Read Online Rock Hard And Wet (BBW Paranormal Romance) (Nymphs Of New York) by Jennifer James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer James
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a
hobby long ago for Callie had grown into something close to addiction and
obsession. The other nymphs had long grown tired of posing for portraits.
Admittedly, she could draw them all from memory.
A young human woman crossed behind the
set of windows directly across the way, her attention focused on the infant
resting its head on her shoulder. She appeared to sing a song, holding a mug in
her free hand and walking with a rocking sway to her gait.
Callie shook her head and returned to
using her thumb to smooth the shadow at the left side of the landscape she’d
quickly sketched. Babies weren’t on her agenda.
More lines and shadow took shape on the
page, and she paused to study the sketch she’d produced. A well of emptiness
opened in her chest and threatened to overtake her. The charcoal snapped into
two tiny, unusable pieces.
She ripped the paper from the sketch
book and crumpled it into a ball, dissatisfied with the line angles of the
buildings. It bounced off the glass and rolled under the bed. Cellophane
crinkled as she retrieved a new piece of charcoal and sketched a few sweeping
lines across the blank page.
The soft concussion of air and vibration
of footsteps moving toward her alerted Callie to Theo’s return. She used a hard
white pencil to add highlights to the portrait that had consumed her attention
for the last two hours.
He halted at the end of the bed, his
boots visible in her peripheral vision. Neither of them spoke.
She set the sketchbook on the floor to
her left and put her palms into the small of her back, pushed her chest out in
a stretch. A half dozen landscapes scattered across the floor in a rough
semi-circle around her. Theo retrieved one and sat on the floor next to her.
He held it by the edges and studied it,
careful not to marr the easily blurred and smudged medium she’d used to create
the art. After a few minutes, he set it aside and chose another.
This one focused on the skyline as far
right and left as she could see from the bedroom. Only the rooftops. Another
traced the line of the alley below, held quick-drawn people striding down the
sidewalk.
When he’d looked over each discarded
piece, he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. Her heart beat accelerated
and she licked dry lips. Picking up the book was easy; she’d had her fingers
curled around the edge for the last few minutes, waiting for him to ask to see
the final piece she’d worked.
Callie moved to stand, but he stilled
her with one hand on her thigh. “You work quickly.”
The rough rumble in his voice surprised
her. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. Dark stubbled coated his cheeks
and chin. Darker circles marred the skin under his eyes.
“Yes.” The cool temperature of his
fingers on her skin began to seep into the muscle. “Where—” she began, and then
decided to rephrase her question. She didn’t think she had any right to ask
about his absence. “You look tired.”
“A little.” The large blunt tip of his
pinky came within a millimeter of the portrait. “You put the scars in.
Otherwise, I’d think this was Logan.”
“The scars are a part of you. I didn’t
know a grotesque could scar.” The weight of his hand surprised her when she lifted
it from her leg to chafe the skin in her palms.
“We can scar. If the circumstances are
right.” He took a deep breath and passed the book back to her, forcing her to
drop his hand.
She wanted to ask what “circumstances”
meant, but didn’t. “Why would you think it’s Logan?”
“Because I look happy.”
She frowned and closed the front cover
of her sketch book, bit her lower lip, and frowned. “This is how I see you.”
Tugs on her hair caught her attention,
and she swiveled her head to take in his profile. Deep furrows crossed his
forehead, the corners of his lips drawn down. He’d buried the fingers of his
left hand in her hair and combed his way to the bottom. Even though she’d
showered hours before, the underside was
hobby long ago for Callie had grown into something close to addiction and
obsession. The other nymphs had long grown tired of posing for portraits.
Admittedly, she could draw them all from memory.
A young human woman crossed behind the
set of windows directly across the way, her attention focused on the infant
resting its head on her shoulder. She appeared to sing a song, holding a mug in
her free hand and walking with a rocking sway to her gait.
Callie shook her head and returned to
using her thumb to smooth the shadow at the left side of the landscape she’d
quickly sketched. Babies weren’t on her agenda.
More lines and shadow took shape on the
page, and she paused to study the sketch she’d produced. A well of emptiness
opened in her chest and threatened to overtake her. The charcoal snapped into
two tiny, unusable pieces.
She ripped the paper from the sketch
book and crumpled it into a ball, dissatisfied with the line angles of the
buildings. It bounced off the glass and rolled under the bed. Cellophane
crinkled as she retrieved a new piece of charcoal and sketched a few sweeping
lines across the blank page.
The soft concussion of air and vibration
of footsteps moving toward her alerted Callie to Theo’s return. She used a hard
white pencil to add highlights to the portrait that had consumed her attention
for the last two hours.
He halted at the end of the bed, his
boots visible in her peripheral vision. Neither of them spoke.
She set the sketchbook on the floor to
her left and put her palms into the small of her back, pushed her chest out in
a stretch. A half dozen landscapes scattered across the floor in a rough
semi-circle around her. Theo retrieved one and sat on the floor next to her.
He held it by the edges and studied it,
careful not to marr the easily blurred and smudged medium she’d used to create
the art. After a few minutes, he set it aside and chose another.
This one focused on the skyline as far
right and left as she could see from the bedroom. Only the rooftops. Another
traced the line of the alley below, held quick-drawn people striding down the
sidewalk.
When he’d looked over each discarded
piece, he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. Her heart beat accelerated
and she licked dry lips. Picking up the book was easy; she’d had her fingers
curled around the edge for the last few minutes, waiting for him to ask to see
the final piece she’d worked.
Callie moved to stand, but he stilled
her with one hand on her thigh. “You work quickly.”
The rough rumble in his voice surprised
her. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. Dark stubbled coated his cheeks
and chin. Darker circles marred the skin under his eyes.
“Yes.” The cool temperature of his
fingers on her skin began to seep into the muscle. “Where—” she began, and then
decided to rephrase her question. She didn’t think she had any right to ask
about his absence. “You look tired.”
“A little.” The large blunt tip of his
pinky came within a millimeter of the portrait. “You put the scars in.
Otherwise, I’d think this was Logan.”
“The scars are a part of you. I didn’t
know a grotesque could scar.” The weight of his hand surprised her when she lifted
it from her leg to chafe the skin in her palms.
“We can scar. If the circumstances are
right.” He took a deep breath and passed the book back to her, forcing her to
drop his hand.
She wanted to ask what “circumstances”
meant, but didn’t. “Why would you think it’s Logan?”
“Because I look happy.”
She frowned and closed the front cover
of her sketch book, bit her lower lip, and frowned. “This is how I see you.”
Tugs on her hair caught her attention,
and she swiveled her head to take in his profile. Deep furrows crossed his
forehead, the corners of his lips drawn down. He’d buried the fingers of his
left hand in her hair and combed his way to the bottom. Even though she’d
showered hours before, the underside was
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