Page 38 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
She steps closer, suddenly quieter. Lips parted. Paintbrush poised. “Lay down,” she says.
I don’t move. “Why.”
She cocks her head. “Because I’m painting a jack-o’-lantern on your abs. Obviously.”
I stare at her. “You’re deranged.”
“And you’re ruining the vibe. Down.”
I exhale once—through my nose—and lie back across the rug in front of the fire.
She kneels beside me, straddling one thigh for balance, body heat brushing against me through layers of cotton and denim. Fake casual. Real dangerous. Her scent hits me—sweet, warm, vanilla with something darker beneath.
She dips the brush in paint. Pauses. Looks at my stomach like she’s about to worship or destroy it. Maybe both.
“Hold still,” she murmurs.
“Not a problem.”
“That sounds like a problem.”
Then she touches me.
Paintbrush trails across my abs in slow strokes that feel nothing like paint.
No. They feel like fingertips. Like curiosity. Like temptation in bright Halloween orange.
I watch her face instead of her hand. Her concentration is infuriating. Lips parted, brow pinched. There’s a smear of paint on her wrist and a little freckle near her collarbone that I never noticed before.
“You’re staring,” she mutters.
“You’re climbing me.”
“This is art.”
“This is harassment.”
“Then sue me.”
“You’d like that.”
Her brush dips lower. My muscles tighten—and her eyes flick up.
“Sensitive?” she dares.
“Focused.”
She drags the bristles slowly over my lower abdomen, dangerously close to a boundary we haven’t talked about yet. Electricity crackles under my skin.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
She grins—sharp and bright. “Immensely.”
She finishes the first pumpkin, complete with sharp teeth and devil horns—cute—and then paints two more, making a whole unholy trio grinning up from my torso.
She sits back, proud and breathless. “Beautiful. Festive. Terrifying.”
I grab her wrist before she moves away. “My turn.”
