All It Takes (Romancing Manhattan 2)

“Maybe they just wish they had the same talent that you do.”

She tilts her head, thinking it over. “Maybe. It’s a shame that we mock what we wish we had, isn’t it?”

“Human beings do a lot of things that are shameful.”

Like lie to their girlfriend about her asshole of an uncle.

She wipes her hand on her thigh, just under the hem of her shorts, and leaves a white streak of paint on her skin.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything so sexy in all my life.

For the next thirty minutes, we paint in silence. Sienna with sure strokes, confident lines, and me just trying to do my best.

The third time she wipes paint on her skin, this time on her chest just under her collarbone, I can’t stand it anymore.

I set my paints on the table next to my easel, turn to her, and run my brush from the ball of her shoulder to her elbow.

Rather than gasp and freak out, which is exactly what I’m expecting her to do, she cocks an eyebrow, and stares down at the paint, then up at me through those black-rimmed glasses.

“Did you just paint me?”

“You’re much more intriguing than the canvas.”

She bites her lip, turns to me, and paints a blue line down my jaw. “You’re right.”

I load my brush with red paint this time, and make a heart in her cleavage, and then it’s on.

I’ve forgotten all about the canvas, and I’m focused completely on the amazing woman before me.

“Take your shirt off,” I command, not leaving room for argument. She complies immediately, and I swirl the paint over her puckered nipples, making them stand tall. Her skin breaks out into goose bumps.

“That’s cold,” she whispers. “But it feels . . . good.”

Her body is magical. She smells like vanilla and spice, and her skin is smooth and soft. She’s curvy in all the right places, and firm in others. She’s every fantasy I’ve ever had, and exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for.

“I’ll never get tired of exploring you,” I murmur, letting my brush trail over her shoulder to her back as I walk around her. “You’re stunning, Sienna.”

She sighs as I unfasten her shorts and let them pool around her feet and continue to paint her skin, drawing patterns on her ass cheeks, her back, down her legs.

I’m careful to leave her core clean.

“Do I get to paint you now?” she asks breathlessly, making me grin.

“You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Rather than turn to me and start brushing paint over me, she drops her brush to the floor, turns to me, and launches herself into my arms.

I don’t care that she’s getting paint all over me, I only care that she’s pressed against me, and I’m going to be inside her in about fourteen seconds.

Her fingers dive into my hair, fisting and releasing, brushing through the strands as she digs her fingernails into my scalp, sending me straight to heaven.

Before Sienna, I wouldn’t have called myself an affectionate man.

Now I can’t get enough of her touch.

“Want you,” she murmurs against my lips. “Bedroom.”

“Too far,” I breathe and moan when she sinks her teeth into my earlobe and tugs. “Fucking hell, you make me crazy.”

“Back at you, ace.”

Chapter Twelve

~Sienna~

Holy Christ.

Maybe this wasn’t a great idea because now I don’t know how I’ll ever come into my studio and not think about Quinn’s hands all over my body.

He’s making me crazy, in the best way possible.

And who knew that brush bristles felt like that? I didn’t. And now I do.

And holy hell.

“Stop thinking,” he mumbles against my neck just before he nibbles his way down to the top of my shoulder. “Just feel.”

“Oh, I’m feeling,” I reply. I can’t resist plunging my fingers into his hair again. It’s dark and thick, longer on top than the sides, and it feels like silk between my fingers.

He pins me against the wall, my hands above my head and pressed to the wall above, as his mouth takes a journey down my neck, careful to avoid where he’s painted me. I try to hitch my leg over his hip, but he won’t stop moving.

“Just enjoy, sweetheart,” he says.

“I’m squirmy.” There’s no other way to describe it. I can’t stay still. I need to move against him.

Suddenly, he lifts me into his arms and carries me out of the bright studio to my kitchen, sets me on the island, spreads my legs, and squats before me.

“Whoa, change of venue,” I mutter, getting my balance.

“I don’t want you on the floor.”

I frown down at him. “I’m already dirty.”

“I don’t want you on the floor,” he repeats, voice firm. His hands are gliding up the inside of my thighs until his thumbs touch over my lips. “Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?”