PaintedPassion Read Online Free

her shoulders, and his hand
fell away. She rose to her feet.
    “The remote for the TV is in the top drawer of the
nightstand.”
    “Thanks, Trella.”
    She left the room, praying her lapse of common sense was
temporary.
    * * * * *
    Groaning, Carlos tossed under the sheet, unable to relax
enough to sleep. He’d tried counting sheep, but they morphed into tantalizing
images of Trella in white jeans. Despite how badly he wanted her in his arms,
yielding to temptation included a one-way ticket to hell.
    Thrusting the cover off, he climbed from bed and strode to
the window. He stood there, watching the lights of the Valley in the distance.
Sleep in the same house as Trella? Impossible.
    He left the room, wandering down the darkened hallway toward
the kitchen. Spending the night equaled utter stupidity. One whiff of the woman
and his common sense evaporated like steam.
    He needed something to occupy his mind, such as figuring out
why Louis worried about her safety.
    He entered the kitchen as a beam of headlights cut across
the wall. He stooped, senses keen and ready. Crouched low, he eased his way to
the window. Avoiding the swath of light, he straightened until he saw the dark
outline of a vehicle revealed by landscape lighting.
    After a moment, the car continued around the circular drive
and back onto the street. He made a mental note to have cameras installed. The
house needed an extra layer of security beyond a standard house alarm system.
    Concern drove him to check every door and window downstairs.
He paused in the doorway of the laundry room. Trella’s orange tank lay atop the
washing machine. He stared at the fabric, remembering how her nipples had
strained against it. He didn’t recall walking farther into the room, but
seconds later, he stood in front of the machine.
    He picked up the cotton, soft to the touch. He raised it to
his nose, engraving the soft light floral scent into his brain. Before the idea
of taking it overwhelmed him, he replaced it then retraced his steps to the
bedroom.
    Carlos climbed under the sheet and lay on his back, praying
for sleep. Thirty minutes later, he remained wide awake.
    He stalked from the bed, returned to the laundry room and
snatched up the tank top.
    Yes, Sister Mary Frances, I’m in hell.
    * * * * *
    Early the next morning after completing her morning workout,
Trella knocked on the guest bedroom door. Not receiving a response, she eased
the door open.
    The bed was empty, the covers askew. She’d taken two steps
when Carlos, singing an off-key rendition of Santana’s Black Magic Woman ,
opened the bathroom door.
    She gasped as her gaze roamed the expanse of golden tan
skin, his wide chest. Muscular abs tapered to toned thighs and legs. Reversing
direction, she stopped at his midsection as his manhood thickened, hard and
fast, as if glorying in her perusal.
    He was a living piece of art. Her nipples tightened, and
tingling expanded through her from low in her belly. She stepped closer, driven
by the urge to feel the planes and valleys of his torso beneath her hands.
    “Go back to your room.” Carlos finally spoke, his delicious
baritone rolling over her heated skin like a refreshing summer rainstorm with a
hint of thunder.
    Shaken from her daze, she struggled to recall her purpose.
“Um…coffee.”
    He snatched the sheet from the bed. He wrapped it around his
middle, his erection tenting the material beneath his waist.
    His hand touched her arm, scorching her skin. Someone
moaned. Did she make the wanton sound? Despite the fact her mind shouted how
wrong this was, her nipples tightened in anticipation.
    “I’m having cameras installed today.”
    She blinked, struggling against the sensations buffeting her
body. “What?”
    His hand fell away. “A security camera system. You need an
upgrade.”
    Pull yourself together . He was Louis’ friend who
cared about her safety, and she was two minutes away from begging him to do
her. “Very…uh, good. Thank you.”
    “You