A scratching sound woke her up, but Felicia didn’t want to open her eyes. Once she did, she had to face the fact that last night was different. Hudson Carlyle wasn’t on her to-do-by-thirty list—but it was nice to pretend he was, at least for a little bit. There went the insistent scratching again. Curiosity made her a great scientist. Also, it made her a shitty pretends-to-be-asleep person. She cracked one eye open.
Hudson sat in a chair next to the bed with a sketchpad in his hands and wearing only his boxers. The ends of his hair brushed his cheekbones in some spots and stuck straight up in others, as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. So engrossed in what he was sketching, he didn’t notice she’d woken up, which gave her an opportunity to observe him in his natural habitat. His charcoal pencil flew across the page, but he’d stop every few minutes to rub at the markings or use his nail to scratch at it. Then, he was off again, his pencil moving with a quick confidence and determination.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, not missing a stroke.
Busted. She glanced over at the two mugs on the nightstand. One was dusted with dark black smudges. The other was still pristine. His and hers? She’d bet her Ant Sex Is a Killer T-shirt on it.
“Please tell me there’s tea in that mug.”
One side of his mouth curled up, but his gaze stayed glued to the sketchpad. “What happened to little Miss Morning?”
What happened to her? A night of multiple orgasms that left her sore in places she’d never been aware of until she tried to stretch. “Someone kept me up past my bedtime. What are you drawing?”
That question got him to look up, and the cocky grin he shot her did things to her, good things, the kind of things that led to other things that led to her toes curling in the best possible way. “You.”
The flush screamed up her chest to the hollow at the base of her neck. “Naked?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than normal as she yanked the covers up to her chin.
Hudson chuckled and used his free hand to tug at the comforter. “The human form is one of an artist’s first inspirations.”
“Now that sounds like a bad line.” One she wasn’t giving into. She kept a firm grip on the bedspread.
“Just sit back and let me sketch you.” He didn’t tug at the material again. He just waited for her to decide.
She should say no. It didn’t matter if he was Hughston. She was still naked. Yeah. This was a total no-go. At least it was until she looked up at him because it wasn’t Hughston sketching her. It was Hudson. And she did trust him.
“No face?” she asked, relaxing her hold.
“No face.” He winked at her. “Just like a good cell phone nude.”
A flare of jealousy went off like a firework in her chest, and she jolted up before she could stop herself, the comforter falling to her waist. “You get a lot of those?”
“Hold that pose,” he said, suddenly all business. “I want to get you just like that.”
For the next twenty minutes, she did just that—well, as best she could; she’d never realized what a fidgeter she was—and watched Hudson work. It was fascinating. He didn’t flirt, didn’t tease, didn’t pull out any of his usual tricks. Instead, he was 100 percent focused on his work. God, it was hot—especially since he was only in his boxers, giving her an eyeful of sinewy muscle. Of course, even with all she had to look at, her gaze kept going back to his forearm as he drew. Watching the thick muscles in that part of his arm move as he sketched was mesmerizing—and a total turn-on. Needing something to distract herself before she lunged across the bed and jumped him, she grabbed ahold of the first topic of conversation that popped into her mind.
“Have you ever thought about just telling your family about Hughston now that your mom’s out of mourning?”
His pencil slowed down, but he kept sketching. “It’s crossed my mind.”
Oh no, he wasn’t getting off that easily. “And?”
“It’s been this way for so long.” He paused, laying his charcoal pencil and the sketchpad down on the nightstand. “I should have… I should have said something years ago. But after what happened to my dad—and the fact that I’d basically lied to him for years—it feels like I’d be disrespecting his memory if they knew now.”
The pain in his voice made her ache for him, but he wouldn’t want to hear that. No doubt it would break some kind of guy code. So instead, she rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled across the bed to him. His hot gaze caressed her as she moved, gliding from her mouth to her dangling breasts to the hard tips of her nipples. His cock now strained against his blue boxers, and he pulled her closer as he sat, legs spread, hands white knuckling the arms of his chair, and a sexy smirk on his face. He knew just what he was doing to her because she was doing it to him. The little delay to draw out the anticipation got them both hot.
“So, you’re telling me,” she said, resting her hands on his strong thighs, inching them higher until the tips of her fingers were underneath the thin cotton, “the man who figured out how to finagle his workaholic brother into marrying, and how to distract his mom out of mourning by planting the idea that Sawyer should get married…that man can’t figure out how to reveal he’s the fabulously talented painter with an international following?” His eyes had gone dark, the pupils dilated with a lust equal to her own as she leaned toward him. “You’re a man who’s used to fixing things for everyone else and not for yourself. Sometimes you have to disregard your standing hypothesis and open yourself up to the possibilities. Maybe it’s time you took something for yourself.”
By the time she finished, her lips were practically touching his and her body was trembling with the effort not to close that distance between them. She wanted Hudson. Badly. But she needed him to hear what she was saying, too. Of course, if she’d been using the big brain in her head, she wouldn’t be trying to have this conversation while naked and desperate to feel him filling her up and stretching her until he was imprinted on every part of her. What could she say? It was beyond impossible not to touch him when he was practically naked.
He released his grip on the chair’s arms, but instead of giving in and touching her, he relaxed back with a cocky grin and cupped his dick through his boxers. “This has gotten way too serious of a conversation with a woman who has just-been-fucked-all-night-long hair.”
Using every ounce of her willpower not to watch him stroke his hard length. If she did, she’d lose their unspoken war of wills. “Would you rather talk about the color of my panties?”
“You’re not wearing any.”
“Oops,” she said, sitting back, spreading her legs wide, and slipping her fingers between her slick folds. “You caught me.”
“Fuck,” he groaned. “Get your feet up on the chair now.”