Periwinkle

34| THE UNVEILING

KARA'S POV

The feeling of the soft brush running on my back was what woke me up.

Fluttering my eyes open, I was greeted with the sight of the bedsheets bunched up in front of me. It took me a moment to realize that I was lying on my stomach. I turned my head slightly, glancing over my shoulder, and my breath caught in my throat.

Shane was sitting next to me, his expression focused and his brow slightly furrowed as his eyes intently followed the brush gliding over the surface of my skin. The moonlight illuminated his face, highlighting his sharp features, his bare chest and chiseled torso on full display, while a few strands of his ruffled hair fell across his forehead.

I could feel Shane's fingers on my back, moving the brush over the skin with practiced ease. I didn't know what he was painting, but I could tell from the slight pressure of his fingertips, the way the bristles of the brush grazed my back, and the occasional tickling sensation that the strokes were slow and deliberate.

He was so concentrated that he didn't seem to realize that I had woken up. I continued to watch him, studying his profile and the way the dim lighting seemed to make him look younger than his almost 30-year-old self. The intensity of his gaze, the little furrow of his brows, and the slight parting of his lips made him look almost boyish, his usual serious demeanor replaced with one of childlike fascination.

As I stared at him, the memories of the night came flooding back, and heat pooled in my core. The brush continued to move over my back, the strokes so light and teasing that they sent tingles of pleasure down my spine. My breathing grew shallow as I watched him, transfixed by the look of pure attention on his face. His gaze was fixed on his task, his focus unwavering. He was completely absorbed in his work, lost in his own little world, unaware that I was watching him.

And that was when I realized it.

Shane was painting.

The realization sent a thrill through me, along with the knowledge that he was painting for the first time after God knows how long and that he was using me as his canvas, so lost in his work that he didn't even realize I was awake. The intimacy of the moment, the closeness, the way his fingers moved so expertly over my skin, and the way he seemed to be absorbed in his work...

His hand suddenly halted, his grip tightening on the brush, and I froze, worried that he'd noticed that I was awake. But his attention was still fixed on his task. He tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful as he examined his handiwork, the brush poised in his hand. After a few moments, he resumed his work, resuming the same careful strokes as before.

I couldn't help but smile, feeling strangely giddy. It was strange watching him like this, seeing the usually stoic and stern Professor Carver in such a relaxed state. It felt like a privilege to be able to witness him in this moment and see how the act of him painting brought him a sense of peace and comfort.

"How long are you going to just keep staring at me?" His voice, usually sharp and authoritative in the classroom, was now a husky murmur, laced with a hint of amusement.

"What are you painting?" I asked instead, my voice a whisper.

"You'll find out," he said, his lips quirking into a small smirk.

My back tingled where the brush continued to move, the strokes growing bolder, the brush leaving trails of heat and goosebumps in its wake. The movement sent tingles of pleasure through my body, and a soft sigh escaped my lips.

The sound made him pause, and his gaze flicked to me, his green eyes meeting mine for the first time since I woke up. The emerald depths of his gaze were dark and intense, and they seemed to burn.