Page 19 of Invasive Species (Outcasts of Oloria #2)

THIRTEEN

ARABELLA

I quickly sanitize the e-book, wiping all traces of Pirates and Planets and Princes from the device, but I leave myself logged in so he can download what he wants. He deserves something nice to look forward to, all he does is work and swim, so I’m kicking myself for not thinking of this before.

I hurry outside and hand it to him. Gara is smart and has way more advanced technology, so he gets it immediately. He cradles the thin flat e-reader like it's the crown jewels, but it's the look on his face that makes my breath come short.

His eyes shine, as if I'm the best person in the world for lending him my battered-to-shit e-reader with a cracked screen. Has no one ever given him a present before?

Well, I can change that.

With that thought, crisp clarity folds over me like a comforting favorite blanket. Holy shit, my muse is back again.

Making something for Gara fires me up so much I run inside. I have to go with it, and I sprint to the mini studio without even getting out of my wetsuit or showering, because now the blank canvas is an exciting invitation instead of an accusation.

Daffodil yellow and March-sky blue are calling to me, so I squeeze them out onto a fresh pallet.

My fingers shake as I swirl them together, the paint sliding between my fingers, sloppy and cold but warming as I pour my idea into the shade.

Gara’s scales are more often than not some shade of green, whether subdued bottle green and the green of wet moss, or a bright lime with undertones of sunlit spring grass.

Mixing up several shades, I select the darker one as a base and spread it on the canvas with my fingers.

I've never painted without a brush before.

It feels primal, carnal. Perfect. I outline his strong jaw, always tight as if he stops himself from saying everything that's on his mind.

Is that because he's hiding who he is and what he thinks?

Maybe he’s a bit like me, masking his thoughts and how they bounce around in a way no one would ever understand.

His regal nose, his furrowed brow, the look of consternation when I've come to him with another idea blooms to life on the canvas. He doesn't like change. Or, is it the fact I'm taking away control that riles him up?

I dip my fingers in the paint, spread them wide, and caress his neck and shoulders into being.

Paint builds those hard muscles of physical perfection as if I can coax the flat canvas into becoming 3D, letting me stroke the hard lines of his biceps, triceps and the muscles of his shoulder.

I wish I had impasto gel, that stuff thickens paint to make it three dimensional, but I can’t stop so I’ll work with what I have.

I massage his biceps and the crest of his chest before I drop off the bottom of the canvas.

There he is, glowering at me from the smears of darkness, like his shadow come to life.

I don't clean my hands, plunging them straight into the lighter greens.

These highlight one side of his face, the sneer turned into a softer smile, the way he'd smiled at me this morning.

A welcoming smile. I pick out the glints in his eyes, the sparkle of challenge and mystery.

I linger over his lips, quick to banter back sometimes and pressed closed on other occasions.

He's slowly starting to open up, but slowly is the operative word.

The sharp, coarse smell of paint surrounds me as I move in close.

Gara’s scent is fresh, even when drenched with exertion from working in the barn, as if his sweat just makes him more delicious rather than off-putting.

His lips I pay special attention to, each splash of lighter color making them more and more real.

I haven't poured myself into a painting like this in so long, felt this energy coursing through me.

It's like his hand wrapped around mine. The shock of his touch followed by warmth. Care. Understanding. Listening to me and helping rather than doing it for me.

His fingers are hard to do, so big and powerful and yet so tender. He cupped his hands around mine instinctively to heat me up. I draw each finger tantalizingly close, as if he's a mere hand’s span away and beckoning me from the picture.

Finally, I stand back to see my work. The whole is better than each sum, and my eyes blur with tears.

It's perfect. He's glorious.

Now I just need to be brave enough to show him.

After a shower to get the pond water and paint off, I towel dry looking at the painting. I'm in the “magnificently proud of my genius” phase, aglow with post-creation endorphins.

What will he say when he sees the painting? “That's amazing.” Maybe, “ Good girl.” Nah, I can't imagine that coming out of his mouth, as much as I like it when the Pirate Prince says it to his fated mate.

