Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (e ink epub reader .TXT) 📕

I watched unabashedly, convenient since the task lent itself to him keeping his back to me.

“Neat freak,” I muttered after drooling over his biceps for a few minutes.

“And proud of it.”

I sniffed, stood, started wandering around as I slowly sipped my coffee. I should have left. I’d announced it just fifteen minutes before. Staying was breaking the rules. But instead of leaving, I found myself moving toward the paintings on the far side of the room, drawn into the colors and the swirling brush strokes.

“Snooping?” he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder, saw he’d picked up our discarded clothes and was folding them. “You said I could.”

“True.” That done, he moved onto wiping down the counters.

I turned back around, studied the canvases.

They really were quite stunning.

“Who . . .” I trailed off, the question poofing away when I caught a glimpse of what was behind that half-open door.

“Niki?” he asked.

Too distracted to answer, I took my snooping to the next level, pushed into the room, and flicked on the lights.

Chapter Eleven

Archer

I’d been happily scrubbing hot fudge from my granite when I caught the flicker of light out of the corner of my eye.

Fuck.

I spun just in time to see her disappear into my studio. Tossing down the towel and hurrying across the room, I instantly knew what she’d see and how it would appear.

Canvas after canvas of her.

The slopes of her shoulder.

Her mouth. Her eyes. Her hair.

It had become nearly obsessive, and with me painting her over and over again. But even with all that practice, I hadn’t managed to capture her . . . essence. That was elusive, just out of reach.

Something else that would be elusive?

Dominque.

Because she couldn’t even commit to a couple of hours together; what the hell was she going to do with thirty-plus canvases with her likeness on them?

Run.

Run fast. Run like hell. Run without ever looking back.

And, truthfully, I couldn’t blame her.

If I’d stumbled upon some weird-ass shrine erected and fawning over me, over my various body parts, from ears to mouth, from breasts to calves . . . I’d fucking run, too.

“Niki,” I murmured, and she glanced up from my main work easel, from the newest piece I was working on, meeting my eyes for the barest moment before she spun slowly, taking in the canvases stacked, sometimes five deep, on the floor. She moved to one such pile, propped the first painting forward, paused as she studied the one behind and behind, until she’d made her way through the entire stack.

Another glance at me.

And then she moved to the next pile. Then the next and the next and the next, until she’d made her way around my entire studio, taking in every painting while I stood there helpless, thinking desperately for anything I might say that would make this seem less creepy.

But nothing came to mind.

So, I just stood in the doorway silently watching her, kicking myself because that was also creepy.

Finally, she finished her circle and stopped in front of me.

“You have paint on your arm.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. “I—”

Her fingers brushed a spot on my left triceps, and I glanced down, saw the streak of blue. “Hazard of the job, unfortunately,” I said. “No matter how hard I try to be neat.”

“Hmm.”

She moved away again, stopped in front of the easel. “You’re very good,” she murmured.

My lips parted. “I . . . thanks.”

“You painted those pieces in the front room?”

I nodded.

“They’re beautiful.”

An exhale. Maybe she hadn’t realized that a lot of the paintings were of her? I hadn’t painted her entire face, just silhouettes and profiles and close-ups of different body parts. “Thanks,” I said again, relaxing marginally.

She drifted back, her gaze dragging along the canvases. “Is there a reason that a vast majority of them are of me?”

I froze, that respite of calm disappearing.

Of course, she’d noticed, and she was prepared to run if my answer wasn’t up to snuff, if the expression on her face was any indication.

“Yes,” I said, knowing I could lie or tell the truth.

Knew that, really, I only had one choice.

I had to tell her the truth.

Inhaling deeply and releasing it slowly, I said, “They’re all of you because I’ve spent the last month dreaming of you, reliving our night together, remembering the way your lips, your skin, your body felt.” Moving toward her, I cupped her cheek. “I’ve spent nearly every waking moment trying to recapture that magic. But no reproduction can even begin to compete with the reality.”

I felt her throat spasm as she swallowed. “You realize how that all sounds,” she murmured, “don’t you?”

“I do.” I let my hand fall to my side. “Why do you think I haven’t been back to your place, sweetheart? I knew if I even allowed myself to consider the possibility that I might see you again, I’d approach stalker level.”

“More so than painting my likeness in no less than several dozen different forms?”

That was a fair point.

“Yes.”

Her lips turned up at the corners.

“I like you, Niki,” I said. “More than I should, and I want to fall in, want to dive deep and learn everything about you. I also know that me telling you that is going to send you running for the door.” I blew out a breath. “Which is why I didn’t go to your house, why I didn’t ask Anabelle to get your number from Hayden. Instead, I painted.” I moved toward one of the canvases, picked it up, holding it out. “And this is why I painted.”

She took the canvas, colorful splashes of me attempting to capture the rich browns of her irises, and studied it for several long moments.

Then she set it down.

A heartbeat later she was out of the room.

“Fuck,” I whispered, waiting for her to get dressed, to then hear the front door open and close, but when long minutes passed and I didn’t, I let my chin fall to my chest, knowing she’d gone, but I just hadn’t heard her leave.

It was the logical conclusion.

I’d