Page 50 of The Lightkeeper

“I’m sorry,” I murmured and snuck by, but I was hardly a step inside when I stopped again, my jaw dropping at the paintings on the wall.

“Shit—” Kit ran into me, his hand locking on my waist. There was no mistaking the hardness pressed against my ass or the grunt of pain he let loose when he touched me. “Aurora?—”

“Sorry,” I apologized again with a shiver and walked to the center of the gallery, putting some space between us before I was on my knees in front of him where anyone could walk by and see.

There I took a slow spin, drinking in the sight of every painting that hung on the walls. Scene after scene—storm after storm—from the vantage point of the Friendship Lighthouse. I imagined Kit sitting on his stool while the rain and the waves raged outside.Alone.But there was one painting on the wall on the right, large and hung high, that captured the lighthouse itself, waves crashing against its mighty tower. And when I saw it, that was when I really felt what the paintings were about—not Mother Nature’s anger but his own.

Heat trickled down my spine, and I turned to find him watching me.

I’d recognized the sensation over the last few days when I’d feel that warmth when I was working outside, and I’d look up and see him checking on me through the window. His stare had the power to warm me through the cold, blustery ocean air.

And inside, we worked side-by-side, me making my notes and Kit working on his drawings, like embers waiting to ignite. And inevitably they always did. The catch of our eyes. The brush of our shoulders. That was all it took for my back to be at the wall, my hands pinned to my sides, while his mouth devoured mine.

Each day, I was tempted to look in his notebook—to see if his logs for the day before included all the ways he’d brought me pleasure. He had to be taking notes—studying each night—because every day the orgasms got more intense. Faster or slower, he commanded the storm inside me, deciding how much havoc it would create.

He had to be taking notes because I was, too.

I noted how he’d only let me pleasure him once he’d given me at least two orgasms. I noted which movements of my tongue along his cock made his big body tremble and which made his balls tighten. And I definitely made note of how intensely I could make him come by pushing my finger through the seam of his ass and teasing the rim of his tight hole.

But I also noted other things. Things like how his foot tapped when he drew something especially intricate. How he licked his lips and nodded to himself each time he got an area just right. How he never took his shirt off with me, which wasn’t necessary, but the few times I’d reached for it, I’d been ordered to leave it. How he always managed to keep me from touching his back. It didn’t make sense. He no longer shied when my fingers brushed the scar on his skull, but his back… there was still something he was keeping inside. Something he still wasn’t willing to share.

Maybe that was why our experiments hadn’t progressed to sex. Of course, there could be a variety of reasons for that, not the least of which was sex was another level. Something that would go beyond the idea of a test or trial.

“These are incredible,” I said and faced him.

He looked away. Humility was one more of his shields. “They’re alright.”

“Alright?” I laughed softly and shook my head. “There’s a reason you have a gallery, Kit. You’re amazing—theseare amazing.” I caught myself quickly. The last thing I wanted him to think was that our experiments would lead to emotion; I didn’t need any kind of warning to know how that would end.

He made a low noise—the one I recognized and translated as his best attempt at a thank you.

“I just have to leave this for Lou. She’ll handle everything else.” He made his way to the aged desk in the back and set the carrier on top.

“What made you start drawing?” I asked and slowly wandered back over to the largest painting of the lighthouse, a wave erupting against the tower as dark clouds loomed above. The depth of character in the shadows. The flecks of detail in the lighthouse. It was no wonder the man’s fingers could turn an orgasm into a work of art, they’d been creating masterpieces for years.

“The twins.”

“Oh?” My voice cracked, and I moved to the next painting, giving Kit my back so he couldn’t see how interested I was to know more.

“I watched them a lot when they were younger. Their dad was a piece of shit,” he revealed, anger edging his voice. “Basically left when he realized Mom was pregnant, so Jamie and I stepped in. Jamie helped Mom and Gigi with the business, and I entertained Frankie and Lou. They liked when I drew pictures and told them stories.”

“They still do,” I murmured, recalling how both the twins looked when Lou passed around her phone with Kit’s artwork on it. Everyone had looked with admiration, but the two of them… there was something more.

I felt Kit move closer to me, the tingles along my skin intensifying. And then came that grunt again.

“These are all storms you’ve seen?” The frame in front of me looked particularly frightening with the way the water crashed together, chewing up the shoreline like a hungry beast.

“Yeah.”

“Are you afraid?” I wondered. “When it storms like this?”

“No. Not these ones.”

But of others?

“I used to be afraid of thunderstorms when I was really little.” I adjusted my glasses.

“You? Afraid?” Kit stood at my shoulder now, one brow arched, and underneath his beard, the faintest shadow of a smile.

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