Page 10 of Enemy of Ours #1

“Hello. Sorry about that. I, um, Iris,” I mutter under my breath and want to smack myself at how I can barely function in front of him. The heat flushes over my cheekbones, and I know that they are redder than my hair at this point.

Would it be strange if I asked if I could paint him nude?

He would be magnificent, no doubt, with his muscles on display and glistening golden skin.

Am I drooling? Dear Lord, please no. I clear my throat, swallowing thickly as I bring my hands out from behind my back and wipe discreetly at the corner of my mouth.

“Iris,” he says in a deep voice, practically a purr, rolling my name off his tongue, “Have we met before?” he asks curiously, a hint of something in his voice that I can’t quite place, tilting his head as he gently takes my hand.

His thumb traces over the dried blue paint, gliding right over the jagged scar that runs inside of my palm from my pinky to thumb.

“No. I’m sure I would remember meeting you,” I say in a daze, feeling myself sway closer to him as he looks down with a small frown between his dark, thick eyebrows at my scar.

“Are you sure about that? A man doesn’t forget such beauty, and I’m a man with an excellent memory. We must have crossed paths at some point.” His voice gets deeper, making my stomach swoop and flutter as he holds my stare.

I snort through my nose and step back from him, letting my hand drop from his while crossing my arms over my chest. “Does that line honestly usually work with all the lasses?”

His stupid, perfect lips spread into a smile, and white, straight teeth stand out against his tan skin, making him unbelievably more beautiful, like a descendant from the gods.

“No, hardly ever. I don’t have to say anything to the lasses, and I never say anything unless I mean it. You're feisty; I like that. How old are you, Kitten?”

“As the negotiations state, each shipment coming to the Upper East Side is split fifty-fifty. I don’t have time for the fucking Russians sniffing around my docks and stealing my merchandise.

Everyone fucking knows their guns are shite,” my Da grumbles in his thick Irish brogue the more mad he gets, and he repeatedly slams his meaty fist on his desk.

Each thump and shout is loud and clear from the second-story window.

“You should get in there before one of them blows a gasket. He and James talk about the Bravta enough as it is and always end up in yelling matches,” I warn him, lifting one red brow as he chuckles deeply from his throat.

I turn away from him, back to my painting, before I actually do something embarrassing like plaster myself to his body to feel the vibrations of his laugh.

I don’t hear any retreating footsteps while I pick up my paintbrush and hover it over the canvas, unsure of what I’m doing, but I can feel his stare drilling into my back, causing me to shiver.

“I really like this shade of blue. It looks pretty against your skin, Kitten,” he suddenly whispers in my ear, causing me to gasp as he runs his fingertips along my forearm.

I look down at my arm and see more blue fingerprints that belong to me, contrasting with my skin, which makes me groan in annoyance.

His touch, the rough calluses on his fingers, and seeing his darker complexion skimming over my lighter one makes my heart rate pick up.

My hands start shaking, causing me to drop my brush that had just been hovering over my painting.

I turn my head, seeing him much closer and already staring into my eyes with a look so heated that I feel it down to the pulse throbbing between my thighs.

My legs shift as I rub them together, trying to find some release from the tension.

“I’m eighteen,” I whimper, my eyes shifting closed as my body naturally starts to lean back into his stronger, steadier one.

“I’ll be seeing you, Kitten. Try to be good for me,” he whispers into my ear with a silky voice that makes my eyes roll back in pleasure, but that feeling fades as his words finally register and his warm body heat leaves my back, sending cold chills down my spine.

“What?” I gasp, spinning around on my heels in the grass, only to find him walking away. I watch his tall, muscular, retreating form disappear into the house without looking back.

That cocky motherfucker!

I mutter under my breath, glaring at the spot he just disappeared from.

I spin around and grab the red paint from the basket by my feet, opening the lid to splash it on the canvas, right over the mistake I made earlier, while breathing like I just ran a marathon.

My brushstrokes go back and forth over the painting in anger, not stopping until I finally run out of steam.

Once I do, I take a step back as the brush slips from my fingers.

My head tilts both ways, looking at the canvas that was once colors of the sky and the cherry blossom tree but now is dripping in red as if something took all its rage out on the skies and made the tree weep blood.

I really do like the color red.

It matches my mood right now and how frustrating men are.

I’m going to paint with red more often, I think.