Page 56 of Stone: The Precursor

“You are one high handed bastard, you know that?”

I hide my smile and continue rolling. “Why are you painting this wall this color?” When she doesn’t answer, I look at her and see another scowl. “Cat got your tongue, Countess?”

“It’s for an art piece. Onyx agreed to create it. I like his art.”

It shouldn’t bother me that she didn’t ask me, but why would she? I’m trying to pretend I hate her guts to prevent myself from fucking a 24-year-old.

“What’s he doing?” I ask, not pausing my movements.

“I told him to surprise me. I even asked him to sit for a portrait at some point. He has this intense energy that I am itching to experiment with.”

Right then and there, I decide Onyx won’t be doing shit. I’m doing her art piece.

Camryn bends down, picks up a thick paintbrush, and starts working on the baseboards. The silence doesn’t feel strained. It feels good. Usually, I can’t stand being around people for an extended period of time. My social graces have long since expired, lost in the quagmire that is my past. She seems to not mind the quiet. The jazz music she has on the speaker doesn’t irritate me like Riggs’s heavy metal or Onyx’s monotone, cold-case audio books.

Once the walls are painted, I detach the rollers and pick up the paint rollers, dropping them in her bucket of water and resting the pole against the floor.

Her ass is in my direct line of vision, and I can picture her bent over, offering me all sorts of distractions while she begs for my dick.

Her long braid hangs down, getting in her way, and she just keeps flipping it over her shoulder. The ropey length is perfect to wrap my fingers around. She’s kneeling in the perfect position for me to hold her head, keep that pretty mouth steady while I teach her about how much I like her sassy mouth. She touches her back, and I see the exhaustion on her face. There are slight bags under her eyes. She was up the first night I heard the music. I’m a night owl with the work I do in my barn, so losing sleep is nothing to me.

I look around at the huge gallery. It’s come a long way, and it seems like she’s doing it by herself. Pride lodges in my chest.

Again, I wonder about this woman. She drives an old car, which, from my inspection the night I snuck into the parking garage, was leaking gas and needed a new transmission. She lived at a friend’s place. She gave up living comfortably with that dead asshole Reed Spencer. She hasn’t moved into another expensive residence. Camryn Park could live anywhere. Fuck,she could buy this whole building if she wanted. She’s a millionaire, but here she is kneeling in a run-down gallery, painting on her own, wearing clothing that doesn’t look like a name brand. Then again, she could be wearing a garbage bag, and she’d look like a million dollars. I call her countess, but it’s because of her countenance, her regal bearing. Her pedigree is there, no matter what.I don’t understand it.

“I think that’s enough.”

She looks up and frowns at me. “You can go. I’ll finish the rest.” She dismisses me, and I can’t stop the feral smile at her pert response. What I wouldn’t give to punish her for it.

I crouch next to her and take the paintbrush out of her hands. “I said that’s enough.”

She looks at the brush in my hands, clearly shocked at its removal. Her surprise doesn’t last long, before she snatches it right out of my hands and bends back toward the floor. “Welp, now you can definitely go. I don’t know who gave you the idea that you can tell me what to do.” She painstakingly applies another layer of white paint. She grumbles under her breath, talking to herself. “I mean, I didn’t invite him now did I?”

Her one-sided conversations make me grin, but as much as sparring with her excites me, she needs to get some rest. I haul her up, wrap my hand around her arm, take the paintbrush out of her hands again, and drop it back in the bucket of water with a loud splash. She stumbles when I propel her by pushing on her lower back. “I told you that was enough. Where is your bathroom?” I ask, pretending like I don’t know every inch of the space.

“What?” She spins around and puts her hands on her hips. “Did you hear me? I’m not finished.”

“Where is your bathroom?”

“I don’t need to use the bathroom, Stone.”

“You’re tired.”

Her eyes widen. Confusion is written all over her face. I use it to distract her and move her toward the back.

“I’m tired? What does that have to do with me going to the bathroom?”

I push her through the small door and flick on the fluorescent overhead light. I realize my mistake as soon as I crowd her into the small bathroom. Her scent is stronger like this. That flowery scent I want drenched on my cock. The cramped space makes not touching her damn near impossible. “Wash your hands.”

She looks up at me, and I can count the handful of freckles on her nose. The kaleidoscope of browns mixed in with the green around her pupils draws me in, and I crowd her more, taking advantage until she swallows and faces the small pedestal sink. She turns on the water and begins washing her hands. And like the bastard that I am, I step up behind her, her small frame dwarfed by my bigger body. She’s thin and svelte. All long limbs and slight curves. She stills when my cock brushes her ass. Our eyes study each other in the cracked bathroom mirror.

Chapter 30

I’m going to have a panic attack if he doesn’t stop staring at me. It’s disconcerting to look at him over my shoulder in the cracked bathroom mirror. I have plans to renovate the small, cramped space, making it much bigger, but it’s low on the to-do list.

Now I wish I had renovated it earlier because it needs to be bigger, much fucking bigger. It’s too small, and Stone’s body heat is too warm against my back. I feel the rugged ridge of his dick in the crack of my ass. It’s thick, and my body is gearing up for a spontaneous orgasm. I close my eyes and pray for control. I should tell him to get out, that I don’t need a damn babysitter to help me wash my hands, but my mouth is closed, sealed shut. My eyes, on the other hand, are wide open, cataloging every inch of him.

The garish overhead light reveals every plane of his face. The whitish scar that bisects his left eye. That small heart tattoo under his eye. The knife inked on the side of his face. Even his piercings have my attention. The rings in his lips. The studs in his eyebrow. The sprinkles of gray hair at his temples.