#Chapter80
/"These are good, Sophs, I mean it. You have skills./" I can’t tell by his tone if he’s joking and mocking me, or if he’s serious. I’m still hanging down his back, using my palms on his muscular shoulder blades to try to lever myself up. Aware my hands are roaming over him freely, and he doesn’t seem to give a shit. It’s obvious that his ‘not appropriate’ sensor is switched off at the moment, and he really is focused on my artwork.
/"Let me go. You’re an asshole./" I snap at him and then yelp when he slaps me on the ass hard enough to make it sting and ring loudly. I guess my book has been discarded if he suddenly has a free hand and twist to try and get a better look. We’re now at the kitchen counter, and instead of holding it up he has it laid out on the black marble surface and is turning it, page by page, slowly as he takes a proper good look.
