A Psychopath For a Boss

Chapter 43 Victorian Flowers

"Want to tell me about it?" I asked him softly, moving behind him and getting him to tense up. I ran my hands through his hair slowly and gathered it, before tying his hair into a ponytail. The ponytail reminded me of when I first laid eyes on him, back when he caught my eyes with a delightful ass and workaholic look.

He took a moment to relax, but not fully. A flower on the canvas was looking streaked, and he started to fix it. "I don't care to tell you more about me."

"I have ears of you'd like to just talk." I hummed and wrapped my arms around him, kissing his cheek. He did not like that. I wanted to be touchy however, and he would not be stopping me.

"Go sit down." He moved his hand and painted my cheek with cold blue.

"Don't push me away sweetheart!" I playfully whined by his ear, enjoying holding his warm body against my own.

The little fox ignored me and went on painting. I was happy not to be shoved away, and the occasional splotch of paint on my face didn't concern me. Lucky me, to have Travis Wane in the nude, stunning and being held.

My attention was drawn to his hands as he continued to paint and create, pulling his hips away from mine every time he had to adjust to paint lower or get supplies. I tried to keep out of his way. Just a few moments of his movement had me staring and his gaze seemed lost somewhere else- he was godly. Impossibly beautiful in his trance, he moved his wrist with assured movements and seemed like a professional artist. What circumstances could have tucked away such talents?

Travis noticed my care not to make him tense again and gestures to the couch with a brush. I already knew he wanted me to sit and watch, but I was too into the intimacy. This was the best position to watch the magic work.

Maybe I wanted to do more intimate acts with him earlier, but now I wanted to share his space. Those star-filled eyes seemed to be hiding something I wanted to spill all over.

Anyone could be a painter, but looking into those eyes I could tell he was more than that. He was a model, a painter, a handsome being that created art as much as he was a masterpiece. That much deserved each small smooch I pressed to his shoulder.

"Sweetheart, you're doing fantastic." I praised him, kissing his cheek again.

"Thanks?" Travis looked away from me. He seemed to tense up again, confused and not liking my compliment.

"I mean it." I kiss on him again. "Would you teach me to paint if I begged you?"

Travis seems more concerned, the emotion rising into his once sailing eyes. "Sure, just not now."

"Oh, not now." I assure him, moving my arms up and holding him around his chest. "Later."

Travis doesn't answer, looking to his paints and the arms around him, then his canvas. He dabs on the paint and starts brushing on my hands, a cold and ticklish feeling.

"Ahah! Don't paint my hands, go back to your thing!" I laugh, letting go of him.

"My feet are tired." Travis says, walking away from me and plopping onto the couch, right in the center. Some of his beautiful hair slides free of the hair tie, and he pushes it back and tucks the paintbrush he favors over an ear. His gaze on me is still guarded, head tilted and looking wary. I figured I must have tipped him off.

"The painting is wonderful so far." I praise, looking to count four of his blue flowers floating at the top of a dusty-red canvas. The flowers seem so bright, colors of lovely contrast, probably a picture my mom would have collected. The style was old-fashioned, definitely near Victorian.