Page 11 of The Sculptor

“I’ve heard patience can be very rewarding.” I drag my palms up her abdomen and cup the base of her tits. “And very inspiring.”

Her head falls back with a groan. “Keep it up, Potter. I won’t be so generous when it’s my turn.”

Oh, the sweet threats of someone with the self-control of a mustard seed…

“I don’t recall saying you could drop your arms.” I kiss the arm next to my head, which contains a bottle of paint. “Get it up, Sunny-Ray. I won’t tell you again.”

I knew calling her Sunny Ray would bring her back to reality. “Don’t call me that. It’s silly. I’m not your ray of sunshine.”

That’s precisely what she is. All that sarcasm and warmth hits me right in the chest. No matter the day I’m having, just seeing her brings life to my cold heart.

“You’re stalling.” I tip my chin at her breast. “I need more paint.”

Her lips flatten in disagreement. “Trust me. You have enough color there to repaint a house.”

“Who’s the artist right now?” I move my hand up and roll her nipple between my fingers. “I think that’s me, right?” Her head tips forward, her knees buckling, before she catches herself.

“Yeah,” I tease victoriously, “that’s what I thought. Now, be a good assistant, and give me more paint, like I asked.”

Lifting her head, she levels me with a look that promises payback I’m all too excited to endure. “I can’t even tell what you’re painting.”

That’s because I’m not painting anything. I am merely rubbing as much paint on her tits as she’ll let me. “You were the one who wanted me to paint you,” I argue, like this entire situation is her fault.

“Yes, but only because you said you were tired of being my canvas!”

I flash her a smirk that clearly relays that I’m a sneaky bastard. When this woman asks if she can paint something on my chest, I can’t get my shirt off fast enough. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take advantage of her generous heart and guilt her into allowing me to rub paint on her boobs.

After all, fair is fair.

“Can you blame me?” I ask, catching the liquid paint she squirts just above my fingers. “You were having all the fun. I wanted a turn.”

I pinch her nipple again, wetting my fingers with the paint. She squirms but doesn’t try moving away this time. Instead, she stands there, absorbing everything I do to her. Rubbing, pinching, cupping, I move the paint everywhere before I meet her gaze again. “Eyes on me, Ray. I don’t want you to miss this.”

Her throat bobs, and she nods like I’m about to do something seriously amazing. But I’m not an artist like her. I can only drag my finger over her heart and make two teardrops that connect at the bottom—a heart.

She looks down, and the most radiant smile emerges. “It’s perfect.”

She traces the heart with her finger and leans down, pressing her nose to mine. “I’ll keep it—”

“I’ll keep it a secret.”

Her voice pulls me back to the present—my hands on her tits, but not in the same way they were years ago.

“What?” I don’t even try to hide that my mind was a million miles away.

She flashes me a grin, seeming to grow bolder when my nerves increase. I might know every inch of these breasts, but the situation isn’t the same as it once was. She belongs to another man now.

She’s no longer my ray of sunshine.

“I said,” she lowers her voice, “You don’t have to do this. We can make up something to tell Langston. I can keep it a secret if you can.”

My eyes narrow. “You, of all people, know I can keep a secret.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” She sighs. “Just do what you need to do, Dr. Potter.”

Her dismissal stings, but not as much as the flash of ink peeking out from where her dress is pooled at her hip does. “And what exactly are you doing, Ms. Ford?” I finger the fabric, noticing her body tightening with her slight inhale. “Because as much as you’ve changed, you didn’t suddenly fall for the dapper congressman.”

To prove my point, I yank the fabric out of the way, revealing the hand-drawn heart that looks much like the sloppy one I painted on her years ago.

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