He traces my lips with the pad of his thumb. “You see a lot. Know what I see? Another Sia, all soft and sweet in a world of color, hiding under all that black.”

“That Sia’s gone.”

“No, she’s not.” Ray leans down and kisses me. “She’s here.” His lips slide across my cheek, and he kisses each of the piercings in my ear. “And here.”

My eyes close and I tilt my head to the side as he feathers kisses down my neck, following the tats down my arm. “And here.”

Warmth suffuses my body, liquid pleasure flowing through my veins. My back arches, and his lips close around my left nipple. “Here.”

Breathless, I sigh. “Where else?”

“You sure you want to do this?” Ray toys with my nipple ring, flipping it back and forth, the little tugging gesture sending every bit of heat rushing to my center. “When I said I was happy to just chill with you, I meant it.”

“Hmmm.” I raise a sarcastic eyebrow. “Maybe I should put my shirt back on and think about it.”

“I have a better idea.” Ray tweaks the ring with his finger and thumb, and I gasp as pleasure sizzles through me. “Paint something. Naked.”

“You want me to paint for you…naked?”

Ray runs his hand through my hair and tugs my head back. “I’ll make sure you enjoy every minute of it.”

How many years has it been since I locked everything away? With the past already spilling out around me, do I really want to open that door? “I kinda made a decision to give it up. Couldn’t we just—”

Ray slants his mouth over mine. This time his kiss is rough, demanding, his firm lips forcing my mouth open, his tongue delving inside, marking every inch. With his free hand, he sweeps his fingers under my skirt, and then teases me through my panties, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my clit. “Paint for me.”

“Ray…” I rock into his touch, my thighs trembling. “I’m… It’s been so long… I’ve moved on.”

He twirls my pink-streaked hair around his finger. “Your apartment says you didn’t move on. This”—he tugs the color in my hair—“says you didn’t move on. And what happened in the alley behind Rabid Ink, and the other day in the machine shop… The things you aren’t telling me, they say you didn’t move on from whatever it was you’re trying to leave behind.”

With a rough finger, he shoves my panties aside and strokes over my folds, fuzzing my brain with delicious pleasure. “Paint anything. It doesn’t have to be a picture. I’ll be right here. I’ll probably get off just watching you hold the brush.”

My mouth waters at the thought of opening that door, holding the brush in my hand, splashing color on the canvas, the bold, wild strokes that can’t be made with a tattoo machine. He’s offering me freedom in the safety of his arms.

What are you afraid of? Torment asked me not so long ago. What kind of fighter are you?

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Ray says. “Trust me.”

I hesitate for only a moment longer, and then I give in to longing and step into the ring. “Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, I have set up my easel on the dining table. Ray has thrown a drop cloth on the floor to protect the carpet. I’ve added a few oils to my palate—the only ones that haven’t dried out—softened my brushes, and arranged my canvas. For a long moment, I just stare at the whiteness in front of me. A lump forms in my throat when no pictures come to mind. Maybe I won’t be able to paint again. Maybe skin will always be my canvas and the tattoo machine my brush.

Ray jolts me out of my confusion with a soft caress. Warm hands on my breasts, his breath a whisper on my nape. “I’m going to undress you. Don’t think about me. Don’t think about what scares you. Think about that canvas and what you’re going to paint. Think about the brush in your hand. The colors on your palate. Think about what inspires you. Think of something you can’t do in ink. Then do it for me.”

As he talks, his hands glide over my rib cage, his calluses sending sensual shivers across my skin. He presses his thumbs along either side of my spine, rubbing deep concentric circles, easing my tension as his fingers stroke the sides of my breasts. Such a feeling of warmth and contentment suffuses me that I lean back against him, only to have him growl a warning in my ear.

“Paint.”

“Bossy.”

“I haven’t even started.”

My body tingles. “Is that a promise?”

“You play nice, it could be a reward.” His subtle assurance warms me to my toes. He may be a predator, but he has soft fur.

With slow, gentle movements, he unzips my skirt and eases it down over my hips. Cool air brushes over my heated skin, like the wind on my face when I’m on his motorcycle. But even with that happy image in my head, a familiar tension rolls through my body. My breaths come out in pants, and I tremble.

“Use it,” Ray whispers. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Heart pounding, muscles coiled tight, I grab my brush, dip into the oil, and streak black across the middle of the canvas. The first stroke is always almost orgasmic, the realization of a vision, desire exposed. But this time it is my fear splashed across the canvas, a black streak marring the pristine white surface, the memory of a night I have wished a thousand times had never been. A sob rips from my throat and I drop my brush.