Page 44 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

twenty-six

DECLAN

I crawl across the couch toward Lea, letting my sketchbook slide to the floor with a soft thud. I’ve finished drawing her, and her drawing of me lies abandoned beside her, pencils scattered across the cushions like casualties of war. Our homework is done, and now it’s time for fun.

“I can’t focus anymore,” I murmur, hovering over her. “All I can think about is getting you naked and taking you right here on this couch.”

She laughs—a bright, surprised sound that illuminates something deep inside me—but the laugh dies in her throat when I drag my thumb across her lower lip. Her eyes darken instantly, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of green remains.

“Is that so?” she whispers.

“Mmhmm.” I lower my mouth to hers, kissing her deep and slow.

I’ve learned that’s the way she likes it, the kind of kiss that makes her melt against me.

It’s just one of the ways I’ve cataloged her responses like I’m studying for an exam.

The breathy sigh when I bite her earlobe.

The flutter of her eyelashes when I tease her with light, feathery kisses.

The way her fingers dig into my shoulders when I use my tongue.

It’s like the Lea Altman all-you-can-eat buffet, and I can’t get enough.

I press myself against her, letting her feel how hard I am already, and she makes a small, hungry sound against my lips.

Her leggings are thin enough that I can feel the heat of her through the fabric, already damp where I’m grinding against her.

And, damn it, there’s nothing that’s going to stop me.

“Dec,” she gasps, arching up.

“Yeah?” I drag my lips down her neck, tasting the salt on her skin.

Her breathing catches when I find the sensitive spot below her ear. “Bedroom?”

“Why?” I slip my hand under her oversized sweater. “I like you here.”

“Because your windows don’t have curtains.”

I glance at the large living room windows that face the street.

It’s dark outside, which means anyone passing by would have a perfect view of what we’re doing.

I’m not normally an exhibitionist, but the thought of someone glimpsing us—seeing but not quite seeing—sends a surprising jolt of heat through me.

“I don’t know.” I toy with the waistband of her leggings. “Could be fun.”

She swats my hand away, laughing. “Bedroom or nothing, Andrews.”

I sigh dramatically. “So demanding.”

Then I scoop her up in one fluid motion.

She squeals and grabs my shoulders. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Following orders,” I say.

I deposit her on my bed, before crawling over her again. Her hair fans out across my pillow, dark curls a stark contrast against the white pillowcase. The sight hits me like a physical blow—she belongs here, in my bed, and in my life. The thought is so intense it momentarily takes my breath away.

“What?” she asks, reaching up to trace my expression with gentle fingers.

I try to shake it off with a smile. “Nothing. Just… this is perfect.”

Her cheeks flush, and she gives an exaggerated sigh. “You just want to get laid.”

“No.” I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I’m saying it because it’s true. When I look at you, I see all these lines I want to draw.

These shapes and shadows I want to capture.

I’ve filled like three sketchbooks just trying to get your mouth right, and it’s not even close to good enough. ”

“My mouth?” She touches her lips self-consciously.

“Yeah.” I lean down, brushing my lips against hers, then kiss her again.

Deeper this time, my tongue sliding against hers as I settle my weight more firmly between her legs.

“The way it curves when you’re trying not to smile at one of my jokes.

Or how you bite your lower lip when you’re concentrating on a drawing. ”

“Mhmm…” She mumbles, leaning into my touch, inviting more of it. “What else do you notice?”

“What else?” I murmur, trailing my fingers down the soft curve of her neck. “Everything. Your whole body is like this incredible study in form.”

She shivers under my touch, her eyes half-closed. “Is that your way of saying I’m hot or something?”

I slide my hand over the swell of her breast, feeling the softness beneath her clothing. “It’s my way of saying you’re a masterpiece.”

“Declan…” She whispers.

“Your breasts,” I say, voice dropping lower as I cup one in my hand, “are these perfect gentle curves. Like the way watercolors bloom when they first touch wet paper—soft edges, delicate gradients. There’s balance to them, a perfect proportion that even the Renaissance masters would’ve killed to capture. ”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs, but her breath catches when I squeeze gently.

“I’m serious,” I say.

My hands move down to her waist, tracing the dip and flare of her silhouette. The sweater rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin that I immediately touch, tracing small patterns with my fingertips.

