Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  She gasped at the contact. The sensations of cool paint, mixed with the fire in his eyes as he watched her touch herself, filled her with longing. Rational thought was a faraway thing, her only focus on this moment, and the man who was using his talented hands to seduce her.

  He dipped his finger back into the blue, tracing slow circles around her other nipple until it pebbled.

  “A camera like yours?” he asked. More paint, another circle.

  She knew this answer… her Nikon, or a drawing of it anyway, but her brain wouldn’t send the words to her mouth.

  Finally, she managed a breathy, “Yeah.”

  “I can do that, Ace.”

  No doubt. She’d bet he could do anything.

  He took her hand, re-dipping into the yellow, then returned her finger to her nipple. Knowing what he wanted, she stroked on the paint in circles while he watched. The slickness of the paint against the hardened bud lit a spark within. Her mouth fell open, and he smiled.

  “Rae hated this side of me,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss her lips lightly.

  Her finger stilled. She blinked. How could anyone hate this side of him? Let alone Rae. Did that mean… did that mean they’d never… done this before?

  Before she could let that neurotic thought take root, he took hold of her, making her hand his brush and he the painter. Her eyes closed, her thighs clenched.

  “She didn’t like when I got lost in the art.”

  Charlie relaxed her hand, gave him full control, and focused on what he was saying.

  “She didn’t like when I took time away from her, away from Lyon, to paint for hours.”

  The admission surprised and confused her. “I thought you didn’t like when I talked about Rae.”

  He dipped her finger into the red this time and moved it to her other nipple. Eyes on his work, he said, “We didn’t have the perfect marriage.”

  Another circle had her struggling between listening and ignoring his words. Every part of her wanted to give into the sensations cascading over her skin, not feel the pain and guilt that would surely come over talking about Rae.

  “Someone passes away, everyone idealizes them. Including me. Including you. That’s not always the true side of things. We disagreed. We fought. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues.”

  Letting go of her hand, he mixed his fingers through three different colors until he came up with an orangey-yellow and then pulled another four-fingered line straight down her torso. When he got to her jean skirt, he flipped the stud.

  Her hand automatically covered his.

  He leaned close, breath sifting over her lips as he whispered, “Let me.”

  Breasts heaving, heart thumping, she moved her hand from his. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but she didn’t want to stop him. Right or wrong, she wanted this man, had been mesmerized by him. Too mesmerized to argue further.

  He unzipped her skirt and tugged, and she wiggled her hips until the denim fell in a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of the circle of material, kicking off the new fawn sandals Sofie had gifted her. He brushed the pile of clothes aside with his foot.

  Fingers returned to paint, and this time he raked them along the swell of her hips and down to her thighs while he spoke, smearing greenish-blue with one hand and creating orange-yellow swirls with the other.

  “I loved Rae. Loved her half my life.”

  When guilt would have stabbed her, he fisted her panties and stripped them off her legs. On his knees before her, he admired where her thighs came together, a long look that made her want to cover herself. Something about his rapt attention, and the way his rough palms moved along the skin on her legs, kept her from it.

  “Beautiful.” He stood, going no further, and she couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved. Kind of felt like a dab of both.

  He raised her unpainted hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one.

  “I miss her, Charlie.” He placed a soft kiss to the inside of her thumb.

  “I know,” she whispered, the emotions in her heart rising to her face. “I do, too.”

  “Been grieving for years.” He stroked his tongue along her index finger, kissed her fingertip. “Four years,” he whispered.

  Tears stung the back of her eyelids but she refused to let them come forth.

  “I know.” How she must look now… naked, half-covered in paint, Evan’s attention on her body while he talked about his late wife. She tried to imagine an outsider looking in, tried to cast judgment, but she couldn’t. She was too into this moment. The here and now of him turning her on and on, of being under his unwavering attention and focus.

  “We deserve to be free.”

  His words stunned her.

  “Sorry?”

