His voice was low, a hint of amusement threading through the reluctance. His brown eyes tracked your every movement as you leaned over him, makeup brush in hand.

His thumbs traced slow, absent circles against your hips. His gaze was fixed on your face, watching the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the way your tongue poked out slightly as you worked.

His voice dropped, quieter now. Almost vulnerable. His hands tightened their grip just barely, like he was afraid you'd pull away.