Free Once Upon A Killing (A Gass County Novel Book 2) by Isabell Lawless Page B

she stepped backwards slightly shameful. Pulling strands of hair back over her head, behind her ears, looking everywhere but at his obviously amused smile.
    “Thank you,” he mumbled happily and pulled his jeans up into decent order before running his large hand over the dark fabric on his thigh, still damp with her moisture. “You know,” he said softly caressing the dampness. “I wouldn’t mind walking around with this until these pants fall off by old age. It’s still warm, of you,” he mumbled and eyed his own hand moving up and down his thigh. “And I love it. It makes the skin underneath warm and tingly.” His eyes twinkled with naughtiness.
    “You want to come in, I mean farther than the entryway?” Interruption was the best distraction technique until she could get some control over her shameless thoughts of what to do with him next, and how she could get those fingers inside her once more.
    “After you, miss.” With his hand gesturing for a house tour she smoothed out the dark fabric clinging even tighter as her increased body heat made the gown feel more like a snake skin she desperately needed to shed. She knew he was watching her every move, walking tightly behind her. Close enough to feel the swift flow of his exhale on her upper back when she slowed down or stopped to show him different parts of her home. Everything from the open kitchen with its remodeled marble countertops and open floor plan, to the living room’s deep couch and large fireplace.
    From the far wall of the living room went an exceptionally steep, but wide, wooden stairway, up to the second story of the old house. There the soft coffee colored carpet had replaced the wooden floors from below, and led them both towards the master bedroom on the right and a smaller room to the left.
    “What’s in here?” His body motioned in the direction of the closed door before she could stop him. “Oh, this is beautiful,” he whispered. “I never would have guessed.”
    The smaller bedroom had for long been reserved as a temple of retreat when grief had knocked on the door and crashed into life as a dark hand, grabbing her by the throat in an attempt to suffocate her mind.
    “These are… these are very colorful. Cheerful.” His fingers grazed the top of each and every painting leaning in rows against the wall. She had stacked them, just to make room for more, but the frequency of her production had lessened as time passed.
    His fingers continued to graze each canvas dressed rectangle, moving them around, picking them up, studying each as their own masterpiece.
    “There are so many,” he said. “Why don’t you hang them up? I’ll help you” His eyes went from painting to painting as someone in absolute elation finding a long lost treasure of Picassos or Monets.
    “I paint as therapy, and when my session is over, so is my time with my painting. Some are finished, some are not, but they’re all still here.” Her shoulders shrugged and again her arms crossed her chest, hugging herself, shutting everyone else out.
    “But these are – amazing doesn’t cover it. Remarkable. You,” he turned, holding a large square shaped painting of running, wild Mustangs in a large field of swaying yellow grass, “have an aptitude for capturing moments.”
    “Oh,” a slight embarrassment tickled her cheeks and made her hand touch the blank, ready-to-go, canvas standing in front of her. “I’m sure most people can create things, or paint. Maybe you enjoy that too?”
    “I merely want to paint you.” His lips played with amusement again, while he lowered the painting back onto the soft carpet, leaning it against the others.
    “Using this?” She held a thin paintbrush between her delicate fingertips, grazing the empty white canvas with the other.
    “No,” his voice a low purr.
    “Then what?”
    “Using this.” His eyes drilled straight into hers before he opened his lips and let the tip of his tongue flicker against his upper