Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“What is that?”
Matteo rinses our plates before filling the sink with sudsy water. “My brothers dropped that off when your brothers brought supplies to last us another week… or ten.” My heart warms. “There’s no rush, Azra. We can stay here forever if that’s what you want.” He hooks his thumb to the overflowing woven basket. “The drawing stuff is from Camille, and all the girlie shit is from Valentina and Lucia. I have no fucking clue who the tutu is from.”
My cheeks hurt from the rapid incline of my smile. “It’s also from Camille.” I carefully pluck it out of the hamper before holding it up against myself, smiling when Matteo gags. “I told her I’d wear a tutu all day if I had one as pretty as the one she was wearing. This is identical to the one she was wearing.”
He shakes his head, amused. “That kid worships you.”
Happiness spreads across my chest. I love how thoughtful his family is, and I am warming to my brothers’ unexpected support. We’ve been eating like kings on food they bought, but not one of them encroached on my personal space when they delivered it.
That was unheard of only months ago.
My fingers brush the sketchbook, and a familiar ache stirs in my chest.
“Matteo?” I say softly.
He slots a soapy plate into the drying rack, then twists his head to face me. “Yeah?”
“Can I draw you?”
Drawing was one of my greatest loves. When I was a teen, it was second only to Hattie. It won’t hold a light to Matteo, but the thought of doing something I once loved without feeling guilty seems like the right direction to continue finding myself.
Matteo’s expression shifts between awe, surprise, and something tender. “You want to draw me?”
As my teeth catch my lower lip, I nod.
“Should I change?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper. “You’re perfect like that.”
Barefoot and shirtless, with the soft morning light on his skin, is pure perfection.
There’s only one way the visual could get better.
“If not a little overdressed.”
Matteo cocks a brow as a devilish smile crosses his face. “How about we start with my torso, and if things go well, we’ll look at other options. I don’t want to rush you.”
Stealing my chance to reply, he sits on the couch, leans back, then watches me with an eagle eye that makes me sweaty.
Opening the sketchbook, I pick up a pencil and start. The lines come slowly at first since my hands are a little shaky, but the longer I draw, the clearer everything becomes.
Over the next hour, I pay extra attention to his cut jawline, the curve of his mouth, and the shadows of his collarbone. I’ve never drawn a live subject before. I usually worked on objects or the movie stars that Hattie and I had clipped from magazines.
It feels almost too personal, like my tongue hasn’t traced the bumps I’m currently shading or seen the way they contract and release when he uses every muscle he owns to bring me to ecstasy. I’ve never felt so hot and bothered, and it’s not connected to how, stroke by stroke, I find parts of myself I lost years ago.
My grief was ugly, but this—him—is so beautiful it hurts.
The ache announces it’s time to stop running from old memories and start making new ones.
“You need to lose the pants.”
“Excuse me,” Matteo says, head angled as if he’s hard of hearing.
He heard me. I know he did. Not only did his breath hitch, but the crotch of his sweats became snug.
“Pants, Ruso. Lose them. Now.”
I take a mental note to go back and add more white shading to his eyes when they sparkle brightly as he murmurs, “Yes, ma’am.”
I’ve seen him naked more times than I have fingers and toes, but when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and drags them down his thighs, my pussy clenches. One man shouldn’t possess so much sexiness. It should make him the most arrogant, insensitive jerk in the world, yet that logic skipped Matteo.
He’s gorgeous, his body is divine, and his cock should come with its own zip code, but his heart is the biggest and most beautiful thing about him.
I can’t let him know that yet, though. He doesn’t need words to hear my thanks. He needs to feel my appreciation.
“Now wrap your hand around your cock.”
“’Cuse me?” He either genuinely didn’t hear me this time, or he’s in shock. “Have you heard of manners?” he says, and I realize it’s a bit of both.
“Wrap your hand around your cock… please.”
His hand barely moves for his cock before he drags it back away. “Can’t. If I touch my cock, I’ll think of you. If I think of you, I’ll want to touch you. If I touch you, even a little, I won’t stop anytime soon. You’re not ready for that yet.” I scoff, but he acts ignorant. “You’re close. My little tiger is in there, waiting to break free, but you’re not there yet—”