Kierra

He nods, so I draw my hands away. I know that amount of touch is going to get me into trouble. Should be pretty platonic since he's seen me do it with Asher, Maii, and even Bastion.

I take the chance to sit on my couch for the first time. Not overly firm, but you don't sink in either. Good. Tapping the man's long legs to move them, they draw up slowly, which has me watching them randomly since it's something to look at.

Trying to think back on what the conversation was about before it derailed completely, the length of his legs fold as they cross in front of his body, still holding my gaze. The clothes I had bought him cover him top and bottom; a designed t-shirt and snug jeans that ride low on his hips. Wasn't until I saw him wear a pair that I had bought that I realized he had tricked me, getting me to buy the clothes that he knows will have me gawking. He's such an ass.

He's an ass, but he belongs to me. The brand on his neck bears two symbols I've always been fond of. Stories behind the reason for dreamcatchers had me buying several over the years. They haven't been working for me for a while now, but that's okay, they're still pretty to look at. One hangs in each of the bedroom doorways and several are up around my room.

The snowflake; a sign of snow and colder temperatures, simple water drops that had been changed through their journey to the ground. Having started out as one thing and changing into something better. Prettier. Able to be as delicate as the fluttering of butterfly wings or as destructive as a hell uprising. Think I can identify with the small pieces of nature’s art. To a point.

Only thing now is what it will do to the maned wolf. I already have a Vampire linked to me from my calling his animal, will this be something like that?

My eyes roam over his folded legs, wrapped snug in the jean material, to his covered abdomen. Hiding a very nice upper body with soft cotton and polyester, they continue on an upward path over his long frame. Being over six and a half feet, there's a lot of area to cover. I believe the technical term of what I'm doing is 'undressing him with my eyes'.

Don't really need to do that, since I know what he looks like beneath, no undressing is necessary. Could probably call it a waste when you think of the fact that I sleep with this man every night yet nothing nefarious is done. Almost a shame. Can feel my green eyes slipping into their bright yellow counterparts as I go higher to his neck.

A lean frame with not overly wide shoulders and a strong throat, the small brand is visible on the right side since he's sitting. When he's standing upright, I don't see too many being able to see it. Trying to decide if that's a good thing or not. Think pheromones are at work here...my brain going all mushy and melting over the male visage.

No...not just any male frame, but his. I’m in so much trouble, so intent on him that I don't even blush with my obvious perusal.

Tanned skin helps to hide an assortment of battle scars, not just from fighting other animals, but when he was in the war as a soldier quite a few years ago. It's been said that he's in his nineties, couldn't tell it by body or attitude though.

You'd think after so many years, one would become beat down, age mentally even if they don't physically. Not saying he's slow or a child, just, not torn down by what he's been through. Wish I had that kind of strength.

I have yet to blink as I go higher to the small goatee at his chin, the tuft of black hair that triangulates his strong jaw. The shape of it reminds me that of Brad Pitt or Guy Pearce.

No other facial hair other than the usual eye and head masses. Wonder if he just shaves that well or it just grows in that spot. Ava's baby daddy, Ryder, hadn't been able to grow anything down the middle of his lower face, the hairs only coming out to either edge of his chin. A spattering of thin scars on Xavier's face are hard to see but there, and soft-looking lips that I'm sure many a woman has had her fair share of fantasies about. I plead the fifth here, please.

An aristocratic nose and long black lashes surround his amber eyes, so thick that it gives the look of eyeliner. I’ve always envied that look, but annoyingly, it's found most commonly in males. Naturally arched brows that aren't overly bushy or too thin also adorn his face. Perfect male specimen. No, I don't pay attention to feet. Feet are feet, nothing more.

Long muscled arms flex as my gaze goes over them. Not doing that he-man bullcrap, but just a hand clench or wrist twist has the tendons and such move around. No bulging veins that can ruin texture until you get to his hands. Rough, long-fingered, and also scarred. Beginning to think I have a thing for scars, them being just like tattoos. A body starts out as a blank canvas and you take it from there. More often than not, you can read a person just by their hands or by the maps laid out over their skin.

Not sure why long-fingered hands are called a poet’s, not after watching him play over the strings of his guitar. Musicians hands. Would also work very well on a piano. Of course, that's not the only things that are done well with them, but I keep those thoughts away for now. Can revisit in dreams where it has no effect when awake. I'm really good with dreams, the whole vivid imagination thing comes into play.

