Page 101 of Saving Grace

“What are we doing with those?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, simply sending his fingertips over my neck, down my sternum. My gaze follows his hands as they gently work my body. I stand, heart thumping against my ribs, breaths shallowing out. Snapping up a brush, he dips it into the water sitting in the jar by the easel and flips the lid of the watercolors open. “Which color, gorgeous?”

“You choose,” I breathe.

He eyes the palette of dulled blues, greens, yellows, and reds, then swirls the bristles through the lightest blue. The brush hovers in front of my chest, like he’s hesitating. A thought about my wellbeing no doubt holding his mind hostage. I snatch upthe handle, claiming it back. “I need the rest of these clothes off, Mackinlay.”

He studies my gaze for a moment before working the buckle of his belt and letting the Wranglers fall. Next the boxers go, freeing his hard length, making my mouth water. “I’m dirty, Gracie. Needin’ a shower.”

“Better make it worth your while then...” I trace the brush over his shoulder and down his biceps, into the crease of his elbow and down his ropey forearm. A flood of goosebumps trails over his skin as the brush moves. I can tell he’s itching to touch me. But I’m going to take my time. Make the most of this moment and make certain it becomes a memory I’ll never want to lose.

The bristles dry out and the light blue fades out with the next stroke. I replenish the paint and pick up where I left off. Blue trickles over Mack’s chest as I move the tip of the brush over each angle, every plane of his body that does something to me. He stands still as ever as I let the tip trail downward.

The bristles bump over the ridges of his six-pack, above the defined V, and his body tenses, chest heaving, hooded dark blues homed in on my face. Beautifully wrecked. The words I would choose to describe Mackinlay Samuel Rawlins in this very second. I refresh the blue again and this time send the head of it over the V, slowly.

A strand of hair falls into my face as I lean down to capture the deep angle. I blow it away and run my bottom lip through my teeth. A growl from above my head sees me swinging my gaze upward.

Rough hands have my hips in a tight grip before I can read the emotions filing through those dark eyes, tugging at my hip. The side buttons of my overalls are released. Both sides. I fight back the smile trying to win over my face at the hungry desperation on his.

This.

This is what it feels like to be wanted.

Needed.

Desired.

Something I thought I would never have.

His hands close around the buckles at my breasts, and I slide my own over them.

“Mack,” I whisper.

I’m crushed against him instantly. His forehead presses above my brow, ragged breaths shattering over my face. “Yeah?”

“Take what you want. No gentle.”

Lord, my words barely make sense.

He knows what I mean. He tugs the straps over my shoulders and shoves the denim to the floor and rips my ratty old t-shirt from my body. I stand in nothing but the yellow lingerie that has become our favorite as he draws me up onto his hips, smashing his mouth to mine. A few short strides and I’m on the table by the door, his tongue working me over in long, delicious strokes. I return them, hungry for this man who woke me up. Breathed life into my timid, beaten-down soul.

He pulls back, taking me in for a moment.

“Fuck, Gracie,” he growls.

“Please, Mackinlay. Don’t make me beg . . .”

I palm my breasts, knowing exactly what it will do to his control.

Rough hands snap around the backs of my knees, dragging me toward him. He dips his head and nips my nipple. The sting is followed by a long, slow, sensuous suck that lifts me, arching my body off the table with a heady moan. The clasp of my bra releases. The synthetic material burns my skin as he rips it away. The panties go next. Not caring to look, he tosses them away, and they land on the corner of the easel.

I pull him down to me, wanting his mouth on me, my lips, my skin. I don’t care. His cock rubs into my already throbbing clit. Blood sinks, pooling delicious heat deep in my belly. I pinch a nipple and slide my hand down my stomach toward the ache. Needing to see him watch me touch myself. Wanting him to unravel even further as I do.

Nostrils flaring, he stands upright, making space for my hand. Lips parted, breaths too quick, he watches as I circle a finger over my clit. Lightning floods my limbs with the slightest touch to the oversensitive apex. I arch again, and a whimper slips out.

Something thuds on the floor. My hand is batted away. His warm tongue sweeps through my center. I’m fucking soaked. If I wasn’t as wound up as Mackinlay right now, I might be embarrassed. The fact he does this to me. I do that to him. Nothing ever felt more right. His lips close around my clit, and I grip the edge of the table, trembling with every suckle, every movement he makes. The jars of water and mixed paints on the table wobble.

“So fucking wet for me, gorgeous girl. I’m not going to be able to control myself.”

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