Page 61 of Stone: The Precursor

Turning back to it, I nod. “Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s from him.”

Without facing her, I ask. “Who?”

“The same man whose name made you blush like you’d been caught with your hands down your pants.” She chuckles. “Don’t think I didn’t catch it.”

Only Sophia. If only she knew how many times my hand had been down my pants when it came to said man. I face her again and cross my arms. “I wasn’t blushing.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. He brought them right before you showed up. And I would blush too if I was as horny for him asyou are. He’s an assault to the senses in all the best ways. I love Jace, but that man? Holy smokes he is hot. Panties wet for sure.”

Sighing, I rub my temples. Definitely hot. Definitely wet panties. “So that’s why it smelled like him.”

She cackles and then smirks. “You have it bad.”

“Yup.” I sigh again. “Jace caught me wearing Stone’s jacket.”

Sophia’s eyes go wide. “Oh my. Does that mean you fucked the tattooed sex god?”

“I wish, but no. He gave it to me that night you and Jace broke up or whatever the hell happened between you.”

Sophia’s eyes look haunted. “Yeah that night was one for the books.” She smiles tremulously before tilting her head. “So I gather you haven’t given it back?”

I shake my head. I don’t add that I also have his ring. It currently rests between my breasts. I walk back to Stone’s flower arrangement and touch one of the delicate blooms. The wild beauty does remind me of him now that I think about it; untamed and unbridled. The same way he looks at me. The way he makes me feel.

“What are you going to do about it?” Sophia murmurs behind me.

“Not a damn thing. And don’t think I didn’t notice that weird exchange between you and Jace about him.” Sophia looks at me, her gaze direct and cagey. “What do you know? About him?”

“Honestly? Not much. No amount of blowjobs will get Jace to tell me what is up with his friend, but I’m starting to get an idea.”

“Gross, Soph. I don’t want to hear about blow jobs with Jace.”

Sophia giggles. “Sorry. All I’ll say is this. When he and Stone talk late at night, it’s always hush hush. From what I’ve gathered, Stone isn’t a man to play with. I know you want to bone him, but just be careful.”

“There is no boning happening. The man treats me like a spoiled child. So no warning is necessary. But what has he done?”

“He’s been to prison.”

Shock hits me, and then I understand. I can see it now. The intense way he is, his eyes moving constantly, taking in every detail. “For what?”

“Murder.”

Openingthe door to my apartment a few hours later, I lean against the wall. My fingers are cramped from my session at the studio. Tonight was the most productive I’ve been, and I know why. Sophia’s little bomb from earlier stuck in my head all night and fueled my creativity. I couldn’t stop, feverishly painting some of the darkest stuff I’ve ever done.

My curiosity about the fact that Stone had been convicted of murder drove me to the studio, and I sat down, drawing out my curiosity about what he had done. My imagination created image after image of him killing someone. The gore and horror of it should have made me shy away from him, but it only made me more insatiable for knowledge. What kind of murder? Who had he killed? Why?

So I painted, sketched, and sculpted every possible idea. Sometimes Stone's face was covered. Other times, his hands in my paintings were drenched in blood. The same blood red paint that stained my hands a few weeks ago when someone had snuck into the studio.

He used knives in one drawing. Rope in another. Each creation is more sinister and savage than the last.

Even now, hours later, I can still feel the thrill of drawing him, painting him as a killer. Suddenly, an urge comes over me, and my pussy tingles. Tearing off my shoes, I head to the shower, needing to get clean, because I shouldn’t be turned on by his violence.

I’ve always been fascinated by death since my mother’s death. Growing up, I was well aware that she had died at home from a brain aneurysm. Her body lay in her bed for hours. I snuck books about decomposition and rigor mortis. Fascinated by the knowledge that her body had been decomposing for hours before Maria, our housekeeper, found her.

It was one of my favorite subjects in medical school. I secretly fantasized about becoming a mortician for a hot minute before my father quashed any notion of that by telling me that I was going to become a surgeon. And honestly, I didn’t mind that part. I wanted to investigate the human body, but on my terms. Not for clout.

The sound of the bike has me heading to the window and looking down. I observe him as he dismounts his bike, letting it lean against the kickstand. The street light shines on him, dressed in all black. A dark T-shirt molds to his chest and arms, exposing his tattoo-covered arms. Ropes of muscles move as he lifts his arms and pulls off his helmet, and I suck in a breath when I see that he has a bandana covering the lower half of his face. It’s the bottom of a skull. His dark, salt and pepper hair is sweaty, and I want to touch it, run my hands through the sweat-soaked strands, hold his face while I kiss him. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more. Unbidden, his name escapes my lips, and he whips his head up, staring at me. I don’t move from the window. I know he can see me, and I want him to see me. I want that intense, probing gaze. He doesn’t move, and my pussy throbs, wishing he would come upstairs and watch me withthose stormy eyes. I lick my lips, and I swear I hear him curse behind his face covering.