  He sucked her middle finger into his mouth, letting it out in one, long, slow pull. Then he positioned her finger between her legs, slid into her folds, and directed her to stroke herself.

  “We deserve it, Charlie. It would have killed Rae all over again if the two people she loved most in this world died right alongside her.”

  He was right, but her thoughts didn’t get any further as he increased the pressure of her fingers.

  A fractured, keening sound escaped her lips as he continued guiding her fingers over her clit. Once he was satisfied with her speed, he left her to it, dipping his fingers back into the paint and returning to her breasts. Pinching and pulling through the sticky, wet paint, he plucked her while she thrust against her own hand.

  “You don’t have to feel sorry, Ace.” Another slick pull on her nipples had her bucking against her own fingers.

  He tugged his shirt off and she opened her eyes to see all his exposed, inked flesh, the dark, detailed lines etched along each shoulder, curving down the ample biceps to his bare chest, taut abs, and defined obliques.

  Beautiful.

  Every inch she’d seen so far.

  Grasping her hips, he tugged her close and rubbed his body against her, painting himself with her breasts as he kissed her hard on the mouth. A hand came around and palmed her butt, then the other, squeezing and lifting, pressing her closer and tighter against his form. When his tongue entered her mouth to clash with hers, her head vanished from this plane altogether.

  There was only the feel of the slide of her finger, her building release, the hot insistence of his tongue and body.

  He ended the kiss long enough to say, “Let go, Ace.”

  Her moan almost a whimper, she watched him from beneath hooded eyes, loving the heat she saw there, loving that heat was for her.

  He kissed her again, then grinned against her lips. “So fucking sexy. Let go, baby.” His hand reached between their bodies to clasp her wrist and increase her speed and pressure, and she felt herself going over.

  “Evan.” She tried to speak, but it was more of a high-pitched squeak. “Evan.”

  “I know, Ace. You need it. Take it.” He kissed her again, guiding her arm with one hand while the other clasped her butt and his chest rubbed against her sensitized nipples. “Take it. You deserve it.”

  “For you,” she heard herself say, cresting, the wave nearly rolling over and drowning her beneath.

  “For me, baby,” he agreed.

  With a broken sob, she came, and his mouth closed over hers, kissing her deeply, mercilessly, swallowing her cries. As she wound down, her body pulsing, her thighs wet, her body damp with drying paint, she lost the ability to hold her head up and dropped her forehead on his chest. Vaguely, she registered his body moving, him cleaning his hands on a nearby cloth, before sliding his fingers into her hair.

  “How much better does that feel?” he asked, kissing her temple.

  “Mmff,” was all she managed.

  His deep, rumbling chuckle bobbed her head and echoed around the room, making her heart swell. “You’re a good finger painter, Ace.”

  Somehow, she lifted her head and smiled.

  Still holding her, he stepped away and showed her his chest
. Two round smudges of mixed paint from her breasts, and mirroring lines streaked his torso and marked his jeans.

  “One of a kind,” he said. “You’ll never find another creation like this one. And if we tried it again”—he winked—“and we will, it wouldn’t come out the same way twice.”

  “Amazing,” she said.

  The whole thing was amazing. She’d never let go so thoroughly. She had paint in her hair, on her clothes. She’d pleasured herself in front of someone—all things she’d never done before. Speaking of…

  “You’ve never done this before?” She wanted to add “with Rae,” but it seemed wrong to bring her up.

  “Never.” He saw through her anyway. She registered in his expression that he knew what she was thinking. “Nothing’s perfect, Ace.”

  But when he kissed her again, an argument hatched in her head. Because this entire thing had been pretty perfect. Raw and wrong and daring.

  And perfect.

  So perfect.

  * * *

  He’d known it on some deeper level. Had known Charlie saw him differently—saw these moments of creativity in a different way than Rae had. Charlie was an artist by her own right, and it came as no surprise that she’d gotten swept up in the room’s energy.

