Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

in slashes of violet and indigo oils, connecting some inner emotion with his brush strokes.

He swept my hair back and dropped one of my bra straps down my arm.

Then the other.

“This just needs to go.” He reached over to unclasp my bra, sliding it off and tossing it to the floor. He took my hands in his. “Will you lay down for me?”

“For you?” I gripped his fingers tighter as I lay back, wondering where this was all heading. “I would do most anything.”

I was rewarded with a slow sexy smile. The one that promised good things to come.

His gaze shifted to rest on the pots of finger paint, then back to me. A questioning tilt to his head.

“That would be so cold. Don’t you think?”

“I have no idea. Shall I try?”

A burst of laughter bubbled up from my belly and filled the room. It was part delight, part I’m not sure about this, part anticipation.

His fingers snapped at the sides of my panties. “These are very pretty. I don’t want to get any paint on them.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, pressing my weight into my heels to lift up.

He inched the lace over my hips, then slowly, slowly down my thighs, and untangled them from my feet.

Striker had a way of making me feel graceful. He had a natural rhythm, an elegance to him that would be lost to those who only knew him in hardened operator mode.

Well—ha!—hardened as in body of steel ready to go after evil and malice.

I was the only one who got to experience this kind of hardened operator mode. I reached out and traced my finger over the tip of his erection, wrapped in underwear and not happy to be constrained. “These come off too, please.”

I didn’t have to ask twice. He peeled off the rest of his clothes, then crawled naked up on the table with me, lifting the pot of blue and showing it to me.

I shivered with anticipation.

He dipped his finger in, his eyes scanning over my body. He started at my calf. In cursive, he traced out the word silken.

Twisting, he looked at my belly, quivering with this new game. There, his index finger drew soft.

Striker bit his upper lip, tipping his head from side to side. He lifted my hand above my head, then slid off the table, crouching low, his head resting against the flat surface. He was focused on my side that had been slashed by the serial killer. Over a hundred stitches tugged me back together. Those scars were vulnerable to me.

Striker dipped his finger into the pot. I watched in the mirror over my buffet table as he looped voluptuous.

That was what he saw when he looked at my side? Not damaged?

Trading for a pot of white, on my arm, from wrist to shoulder, strength.

Caress on the other arm.

Nibble worked its way up my neck.

I kicked at him as he traced tickle across the arch of my foot.

Lifted to my elbows. It was erotic as heck watching him paint arouse on my inner thigh.

Oh, yeah, I was aroused all right, and I was gratified to see the drip of moisture shine the head of his cock, letting me know this was doing good things for him, too.

I knew from our years together that Striker liked slow. He enjoyed the idea of using sex as an escape into physical sensations of love and joy, and he felt no reason, except when I was asking for a quicky, to hurry things.

Tonight, there was no rush. Slow was perfection.

This was so much better than a massage. Striker’s fingertips swirled over my body, making me feel beautiful and treasured.

His little kisses, licks, and nips punctuated the loving words he coiled over my skin.

“I think the base is done.”

When Striker started a canvas, he did just this. He began by painting words. Thoughts that he wanted to consider as he added the next layer of paints building the oils up one step at a time so that there was depth and intricacy.

The base was done. We had just begun…

I closed my eyes and let myself move to a meditative place, experiencing the sensation of his fingertips creating serpentine lines as they stroked over my most vulnerable places.

My muscles would clench and release as he moved over my body.

Lifting, repositioning, pausing as he contemplated.

“What are you painting on me?” I whispered.

“You are Eve. The only woman. You are brave enough and strong enough to reach for the apple of knowledge. I’m painting you into that garden.”

His fingers swirled on my hip. “In your garden, you can be all things, but mostly, you can breathe the heady perfume of the flowers. You can swing lazily from the vines. You can just experience and rest.”

“Mmmm.”

When his fingers finally left me, Striker whispered in my ear, “I just need to wash off the paint for the other places I want to explore.”

I let a lazy smile slip across my face as I listened to him climb down and move into the kitchen. I rolled languidly over so I could see his handiwork in the mirror.

Striker had indeed turned me into Eve. I looked like a woman lost amongst the flower and vines of the rainforest. It was so beautiful.

When Striker emerged, drying his hands, I patted my hand behind my back. He followed my invitation. Crawling onto the table and lining up to spoon with me—his hard-on teasing against my ass.

And that just wasn’t close enough.

I tapped his hip and spun as much as the tabletop would allow me to.

Striker angled himself on his side, giving me enough room to lay back with my legs draping over his hips. I rested my head back as I