Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(34)

"Shh," he said. It was curt, and it cut my babbling off immediately. I felt the tips of his fingers playing with the sole of my foot through the fine-knit wool, and I inhaled sharply. Slipping his thumb into the cuff, he slid it off my foot and threw it away. His fingertips returned to my sole, and traced a soft pattern. I started to pant. Then he set my foot down and treated my other leg to the same attention, though this time his fingers brushed past my pussy on the way to my thigh. Again he peeled my boot away, and again he ran his fingers over my feet. No man had ever paid such attention to the less important parts of my body before. It was as though he liked all of me, and not just the bits that gave him pleasure.

All of me gave him pleasure, I realized.

The thought shocked me, and it suddenly came to me through the haze of desire slowly building in me, that he wanted all of me. He didn't know me, but he wanted to know me. Every bit of me.

The realization frightened me, but it aroused me at the same time.

Then he set my other foot down, this time on his crotch, and I felt the bulge of his erection through his jeans.

"You don't know what you do to me," he said, looking up at my face. His voice dragged over my skin, as though all my nerves were raw and exposed. I swallowed and licked my lips and felt his cock jump in response to the action of my tongue.

His hands alighted on my waistband, and then he was unbuttoning my jeans, zipping them down, then reaching up and hooking his fingers into both my pants and panties. He slid the fabric over my hips, dragging his fingernails over my exposed ass as he took them off, and when he had to lift my foot from his cock he made a small sigh of sadness and loss.

My mouth went dry.

"Take off your bra," he said. "I want to study my canvas."

Shivers raced over my skin. Reaching behind me, I unhooked my bra and let it slide down my arms to fall to the floor. Malcolm stood and began to circle me.

I remained still, my head held high, wanting nothing more than to leap across the space between us, hook my legs around his waist, and ride him until I came over and over again. What was he doing to me?

Driving me just as crazy as he is, I thought. Maybe he was a bit mad. But it was a good sort of mad. The madness of artistry, the madness of genius. He finally stopped in front of me and reached out, his hands cupping my small breasts, lifting them up and running his thumbs over my nipples. My core quivered and I moaned softly at his touch.

"Sensitive there, are you?" he said.

I nodded.

"Good." He slid his warm hands up my chest to my shoulders, and then let his fingers drift down, down, down the back of my arm to my hands. Gently, he tangled his fingers with mine and led me over to the cloth in the center of the floor.

"Kneel," he commanded me, and I did so. The warmth of his palms sliding over my body guided me into the position he wanted, and I reveled in his every touch as he pushed my face down to the floor, stretched my arms out in front of me, arched my back so my ass stuck in the air. He lifted my heavy mass of hair and slid it over one shoulder, then traced his hands over my spine.

"You have many tattoos," he said after a moment. "I love them. You are a work of art."

No man had told me I was art before. I closed my eyes, praying he would paint me and then fuck me. I couldn't take the teasing much longer.

My exposed pussy quivered in the air, though the warmth of the room kept the caresses of the drafts from being uncomfortable. I ached for him. I ached for anything. I wished, suddenly, that I wasn't the passive canvas, that I could touch him as much as he touched me.#p#分页标题#e#

He knelt down beside me. "Your back is beautiful," he said. "You are exquisitely structured." The scrape of the table legs on the floor echoed around the studio as he dragged his materials over to himself. I heard the unscrewing of a cap and the rustle of his movements as he dipped a brush into the paint. Then he touched brush to skin, and I sighed in pleasure.

Slowly, torturously, he dragged the tip of his brush over my back, winding down my spine in spirals, wandering where it would. I had no idea what he was doing. My forehead touched the floor and I could only see his knees from the cave of my body, but whatever he was doing felt amazing. Swift, then slow, strong, then soft, he painted my skin. Occasionally he would dip the brush into the paint again, and I quivered, wondering where he would paint me next. I was never disappointed. First he painted the back of my thigh, then the curve of my waist. Then, finally, his brush found my breast. It curled under and over, circling my nipple, until I nearly moaned in frustration.

"Would you like me to touch your nipple?" he said. He sounded amused. "Nod if yes."