“Wow, looks like you actually accomplished something.” The sting hurts. No, he won't say that.

Maybe he won’t say anything at all, he’ll just look at me the way he did when I gave him my e-reader.

I fix my gaze on his eyes staring back at me from the painting. The intense ring of neon green seems to flicker in the low light. I want him. I want to show him this painting and then he'll know I want him. Does he feel the same energy? Does he have the same feelings?

My fingers heat as if he's holding them, and I touch the edge of the painting where his hand beckons.

There's a scene in Planet of the Pirate Prince where the pirate-slash-prince “inspects” his cargo.

She's only in a flowing vest which parts as his hands rove over her hips, easing her closer to where he lounges on the throne.

I slide my fingers down my body and, from what I remember, two together would make one of his.

Pressing and probing the strange slit at the apex of his prize’s legs. Sliding his finger inside to find smooth silk, making his captive gasp.

I lean forward against the wall, hand balled against my throbbing clit.

I've been getting myself off for years with pressure and rolling my knuckles: flutters against my clit don't do it, I need hard and heavy vibration.

A magic wand plugged into the mains made by a company who also manufactures earth movers just about does it.

The pirate prince might do magic things with his tongue, but I reckon it wouldn't work on me.

Within a minute, bliss spreads from my core, muscles spasming against my own fist.

Ah. The post orgasm reflection of what the hell I just got off on. Well, I'm allowed my fantasies. I turn the picture to face the wall, avoiding the 2D Gara’s gaze. I'll have to sort through these feelings… later.

After getting dressed I open my laptop, drumming my fingers on my knees as it fires up.

I need to ride this wave of productivity and turn it to marketing for Ellen.

She's going to need to hit the ground running when she opens, and behind the scenes stuff can help build up interest and a following so when she’s ready to take bookings, she’ll kill it.

It takes a few minutes to load my pictures onto my editor before I pick through them with a critical eye.

I need pictures of the barn as it takes shape, but there's no context to the artful collections of stones or the sunset bathing a corner.

Anyone looking at this will say, so what?

I need something to show what it's going to be without spoilers, and I need to build up anticipation, not blow my load early.

There’s also loads of pictures of the guys, especially the first day they crashed into our lives. Holy shit there's some amazing atmospheric ones: a shape rising from the wreckage of the barn, back lit with orange flames. Ellen standing firm, glaring up at Ilia.

A pang drops through me, hitting every rib on the way down to my stomach. I miss Ellen badly. Gara said she’d come back. She has to be on her way, right? There’s only so much time that girl can be on vacation before she goes stir crazy.

There’s a mountain of pictures of the glint on scales zoomed in on Gara’s face. I flick through and whoa, uh, I have a lot of Gara. Gara lying injured, glaring all around him. Gara following close to Ilia, looking out at the land. Gara swimming, strong strokes slicing through the lake water.

He’s gorgeous. And others would probably think he is too, and at least his arresting image would stop doomscrollers enough for a second look.

I zoom through for a photo I know I took yesterday. There: Gara lifting a beam with one of the triplets. He has his arms spread, chest muscles and biceps bursting, his scales bright yellow on his chest and tan brown on his arms.

Perfect.

A pang hits me. I shouldn’t put this picture on the internet…

but honestly, sex sells. And I can be careful.

A bit of editing adds details, like edges and buttons on a non-existent hi-viz jacket.

I make those buttons strain as if struggling to contain him.

He looks sexy as fuck anyways, and now he looks, well…

human. I blur his arms so no one can see scales even if they zoom in, and add a few filters for good measure.

I load that picture behind a bunch of photos of blocks. Now I need to think of a caption. “ Working hard on a new destination B and B. Follow for more sneak peeks.” Basic but clear.

I create a new Photogram account with an arty block photo as the profile and put it up. There. It’s a start.

And it’s not like I’ve ever gone viral. It’ll be fine.