The Painter’s Daughter Read Online Margot Scott

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love, Virgin Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
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Tension wound tighter and tighter between my legs. I touched his chest; his heart was rioting like a caged animal. I shivered and he must’ve felt it because within seconds his hands were on me, dispersing their warmth across my goose-prickled skin. Unlike his kiss, his touch was cautious, each caress a question to which my body responded with a resounding yes.

He held my waist, then slid his palms to the small of my back. I whimpered against his mouth, wishing he’d move them lower. He pulled me close, trailing kisses along my jaw. His stubble tickled my cheek. I laughed.

I pushed my breasts against him, and the rumble in his chest rattled my body like a small seismic shift. He drew back to look at me. “I need to know that you want this, Paige. Just say the word and I’ll stop.”

The word he was hinting at was no, and no was the last thing I wanted to say to him. I closed my eyes as he stroked my arms, his touch featherlight.

“I want this,” I said. “You.”

He kissed me, sliding his hands beneath the robe to grip my backside. I rocked against him, gasping when I felt the bulge of his erection against my inner thigh. My father was hard and there was no mistaking the cause. It was me. Not some art model or a remnant from his past on a screen. Me. His little girl.

“My God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered between kisses. “And soft. How are you so fucking soft?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled like this, my top and bottom teeth bared, eyelids pinched, vision blurred. His tongue skimmed my bottom lip—another question. I opened my mouth, and he delved inside, drawing a cry from deep in my throat. He tasted like spearmint and black tea. I followed his lead, mimicking each nip and lick. This wasn’t my first French kiss, but I was woefully out of practice.

He tugged his shirt off in one fluid motion and pulled me flush against him, flooding my chest and belly with heat as his cock continued to nudge me through his pants. I wanted to see it, to hold it in my hands, but I couldn’t make myself reach for it. What if I stroked too hard or not hard enough?

I groaned softly as he palmed my breasts, running his thumbs over my nipples. Plumping the soft mound, he took a puckered tip into his warm, wet mouth.

“You have the most delicious nipples,” he said. “I can only imagine how good the rest of you tastes.”

I moaned and clenched my inner muscles at the thought of him putting his mouth on my clit. He pushed my breasts together, gliding his tongue back and forth over my nipples.

My fingers twitched, restless. I weaved them into his hair. He was making me feel amazing, but what the hell was I doing for him? His cock was there, begging to be touched, and I was too damn scared to do anything about it.

His gaze caught mine. “You okay?”

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Just fine?”

“More than fine.”

I kissed him so he couldn’t look at me.

Goddamn, those hands. They were everywhere—gliding up my back, down my chest, over my breasts and belly, between my legs. His fingers grazed my folds and I shivered, whimpering around our tongues, unable to keep my hips from rocking. He pressed the heel of his hand against me, putting pressure on my clit. My father’s palm fit my mound like they’d been made for each other, like he’d sculpted me from clay to be his perfect match. I gave myself over to it, to him. I was his, whether he wanted me or not. Luckily, it seemed he did.

He dipped two fingers between my folds and spread my moisture over my clit, drawing circles that made my toes curl in delight. My nails etched into his shoulders, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His erection continued to prod my thigh, a reminder of all the things I should’ve been doing to him.

“I want…” I panted. “I can’t…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Hearing him call me sweetheart made my eyes burn with unshed tears. “I want to touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“But…” I leaned my head on his shoulder, my thoughts coming at me in illicit pictures rather than words. He smoothed my hair.

“Paige, where do you want to touch me?”

I wanted to touch him where he’d touched me and everywhere else, to memorize the constellation of freckles on his chest and back. I wanted to know him better than he knew himself, to taste his elbows and the backs of his knees.

He grasped my hands and placed them on either side of his face.

“Start here.”

His hand returned to my clit. Meanwhile, I made it my mission to learn this man. I skimmed his cheekbones and brows, traced the edge of his jaw. I licked the pulse points below his ears, and kissed his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, and his tight, tan nipples. I mapped him, this artist who had made me, raking my fingernails down his chest and outlining the veins along his arm with my tongue.


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