Page 281 of The Invite
I won.
I saved my devil.
CHAPTER – 71
Nessa
(Two weeks later)
“Just one more.”
“August! My leg is fine now,” I protest loudly. Except for a slight numbness that the doctor said will heal with time. “It wasn’t even broken.”
I got lucky the knife didn’t puncture any nerves to leave permanent damage.
Still, my protective boyfriend can’t help but be sick with worry.
“You were complaining about a cramp last night,” he counters, distracting me with his touch as he runs his palm up my right leg. God! He looks so sexy with the sun shining down on him and the fierce set of his features. “You still need to exercise.”
“Oh, I’m exercising all right.”
Day and night.
As soon as I was discharged from the hospital, Augustus fucked me every chance he got. No complaints from me. After almost losing each other, our dependency on one another has multiplied. Some might say it’s unhealthy being inseparable, but neither of us cares.
We love and live on our own terms.
Mirth dances in his eyes at my cheeky reply but concern for my health overshadows it, and he becomes more stern. “Give me one more stretch.”
“I like that sentence when it ends with orgasms.”
“Nessa,” he growls, his pupils dilating with lust.
I hide my triumphant smile when he stands and picks me up before carrying me into Maverick’s cabin and straight to the upstairs bedroom. I’m burning with anticipation of him fucking me when he removes every piece of fabric from my body until I’m naked.
But he doesn’t.
I turn onto my stomach, lean up on my elbows, and rest my chin on my hands, giving him a pout.
“Stay like that,” he rasps.
My gaze follows him sauntering to the corner desk and picking up his sketchbook and pencil. I’m warm for a whole other reason. Dragging the chair to the edge of the bed, he sits down and perches the book on his knee.
I remain still as he regards my form with dark eyes. The usual storminess in them is replaced by gentle waves lapping against a shore.
“You take my breath away, little prey.”
His velvety voice sends shivers erupting all over my body. His wrist shifts as he begins to draw. A concentrated frown pinching his forehead as he becomes lost in every stroke on the paper. Everything he does heightens his sexiness.
We’re both fiends for each other’s bodies.
Yet fucking is undoubtedly second close to moments like this, where I watch him sketch me for hours. They are what I crave the most. I feel closer to him in these quiet hours.
Being an artist’s inspiration is an indescribable feeling.
An act more intimate than being connected physically.
His paintings of me are my most prized possession.
