But none of that was what Mace was looking at. No, he was standing near the wall of windows that faced the street below and his eyes were glued to the large canvas that was leaning up against one of the foundation columns. I made my way back to the kitchen and tried not to keep sneaking looks at him as he studied my painting. Over the years, I’d gotten used to even the most critical eye studying my work but, for some reason, my gut knotted at the sight of Mace absorbed by whatever it was he saw in the swath of colors that I’d spent the better part of a week trying to get just right.
“We should get that taken care of,” I finally said when Mace made no move to return to the kitchen. His stony eyes lifted to hold mine and I tried to figure out what he was thinking. And to my dismay, I really wanted to hear what he thought of my painting. Which was ridiculous because my art was the one area in my life that I’d never let anyone else touch. No amount of praise or criticism had ever affected why I put my brush to canvas or changed the colors I saw in my head. So why did I want Mace to tell me he saw what I did? Why did I care if he saw the things I’d felt when I’d picked up my brush and made my first stroke?
But he said nothing. His expression remained blank as he started walking towards me and I was just about to drop my gaze when I saw his fingers reach for the first button on his shirt. And then time slowed as I watched the man close the distance between us, his swagger confident as he finished working the buttons free, each one exposing another small piece of tanned flesh. My mouth suddenly felt dry as he peeled the shirt back and I couldn’t say if it was the sight of his bronzed, muscled chest or the intricate tattoos that covered his body that had me unable to catch my breath.
An array of colors and shapes covered Mace’s arms from his shoulders to his wrists and the artist in me wanted to examine every line and explore every color but my eyes caught on the large letters scrawled across his chest just above his nipples and spreading across his pectoral muscles to meet up with the ink on his arms. Somehow I managed to make out the words Fiat Justitia.
“Let justice be done,” I automatically murmured as I translated the Latin.
Mace came to a stop before me but I couldn’t rip my eyes from the tattoo – I had so many questions I wanted to ask about why those words, and what they meant to him, but even more, I wanted to reach out and trace the edges of each letter to test the texture. I wasn’t a stranger to tattoos, but somehow seeing them on this man was like I’d never understood their true beauty. His body was so much more than just the canvas to display some tattoo artist’s work. He was the art, the masterpiece.
I was about to throw caution to the wind and ask him about his ink when my eyes dropped just a little bit and I nearly swallowed my tongue. A glint of metal shone on either side of his right nipple and it actually took me several long seconds to realize it was a piercing. The lust that had been simmering in my belly exploded as I imagined what it would feel like between my teeth and I actually had to lick my lips to try and get some moisture on them because my entire mouth had turned into the fucking Sahara.
A small exhale of breath caught my attention and I finally looked up and saw that Mace was staring at me…no, not me, my mouth. He looked like he wanted…
Fuck.
I nearly stumbled backwards as it hit me that the gorgeous man standing just inches from me was likely gay and if the hunger in his eyes was anything to go by, he wanted me. It was another look I was all too familiar with but instead of feeling the need to escape like I usually did, I felt my body drawing up tight with anticipation. And then I made the mistake of looking down and any doubts I had fled when I saw the clear outline of Mace’s erection against his pants. This time I did step back and nearly tripped over the chair I’d forgotten about. Mace’s hand came up to steady me.
God, I needed to get a fucking grip. “Um, you should sit,” I stammered as I put a hand down on the chair to turn it towards him. I tried to not let on that I was also using it to support much of my weight.