Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 41621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
How dare he try to take care of my woman?
That’s my job.
I should have known she needed help, and that’s my fault. One more thing that shows me I’m not good enough for her. I need to do better. But if Phil tries to help her again, I’ll be tearing limbs off something other than trees.
“I haven’t seen you in a minute,” Tess says shyly. “I hope you’ve been doing well.” She smiles, but her words sound tense, like she’s trying hard to be nice. “Not getting stuck on any more fences, right?”
Desire snarls huge in my chest, like I haven’t jerked off thinking about her body against mine multiple times a day since then. I wake up with an erection. I milk myself in the morning, in the shower, after the shower… Always thinking it’s her wrapped around my cock.
“Been busy,” I mumble. Busy obsessing about you.
I could have spent that time figuring out my problems. Finding a lawyer I trust to tell me what Lindsay’s lease says. Deciding if I should sign it. Seeing what all the bad tax letters mean that I keep getting.
But now all my time belongs to Tess.
I want to strap her to a trunk and put myself in between her thighs, and force my dick all the way inside her. Until my balls slap her ass. Until she’s coming and gushing all over my dick. Probably crying too, but I will soothe her with my mouth after. I don’t know if that’s what people do, but it’s what I want to do.
But I can’t do that. She deserves better than to be ravaged by an illiterate recluse that looks like the cousin of Bigfoot.
Every time she poses for one of the classes, I’m watching. I watch Lindsay rearranging Tess’s body and imagine it’s my hands, my mouth, making contact with that deliciously smooth skin. I growl and grumble at the artists looking at her barely dressed. I obsess over the way the light cups the underside of her breasts. The soft pinkness of her shoulders. The rolls on her back settling softly atop one another, like she’s all the best parts of a woman stacked together.
And once everyone’s done, I go in and steal the art some of them leave behind like diamonds discarded unknowingly. They’re drawing on cheap flimsy paper like it doesn’t matter.
But, it does. Every drawing should be in a museum.
So I take it all myself. For my personal museum.
I plaster them on my ceiling, on the walls. Her sketches are the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. The first thing I see before I pass out with my dick in my hand.
Now my cabin is a temple and the only goddess I know is Tess.
Some of the drawings are good, but none of them capture how beautiful she actually is. They don’t get how her curves are even wilder than the forest. How her hair flows and twists like the river. Or those sexy toenails she paints like all the flower petals in the meadow.
“Your fingernails are nice,” I twist the words from my lips, forcing them out through my trepidation, my eyes locking back on the road, afraid I’ll see her shake her head or laugh at my simple compliment.
“Really?” Instead, her voice chirps like a happy bird. She holds her hands in front of her to look. Right now she’s done something with polka dots on each nail. “Thank you. I really like them too.”
Nice? Why did I say they are ‘nice’? They are ten-thousand times better than nice.
“They’re art,” I manage with a surge of confidence in my chest. “You’re an artist.”
Her gaze softens as she turns and takes me in. Her eyes feel like they are licking me wherever they touch. “You get it, don’t you? Why I paint them?”
I jerk my chin in a nod. Up and down. Up and down, hard enough that my brain bounces around inside my skull.
“Are you an artist?” Tess reaches my way, her brow in a curious knot as she brushes her fingers along my temple and I nearly drive us off the road. “It looks like you’ve got a little pastel here.”
I can’t tell her, but I haven’t just been stealing art. I’ve been stealing supplies, because I have to draw her. If I’m not sleeping or stalking her, I’m drawing her. I have to see if I can capture Tess. I want her with me whether she wants to be there or not.
“I’m not an artist,” I say. “I just…draw. Things. Sometimes.”
You. Your tits. Your ass. What I imagine between your legs. The slope of your back and the way you tip your head over your shoulder. And your toes.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Your. Toes.
“That makes you an artist. You don’t just draw, you make art.” She raises her other hand for me to look. “Like me.”