Page 98 of Watching Her

“Sometimes.”

“What a pity. A man of your experience and wealth so unhappy.”

“Who said I was unhappy, sweet Penelope?”

With every touch she offered, including now in the way she used a single finger to trace the thick cord in my neck, taking her time to roll it down the arm I was using, I found myself holding my breath.

“A woman always knows. You carry an aura of sadness carefully disguised as ruthlessness. You act as if you’re always daring anyone to cross you because you enjoy whatever response is required, no matter how severe or how brutal.”

I allowed the brush to guide me, enjoying the moment even as I was mulling over her insinuations. “I am ruthless, Penelope. I’ve done some things that in most traditional settings would be considered criminal, even heinous and without any level of guilt. I’m a dangerous man. There are those both in and out of the business who would call me a monster.”

“Monsters only exist in movies and books and in the darkest and most fervent reaches of our minds.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet Penelope. Monsters exist because people require them to be.”

“Your father.”

“As I said,” I whispered while brushing my knuckles across her heated cheek, “you’re very perceptive. Just be careful pulling away the layers. You might find what you’re looking for, but in doing so, you’ll also discover I’m right.”

That I was warning her about me surprised me more than almost anything. I’d never cared enough before to do such a thing. It would appear every aspect of my being around her was different.

“Perhaps you are very dangerous, yet you’re one of the most sensitive, sensual men I’ve ever met. That alone means you’re not completely devoid of a conscience. Did it ever occur to you that I might crave what you seem to fear you can’t control?”

“Is that so?”

She nodded several times, teasing me. Tempting me. Even putting me in my place. “Painting is a way of soothing your demons.”

“Are you suggesting painting is a weakness?”

“Of course not. But you need a way to quiet the rage.”

I pulled the brush away. “You’re far too astute. We all need an outlet, a release from pain.”

“You’re right. Reading was mine, but I can certainly understand why painting would be forever rewarding. A stunning painting lasts forever both in visceral ways and ones of the heart and soul.”

“Very deep,” I told her while cleaning the brush to select another color. “You should know something else about me, Penelope. I’m unapologetic about everything. I take what I want even if it doesn’t belong to me.”

Her smile was almost devious in intent. “Does that include people?”

“Absolutely. Especially people.”

“If you’re trying to frighten me, it’s not working.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you. I’m merely telling you the truth.”

I could tell she was mulling over what I’d just told her, choosing to ignore it. “I envy your talent. Both in painting and freeing your demons.”

“Would you like me to show you?” I slowly turned my head, even more attracted to her than I’d been before.

The delight in her face stilled me. “I would love that.”

“Come here.” I guided her in front of me, immediately placing my arms around her. As I lifted her hand, she partially turned her head until my lips were almost pressed against her cheek. Being this close was even more intimate than what we’d shared before. As soon as I placed the brush into her hand, she shuddered audibly. “A light touch is all that’s needed. Allow the bristles to do the work.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Feel the music in your fingers. Imagine what an author would be thinking when she wrote an intimate or difficult scene.”

I whispered the words in her ear, enjoying the closeness even more. Perhaps because she was in my full control. In my house. In my arms. In my bed.