  And it was some incredible energy. The kind only found when the world was asleep and the phones were quiet and children were sleeping. The kind of wild energy that, when harnessed, created the best art. Germinated amazing ideas.

  So it came as no surprise to him that in his sexual frustration, he’d managed to find Swine Flew after nude finger painting Charlie and watching her make herself climax.

  She sat on his lap now, where he’d insisted she sit. He allowed her to get dressed again, which almost killed him, but he counted himself lucky as it was. While she nestled against him, he sketched and painted and asked for her opinion on colors. She liked Swine with hair, but he argued Swine was too Miss Piggy with cascading blond locks, and she agreed she’d been remiss to overlook the resemblance.

  He had an arm wrapped around her waist and his paintbrush on the canvas when she spoke. “Would you tattoo me?”

  He sifted his hand into her shirt and palmed her ribs where she’d said she wanted ink, and gave her a squeeze. Unable to stop himself, he felt his way north until he brushed the underside of one breast, his thumb flicking her nipple. Her head dropped back on his shoulder.

  Against her ear, he licked, then breathed, “I’d do all sorts of things to you.”

  “How did this happen?” she asked quietly, and he wasn’t sure to which of them she’d directed the question. He dropped his paintbrush and moved her hair aside. They needed a shower. They were covered in dried paint, and he only hoped she could get the blue out of her blond hair.

  She turned her head so her cheek was on his shoulder and sought him out with earnest eyes. So he told her the truth.

  “Want you to be free. Great place to be.”

  He was. Some days.

  “There are always consequences to getting what you want.” A worry line bisected her forehead.

  He shifted her so he could focus on her face. “There are consequences to everything, Ace.”

  Consequences to marrying young and having a child. Consequences to doing things the right way. Consequences to living honest, loving honest, to committing to one person.

  Sometimes those consequences were fair. And sometimes they weren’t.

  Losing Rae hadn’t been fair. Lyon did nothing to deserve his mother being taken away from him as a toddler.

  “I feel ba—”

  He kissed her. “Don’t say it.” He regarded her and she watched him. “Don’t you dare say it. First off, I know it’s a lie. Can tell by your loose limbs, you feel great, baby.” He cupped her breast again and she sighed. “Imagine when I touch you there.”

  Her mouth dropped open long enough to pull in a breath, then she closed it.

  “You… we didn’t take care of you.”

  Fact.

  The proof was stretching his shorts and pressing against the side of Charlie’s ass. Much as he wanted more, he knew she’d had enough for one night.

  “No more time, Ace. Sun’s coming up.”

  She blinked around the room as if noticing the natural light through the drawn blinds for the first time, stiffening against him. “Oh my gosh, Lyon. And I’m… And you’re…”

  “Relax.”

  “I have to shower.”

  He tightened the arm around her waist and kissed her again, whispering against her lips, “If Lyon wasn’t here, I’d take you up to my shower, soap you from head to toe. Lick you from head to toe.” He licked her top lip and kissed it, then gave a long, slow pull, showing her how he’d take his time. No doubt she tasted this amazing everywhere; he’d find out soon. “I’d lap you like a dish of cream. Until you came for me, Ace.”

  She shuddered and he kissed her bottom lip this time before tracing it with his tongue.

  “I’d make you scream my name. Scream it.” He nipped her lip and let go to find her eyes wide. He grinned, unable to keep from it. “And you will.”

  “Evan.” Her voice was a whisper and her hand had clutched his hair again. He loved her fingers there, tugging, pulling, stroking. He’d like her fingers doing that elsewhere, too, he thought, lifting his hips and grinding against her.

  But tonight hadn’t been about him. It’d been about making her see what they could be. If she let go. If they let go together.

  And it’d been more amazing than he’d allowed himself to believe.

  Powerful.

  He wanted more.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The white painted banner strung over the entrance of Library Park read: EVERGREEN COVE’S STARVING ARTISTS FESTIVAL, CELEBRATING 25 YEARS!

