Beg For You (Rocktown Ink Book 1) by Sherilee Gray

Author:Sherilee Gray [Gray, Sherilee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-10T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Cal

I woke with a start and shot into a sitting position. I twisted, checking out the bed beside me where Cassy had fallen asleep naked, sweaty, and completely sated.

She was gone.

Fuck.

I scrubbed my hands over my face.

I’d freaked her out. Shit, she’d been crying, and I’d brought her up here and gotten her naked. How long ago had she left? I hated the idea of her wandering around on her own at night.

No, I hadn’t fucked her, but resisting her had been so damn hard. I’d ended up jerking off while I ate her pussy, then later while I played with her some more, I’d put her hand on my dick and got her to do it for me. Christ.

A movement caught my eye across the room.

My breath caught in my throat. Cassy stood in front of the windows. She was wrapped in a blanket and looking at one of my paintings. She lifted it carefully and leaned it against the wall, checking out the one behind it. I had them piled up all over the apartment, not sure what to do with them. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her seeing them. They were personal, a piece of me. The only people who’d ever seen my paintings were Dane and Bull. And, of course, Harvey had seen some of the early ones. That’s it, and that’s the way I wanted to keep it.

After swinging my legs out of bed, I tugged on my jeans, not bothering to do them up, and walked over to her. “I thought you left.” I didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that’s how it came out. I had no idea what my problem was, but seeing her standing there wrapped in one of my blankets, hair all messy and sexy after letting me get her off, while she looked at my work was making me feel a whole lot of things I didn’t know what to do with.

She lifted her head. “Did you do these?” she asked, still looking down at one of them.

I crossed my arms, feeling more self-conscious than I had in my life. “Yeah.”

She finally lifted her head and looked at me. Her cheeks were pink and there was a crease down the side of her face where she’d obviously had her cheek pressed against the sheets. My gut tightened.

“These are…” She shook her head. “Cal, you’re incredibly talented. I mean, I knew you were when I saw the beautiful sketch you did for me, but these”—she looked back at the paintings she’d lined up—“they’re something else.” She looked back at me. “They’re stunning, Cal.” She crouched down in front of one. “Dark, moody…haunting. I can actually feel the emotions that went into these pieces.”

Suddenly, I felt stripped bare. Raw.

The group of paintings she was looking at had been done about a year after the accident, when I was still struggling with my TBI, and I’d been desperately trying to get my brother back.

When I was full of rage and resentment, and frustration.

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