Without really thinking, I reach for his hand, and he gives it over more than willingly. Turning it palm up and running sensitive fingertips over the length of them, starting at his wrist and ending at his fingertips, you can almost read his life in just his palms. No, I'm not a palm reader, but I'm sure any good one would tell you the same thing. A rough and calloused texture telling you outright that he's not one who shies from hard or physical work.

Before all this happened, I'd been self-conscious of my hands. Thicker fingers scarred and calloused from years of writing and painting, woodworking to weight lifting. You name a craft and I've more than likely tried it at least once, even crochet.

I’ve seen all the commercials and ads about women having soft hands to equal out a soft touch, how that's what's wanted in a partner, as well as perfect features, thin body, and clear skin. Don't think my skin has ever been clear and blemish-free. I trace the lines in his large hand as I think of silly things that have no bearing on what's going on. Tell you right now though, I'd rather have rough and marked hands then pretty and proper that have never seen a day of work in their life. My art is my pride and joy, just as is my ability to spin words and phrases into stories that others can enjoy.

Working on autopilot with a sudden need to put my own hands to use, I let his fall away as I stand and go out back. I don't even bother to pull my hair back this time as I get all set up, the only things really needed are my paints put in order and a blank canvas put up. Having totally lost the desire or need to use any words for a while, I sink into my art once again, the early morning light rising to spread its warmth over its dominion. One of the sketches I had done with Bastion and the recall from earlier jumps into my head, and I get started.

The next several hours are spent bringing Bastion's past into living color, adding my own flare to it of course, because that's how I roll.

A large pale wolf is coaxing a small dirty pup from a dark cage that has the look of a mouth from some great monster. The starved youth has a defiant look in his eyes while looking out through its prison. Large eyes forming in the background go with the mouth of the beast waiting to devour him.

A tangent of angry reds, malicious oranges, and haunting greens mix within the eyes as madness forms within the depths. The massive shadowy outline of the monster is the only thing seen as its body and face remain hidden. Deeper shadows get formed from the light coming off the pale wolf, but warmth and safety are offered in the soft glow. Name is signed before I title it on the edge; 'Revealed'.

The smell of cooking food finds my nose, but I'm too focused on setting up another. My jeans and hands are smudged in ink, some spots are on my shirt. I should probably get an apron or something at some point.

Grabbing a larger canvas for this next one, the image forms in my head like a sketch pad in my brain. Things can get a little messed up when doing it this way, the changing of small details right in the middle can screw up the whole thing. Doubt that will happen though since the image is as clear as day in my head.

A boy resembling Bastion forms on his hands and knees, face pointed up and looking out towards me. Tattered and broken feathered wings hang limply over his sides while a look of anguish takes over his face. Another wolf, this one the color of pitch and much larger than the normal Werewolf in animal form, stands next to the boy protectively.

Ears in mid-motion of going back with a forming snarl reveal long teeth, also looking out towards me with blue-green eyes that are glinting in anger. The background becomes one of a small clearing surrounded by trees, a fat full moon illuminating the pair in its light.

Stepping back from many hours of work on just this one, I lean back on the outer house wall, careful of the hanging one that had been done previously. The hooks set into the walls were put there just for that reason. Going back to it, I sign in my name and title it; 'Guardian'.

After that I set my palette down and sink into one of the wicker patio chairs, almost knocking over the glass of juice that I'm guessing the boy had brought out at some point. Smiling, I swallow it all down within seconds. Of course, you can never have just one glass of orange juice; more is needed. Standing to go inside, I almost run into Shade. Since he's just standing there, I move back. Have to anyway so I can hang the canvas.

When did he get back? If someone really wants to kill me, all they have to do is come at me while I'm painting, I'd be easy pickings. That's if their emotions didn't warn me first. That I think I would feel, just because it wouldn't be a normal emotion that's normally felt around this place. Not from the ones within my home anyway. Chord out of place type thing.

Shade pads over on wide paws and looks at both paintings. His black-tipped ears are begging to be touched, but I'm covered in paint. Granted he looks pretty dirty himself, but still.

"Take it your bro called seniority for the shower?"

My smile is reinforced when he nods, his dark blue eyes keep going to the windows of ink. Either he's an admirer of art or he's picking them apart in his head.

"If I hadn't watched you, I wouldn't believe that you'd done it. The ones hanging on the bookshelves inside are ones you've done to, aren't they?"

I nod my head, not really taking any offense, I don't look like the proverbial painter. The ones inside are of me and Nicolaus facing off over Faline in her cat form on one, and the other is Asher walking out of darkness and shadows. Have to keep them up or cat hair will stick to them.

"You're very good."

My head tilts to the side, curious.

"You a painter?"