  Every year, local artists came together to donate their works to a silent auction from which the library directly profited. Charlie donated a photo of the lake at sunrise. She’d taken the shot earlier this year from her back porch, dock and pines in the distance, and decided then it would be the one she donated.

  When she’d dropped off the photo, Mrs. Anderson mentioned how some of this year’s funds would go for new shelving while a portion of it would be put aside for repair of the east foundation wall. As she’d put it, “before the whole dang building topples over.”

  Viewing the stately old brick building now, Charlie doubted “the whole dang building” was going anywhere. A study in good old-fashioned craftsmanship, the place was likely as sturdy as it looked.

  Not that she’d dare argue with the intimidating librarian. Mrs. Anderson was a spitfire force to be reckoned with. No one knew her exact age or remembered a time when a different librarian had been in charge of the Cove’s loaned-out books.

  Rare as it was for her to take a day for herself, Charlie had blocked the entire weekend off when she’d learned Evan and Lyon were moving here. It would give her an excuse to take Lyon to the festival and introduce him to the bizarre food offerings from the questionably sanitary food trucks lining the blocked-off street.

  Hey, it was tradition.

  She leaned against the aluminum railing surrounding the teacup ride in the center of the festival. This, another spinning ride called “The Scrambler,” and one that looked like a giant roulette wheel turned on its side were the only three rides at the festival.

  The carnies in charge weren’t carnies at all, but Evergreeners Tom Anderson, Mrs. Anderson’s long-suffering husband, and his two grown sons, Willie and Kyle. The three men organized the entertainment for the fair every year, guaranteeing both safety and fun. Though Willie, when she’d purchased Lyon’s two-dollar ticket, informed her he’d “tuned the ride myself” but regrettably “can’t guarantee against puking.”

  Evan had given her that guarantee, claiming Lyon had a solid stomach. She certainly hoped so considering the array of deep-fried foods they’d shared before he climbed aboard the cup-and-saucer.

  After he stopped waving a
t her at every pass, she allowed herself to take in the perfect eighty-something-degree weather, cloudless blue sky, and full, thick maple, oak, and pine trees dotting the park. ’Greeners flocked to the festival every year, and she wished Sofie or Faith hadn’t worked today so she had someone to hang with.

  Evan and Asher were at a signing table under a huge white tent, their own painted banner promising visitors could Meet the creators of Mad Cow! Next to their seats was the painting of the cow himself propped on an easel, the same one she’d watched him paint the other night.

  At the thought, a secret smile curled her lips and she put her hand to her face. That’d been… something else.

  She blinked him into focus now and watched him lean forward to shake the hand of a very small boy, coming half off his metal chair, pretending to crumple underneath the kid’s grip. When the boy laughed and let go, Evan shook his arm out, his face an exaggerated wince.

  It was so adorable, her heart gave a little tug. He had an ease with children she shared, except where his came from was no mystery. He had a big, boisterous, loving family, and though they were scattered in Ohio, Tennessee, and Illinois, he claimed getting together with them was an easy reunion.

  Oh, to be so lucky.

  She felt a squeeze of envy for not having that kind of relationship with her father and sister. They preferred distance. Charlie had decided years ago to let them have their space and stop trying to create a reunion that would, most likely, be unsuccessful.

  They hadn’t fought her on the decision, which made her feel equal parts hurt and relieved.

  She took a deep breath, caught another glimpse of Evan’s smiling face, and her thoughts returned to the night in his studio. Now other parts of her gave a squeeze, simultaneously more pleasant, and less welcome than the one before.

  She’d tried to figure out her brazen reaction—the mysterious “thing” possessing her to strip nude for Evan Downey for cripe’s sake—and had come to only one conclusion. The conclusion? Well. The answer was right there in the question. Evan Downey.

  The man could talk a nun out of her habit. And a good girl into a series of bad ones.