He takes a brush and studies me with a furrowed brow. “Where would you like me to paint?” “Anywhere you’d like.” A slow, sexy smile crosses his lips as he dips the brush in a ruby red. “Now, it’s my turn to ask the questions,” he says as he paints. Starting at my clavicle, he makes thin strokes, cascading down toward the swell of my breasts and stopping short of the lacy fabric. “Why don’t I ever see you leaving the building on a date?” Tingling sensations run from my chest down to my core as the brush lines the skin. “I’m happier with the men I conjure up in my head than the ones in the real
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