Total pages in book: 362
Estimated words: 347293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1736(@200wpm)___ 1389(@250wpm)___ 1158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 347293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1736(@200wpm)___ 1389(@250wpm)___ 1158(@300wpm)
Then he suddenly lifted me off the desk, his large hand cradling the back of my head. I gasped, stunned by his sheer strength as his hips plunged upward. I grasped his shoulders, my senses overwhelmed.
Potent desire spread through me. I arched in his embrace, my body aching and tense.
“Please,” I heard myself whisper—beg.
Ash answered without hesitation, knowing what I wanted. Needed. He moved faster, grinding against me as he took me right to that slick edge and then over it. I let out a scream as hot, tight spasms shook me.
Ash’s head kicked back as he drew me down on his cock. A roar of release escaped his throat while he held me tight to his chest. It was a sound that must have shaken the walls of the palace.
One last shudder ran through my body as I clung to him, trembling with aftershocks of pleasure. Moments passed, and I became aware of the fact that he’d lowered me to the edge of the desk again, but was still deep inside me, cool and throbbing.
He kissed me. The one before had been that of unyielding need. This was a gentle and languid benediction.
His fingers trailed down my cheek as he eased himself from me and stepped back. Wavy strands of hair fell against a slightly flushed cheek as he pulled his pants up, his chin pointed downward.
Was he blushing?
I thought so, and there was such a sweetness to it that I felt my heart do several little skips.
Leaving his pants unbuttoned, he looked over at me. Only the thinnest streaks of eather were visible as one side of his lips curled up. “I wish to paint you,” he said, crossing the distance between us. “With you like this.”
I glanced down at myself. “You wish to paint me topless—wait.” Surprise jolted me. “You can paint?”
One shoulder lifted. “I used to when I was younger. Can’t say I was any good at it.”
I gaped at him. “What have you painted?”
“Landscapes—mostly Mount Rhee,” he said while pulling my blouse sleeves back up, referencing where the draken resided. “And how the meadows would look if filled with poppies. Sometimes, I did portraits.”
My mouth was still hanging open. “I can’t believe you’re just now telling me you can paint.”
“It’s not something I honestly thought of before.” He tugged some hair free from under my shirt collar. “Truthfully, it’s not something I even thought of until now. I haven’t painted in years.”
Years likely meant decades. All I could do was stare at him in stunned silence. Honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Those long fingers of his were talented, and I’d always thought they were far too graceful for someone who had only ever handled a sword or dagger. I knew—
“Portraits?” I asked. “You said you’ve painted portraits?”
Ash nodded.
A sudden sense of knowing filled me. “You painted the portraits of your parents.”
He didn’t answer immediately. “I did.”
I was once more staring open-mouthed at him.
“When Kolis killed my mother, he also ensured that all traces of her were destroyed,” he said after a moment. “My father was too preoccupied with a babe he never planned on rearing alone and grieving to stop it.”
A bitter knot of grief settled like a stone in my chest.
“So, there were no portraits of her. When my father was killed, there was nothing left behind of him either. I already had no real image of my mother in my mind, and I knew that as the years passed, I would forget what my father looked like, too. I didn’t want that.” His forehead creased. “I painted him first—when the memories were still fresh. Then, with Nektas’s help, I painted my mother. It was the last time I painted.”
Sadness mingled with awe as I murmured, “My gods.”
Grabbing hold of the sides of my vest, Ash’s gaze met mine. “What?”
“It’s just…beautiful and tragic,” I said, breathing through the sting in the back of my throat. “I wish I had better, more eloquent words.”
He paused to kiss me. “Your words are always good enough.”
Actually, his were. Mine were poor imitations. “You can paint, Ash.”
He gave me another half-shrug.
“Seriously,” I insisted. “Your mother looks real.”
Pausing, he frowned. “That’s because she was real, liessa.”
“I know. That’s not what I meant. I never would’ve guessed that someone who hadn’t seen her—who only had the memories of another to go from—was the one who had painted her. That takes real skill. You’re not just good,” I told him. “You’re really, really good.”
Ash was quiet.
“And I’m not just saying that because I can’t draw a straight line.”
His lips twitched. “I’m sure you can draw a straight line.”
“No, I can’t. If you don’t believe me, ask Ezra the next time we see her.” As soon as I said her name, I yearned to see her. It was hard to move past it. “She’s witnessed my poor attempts at doodling. I’m bad, like really, really bad.”