Helaine
He looked down at me with so much reverence in his eyes that I suddenly felt sorry for my canvases. When I painted for myself, I poured out all the hate and pain inside of me, projected in paint, wax, whatever medium I chose.
Evan though, as he trailed his hand down my body, smearing the colorful oil paint down my pale flesh, he looked at me like a work of art—like he did when he carved his roses into my skin, only . . . softer, without the lure of my dripping blood tempting him.
It made my heart flutter and my cheeks warm as I looked up at him, still coming down from the haze of the orgasm he’d given me.
His eyes were careful, thinking, as they remained locked on my body, until his gaze snapped to mine. His head tilted in question, his lips tugged into a playful curve.
“Would
