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

That’s the other reason why I went to Poe for a wardrobe consult

To rile him up a little.

His eyes go back and forth between mine. “That’s why you wore it, yeah?”

“Yes. And also because I’ll get to wear your clothes after.”

“Well, if you dressed up so prettily for me,” he says, his fingers still clutching and twisting my panties, “then it’s only fair I give you what you want. But I think I’ll keep my clothes this time.”

“Why?” I ask frowning.

“Because I think I prefer you naked. Only so I have something pretty and colorful to look at.”

He kisses me as soon as he finishes, and I come as soon as he touches his mouth to mine.

I still can’t believe how easy I am when it comes to him.

How easily he makes me come and fall apart.

But anyway, the next day he takes me to buy paint and supplies so I can start giving him a new home.

Which I hate to say that even after several weeks is still lagging behind.

I’m so freaking behind on my plans.

Because as much as I want to work on giving him a pretty picture of bold and colorful flowers, he just won’t let me do it.

He keeps distracting me.

Something that I never ever thought Conrad Thorne, the epitome of authority and control, would be capable of.

But every Saturday morning after we have breakfast — which I make because I’ve also decided to cook for him every chance I get because he really does suck at cooking — and I put on my baggy denim overalls to get to work, he comes into the room and watches me.

And it’s not a normal… watching.

It’s not as if he’s doing something while watching me. Like reading a book, for example, or something where every once in a while he’ll glance at me before going back to his actual activity, no.

He actually watches me.

He either stands at the door in his usual way, arms folded, or sits at the edge of his bed, bent over, his elbows resting on his spread thighs as he runs his eyes over my bejeweled and decorated arms or my exposed mid-riff in the bra-style crop top that I wear under my overalls.

And every second he’s there, watching me, I can’t think.

I can’t work.

I can’t even breathe properly.

And when I ask him what it is that he thinks he’s doing, he always tells me, “Staring at something colorful and pretty.”

Which always, always melts me and then there’s no point thinking about work.

What I need is to crawl over to him and kneel at his feet.

What I need is for him to unravel my topknot that I usually wear for work and set my Rapunzel hair free.

And then I get his dick out and suck on it. Suck on it and suck on it until I’ve taken him completely — I’ve been practicing — and until he goes so crazy that he fists my hair and pulls me off his rod. So instead of my mouth, he can stick it in my pussy, right there on the floor, among all the colors and paints.

But that’s not all.

That’s not the only time he distracts me.

He also distracts me when I’m painting him.

Which I’ve started to do a lot more, and that’s saying something because I already sketched him twenty-four seven.

These days though it’s more fun, because I don’t have to hide it from him anymore and because my creative juices are always at their most potent. Especially in bed, when he’s just made me come.

For some reason his orgasms act as an aphrodisiac.

The nectar of the creative gods.

They inspire me, his dick, his body, his kisses. They give me this epic itch, epic need to sketch and draw and fill the world with colors and confetti.

So I put some music on his phone — usually this one slow and sexy song about a girl who’s in love with this guy and she’s getting drunk with him as she counts constellations like freckles on his body — and turn to my favorite thing to draw: him.

Oh, and I also get to pose him.

Yes!

I get to pose the man I’m in love with.

I get to play with his hair, all messy and pretty after our lovemaking. I get to move it, style it, arrange it over his forehead however I like. I get to tell him to sit back on the white pillows, his chest bare and sweaty, the ridges of his abs expanding and contracting with his breaths, his thighs spread under the white sheets.

Sometimes I ask him to put his arm over his head, stretching the sculpted muscles of his pecs and tightening his biceps. And sometimes when he doesn’t do it right, I go in and arrange him myself. Actually, I arrange him myself even when he does it right.