Tongue's Target (Ruthless Kings MC Las Vegas #10) - K.L. Savage Page 0,10

new journal, one that is still in the plastic wrapping, then grab my charcoal pencils Daphne got me.

She wants me to really focus on my art, but I don’t know how, not when chaos is constantly living in my mind.

I don’t know how to focus on something I want without ruining it. Daphne is different. I’ve ruined her in ways that can never be erased, but I don’t regret them. I want to learn how to want something like I want Daphne. I want to focus on something like I focus on her.

How?

Daphne has been the only thing in the world that’s been able to grab my focus and keep it.

I guess that’s why she’s about to be my muse.

I head around the bed, stepping over those damn books without looking because their location is seared into my memory. I know this room like the back of my hand. Even the headboard is made out of books, something she fucking loves, and I never plan on changing that. In the new house, the bed is going to bigger and higher.

Sighing when I plop in the chair in the corner, I turn on the lamp, which casts a soft yellow glow on my side of the room. It lets me see her better. I take off the plastic wrap and drop it the floor, the crinkling louder than what I wanted it to be. I hold my breath in hopes it doesn’t wake my Comet up. After a few seconds of her lying in the same position, I open the journal.

Like with any new book, the binding is smooth as it opens, and the first page has a ‘this journal belongs to’ section. I never do this, but I’m going to this time. I write my name on the designated line. The black charcoal makes one line down and I smile to myself because I know what I’m doing.

Oh, wait. I need to make it capitalized. First letters in names are always capitalized. That’s what Daphne said.

I make another line on top of the other to create a T, then finish writing the rest of my name. Hmm, maybe I should have written my real name. Oh well, maybe next time. When I get done, I hold my journal out in front of me and while my handwriting looks a lot like Maizey’s, it’s mine and it’s there, on paper.

On. Paper.

And I did it all by myself. It seems ridiculous to be so proud, since I’m a grown man learning to write, but I am so damn happy.

With new excitement, I lay the journal on my lap and flip a white page, then analyze the love of my life while she sleeps soundly.

Damn it, I can’t get over her beauty. A man like me and a woman like her don’t make sense, but I’m glad the universe made an exception, because I need her.

The navy blue blanket is still hugged around her hips. Instead of being on her side, she twisted her back to be flat on the bed and her hips are still on their side. Her arm is angled above her head, and now I can see her breasts. My cock takes notice and begins to plump in my jeans. All I want to do is ravish her right now, but I’m trying to think about her and what she needs.

And with everything going on inside her head, she needs rest.

With a disappointed growl at myself, I begin to sketch.

I ease a line down the page, curving it where her waist is, then stop, since the blanket covers the rest of her body. I can count five-hundred places on her body that need to have my mark or name on it. We still haven’t gotten married or gotten tattoos of each other’s names. I’ll need to think of a remedy to that soon.

Ignoring the throb in my cock and the desire in my veins, I drag the pencil over the page, getting lost in the lines and shading to bring her image to life. I take a peek every now and then to make sure I’m doing her justice, which I’m not, because nothing compares to the real thing.

The faint golden hue of her skin, her small perky breasts with tight dark pink nipples, her small waist, and the memories of my hands exploring every inch of her…

“Damn it, what was I doing?” I mutter to myself, forgetting the next part of the picture I was going to focus