“Your waist,” I continue, “has this incredible negative space—the way it curves in before flaring out to your hips. It’s all about contrast and composition.”

She raises an eyebrow, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. “Is that your way of saying I’ve got a fat ass?”

“Not at all.” I slide my hands to her hips, gripping them firmly, then run my hands down her thighs, feeling the muscle beneath the thin fabric of her leggings. Her legs part slightly at my touch, an invitation I’m more than happy to accept. “Your legs,” I murmur, “have these fantastic contours.”

My hands move upward again, this time sliding around to cup her ass. I squeeze, pulling her more firmly against me. “And this,” I say with a grin, “this is all about perfection of form. Sculpture territory. Michelangelo would’ve spent months getting the curves just right. ”

She laughs. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned color theory yet.”

“I was getting there.” My hand drifts between her legs, pressing against her through her leggings. Even through the fabric, I can feel the heat of her. “The flush on your skin when I touch you here—that’s all about color. The way it spreads from your cheeks down your neck…”

Her hips rise to meet my touch, and I press more firmly, watching her eyes flutter closed. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

There’s a heaviness in the air between us suddenly, something significant shifting. I want to tell her how I feel—that this isn’t just sex for me, that she’s become essential somehow—but the words lodge in my throat, like to speak it into existence is to risk it backfiring.

Instead, I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “But my favorite thing is your face when you come for me, Lea. The way everything tenses and then releases. It’s like watching chiaroscuro in motion—light and shadow playing across every feature.”

“Dec,” she sighs, arching into my touch. “You better get to work on that…”

I slide my fingers more firmly against the fabric between her legs, amazed at how wet she is already. The thin material of her leggings is completely soaked through—textural evidence of her desire.

“Jesus, Lea,” I murmur, awestruck. “You’re so wet.”

She buries her face in my neck, embarrassed. “It’s what you do to me.”

The primal part of my brain preens at this confession. I’m torn between being gentle and letting something rougher take over. The rougher side wins. In one swift motion, I hook my fingers into the crotch of her leggings and tear, the fabric giving way with surprising ease.

Her eyes go wide. “Did you just?—”

“I did,” I promise, sliding my fingers through the tear to find her bare skin. She’s scorching hot and slick, and she gasps when I make contact.

“These were thirty dollars!” But her indignation dissolves into a moan when I circle her clit with my middle finger. “Oh?—”

“I’ll pay for them. Worth every penny.” I slip a finger inside her, watching her eyelids flutter. “The museum of you deserves an entrance fee.”

Her laugh turns into a gasp as I add a second finger, curving them upward to hit that spot that makes her thighs tremble. “That’s—oh god—that’s terrible.”

I bend down to kiss her, swallowing her moans as I work my fingers inside her. With my free hand, I push her top up, exposing her breasts. The rose-pink of her nipples against her olive skin is like a perfect color study in contrasts.

I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, circling it with my tongue before sucking gently. Her back arches off the bed, pressing her breast more firmly against my lips. She mumbles something about not stopping, but there’s no chance of that.

I alternate between her breasts, licking and sucking while my fingers maintain their rhythm between her legs. Her breathing grows more erratic, her thighs tensing on either side of my hand. I can tell she’s close—she’s pulsing around my fingers, her clit swollen.

She comes. Her entire body goes taut, then trembles, her inner muscles clenching around my fingers as she cries out my name. I keep my eyes on her face, memorizing every micro- expression, every flutter of her eyelashes, and every parted-lip gasp.

When she finally goes limp, I withdraw my fingers gently and press a soft kiss to her sternum, feeling her heart racing beneath my lips. “See?” I say. “Art.”

“That was…” she breathes, looking dazed.

“Just the beginning,” I finish for her, kissing my way down her stomach. “I want to taste you.”

Her pupils dilate further. “Yes.”

I position myself between her legs again, but instead of lowering my head, I put my hands under her ass and lift her.

“Dec, what the?—”

Still holding her in the air, I position myself on my back and lower her onto my face. A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she moves with me.

“I’ve never…” she starts, uncertainty flashing across her face.

“Trust me,” I say, my hands on her hips, steadying her. “And don’t look away.”