over as he rests his elbows on them.

And how even though he’s sitting and his face is dipped, his eyes are up and lifted.

On me.

God.

Okay.

Okay, I can do this. I can do this.

This is the easy part. Sketching him is the easy part. The rest, I will think about when the time comes. So I run my eyes over him and look at him objectively.

Like an artist would.

Thankfully his room has good lighting. In fact, the location that I’ve chosen for him sits directly in the path of that light, which means he’s glowing.

Perfect.

This is exactly how I want to draw him. All natural and effortless.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up my sketchpad that I already took out of my messenger bag and take a seat of my own on the edge of his bed. “Okay, this is good. I like the light in here. Just… hold the pose.” I flick through pages to get to an empty one. “If you start to get tired, let me know and we’ll stop. Although, it shouldn’t take long. All I’m trying to do today is get the pose down, do the big stuff. The details and everything will come later.”

Biting my lip, I take one last squinting look at him before I begin.

The room fills with the scratching of my pencil on the thick paper. The clinking of my bracelets when I get a little aggressive with the lines of his body. Or the chime of my necklace when I shift to get a better look at the shadows that are playing on his features.

In all of this, he sits there, all silent and unmoving.

My own personal Greek statue.

With animated eyes and an intense face.

He sits there and he lets me draw him.

For a long, long time.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when I finish getting the last — for now — of the angles and slopes of his bent body down or how he even knows that I’m done, but the moment I am in fact done, he speaks his first words.

“Show me.”

I look up at his raspy voice.

He’s still bent over, his eyes displaying the same quiet but heavy look, even though he clearly knows that I’m done and he can move.

I squirm in my seat. “Uh, it’s not done yet. We might still have to do like, a few more sittings. And then I have to do the colors and I need to get…”