I fucking wanted to own her body, even if just for tonight.
“Fuck!” I roared as I orgasmed. My body tensed as it wound its way along my spine and through my body. I dug my palms into the bed as it consumed me. And I lost myself in it enough for Sophia to take the moment and kiss me through it. Her mouth on mine felt so goddamn good that I couldn’t drag my lips from hers. I opened myself up to her and allowed her to wring every drop of whatever-the-fuck she was after from that kiss.
And when her * squeezed around my dick, and she came, I thought I might come all over again it felt that good. Instead, I waited for her to finish, and then I collapsed onto the bed next to her.
After I’d caught my breath, I left her to go and dispose of the condom, and then came straight back. I’d intended to have her again, but she curled into me and closed her eyes as she let out a long sigh. I lay next to her for a long time, listening to her sleep. Sophia was a quiet sleeper but every now and then a soft moan escaped her lips. Christ, this woman exuded a sexiness she wasn’t even aware of, and that turned me on so damn much.
My intention hadn’t been to stay the night, but tiredness crept over me and I closed my eyes. As sleep claimed me, I had a vague sense of arms and legs over my body, but I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes. I drifted off into a deep sleep, and for once, the nightmares didn’t claim me.
11
Sophia
I pulled my legs up onto the armchair and curled them under me. Resting the sketchpad on my lap, I finished off the drawing I’d started on Christmas night after the bike ride with Griff.
Another one of him.
The man inspired me. I hadn’t picked up my sketchpad as much in the last six months as I had this week. I’d been so consumed with a huge workload, buying and renovating my first home, and spending time with Magan, that I’d lost the urge to draw. Making art had gone by the wayside, too, and this had all concerned me somewhat because as long as I could remember, doing those two things had been like breathing to me. Creating had always been my saviour - a solace in shitty times. Over the years, as I’d grown older and started putting my pieces back together, creating had become food for my soul more than anything.
“Morning.”
Startled, I jumped and knocked the sketchpad onto the floor. Looking up, I found Griff leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest while he watched me. He’d dressed in his jeans, but his chest was bare, and I couldn’t help but stare at his muscles for a few moments. I’d expected to find ink on his skin, and while he did have a Storm logo on his back, the rest of him was free of ink. He also didn’t have his boots on, and there was something about a man standing in front of me barefoot and shirtless – the vision made my tummy flutter.
“Shit,” I muttered. “Way to give a woman a heart attack.”
I scrambled off the chair to retrieve the sketch before he saw it. He didn’t need to know I’d now drawn him twice this week. However, he pushed off from the door and bent to pick up the pad at the same time as me. Luckily, I got to it first and scooped it up before he could.
As we both stood, the corners of his lips curled into a smile. “Been drawing again, sweetheart?” he asked, and I wanted to take the pad and smack him with it.
I closed the pad and placed it on my desk. We were in my art room and while he spent a minute looking it over, I asked, “Did you sleep well?”
His gaze came back to me. “Yes.” He seemed a little distant, as if he was thinking about something.
“Do you want some coffee?” I asked, ignoring the fact he was a little lost in his thought. At his nod, I led the way into the kitchen.
“You look like you’ve been awake for hours,” he observed as I made the coffee.
It was still only early – six thirty – but I’d been awake since four. “I suffer from insomnia so I’m always awake from around three.”
“So you draw?”
I eyed him as I poured hot water from the kettle into our mugs. “Not always. Some mornings I paint, others, I read. And there’s always movies – they get me through hours of sleeplessness.”
“Painting…as in art? Or do you paint walls at three am?”
I smiled. “Art. I really dislike painting walls. I mean, I’ll do it, and I love the result, but damn, that job requires the kind of discipline and attention I don’t have in me.”
His eyes narrowed on me. “What does that mean?”
Passing him his coffee, I explained, “I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda girl. I make shit up as I go, and love spontaneity. Painting a wall requires doing a job in a particular way and not missing any steps, you know? Steps annoy me. I don’t want steps.”