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She stepped out from behind her canvas. The paintbrush dangled from her fingers. “You can’t leave your team. If it wasn’t for me, you would stay. You would be out there, fighting for freedom in places where children are forced to carry guns, to become soldiers.”
“Or I could be here, with a woman who helps injured, abused, and sick kids find a way to express themselves.” He squared his shoulders. “I don’t want to look back and realize I followed the wrong path. So if you can forgive me for hiding behind my fears, for keeping my connection to your sister a secret, then I choose Tennessee. I choose you. I choose us. Above everything else.”
She stepped behind the canvas, her brush raised, and Cade waited to see if he’d convinced her to let him back in.
Part of her wished she could abandon her painting and run to him. But she needed to be certain the pieces lined up. She wanted to hear the words and feel his desire from head to toe.
“I forgive you,” she said. “I know what it’s like to let fear rule your life. And it isn’t easy to let go of it.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“But I need more.”
He clasped his hands together, as though in prayer. “Anything,” he said.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered, dipping her brush in the paint. “And let me finish my portrait.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying you choose me, too?”
“No. It doesn’t work for this portrait,” she explained.
He laughed as he grabbed his plain gray T-shirt behind his head and pulled it off. He tossed the shirt to the studio floor, put his hands on his waist, and squared his shoulders. The position highlighted the muscles in his arms and chest. And those abs—she questioned her sanity, painting him instead of touching.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stared at the V-shaped muscles disappearing below his jeans. “I think this painting would work better as a nude.”
“You’re the artist.” He kicked off his sneakers and reached for the front of his jeans. A heartbeat later, his jeans and boxer briefs landed on top of his shirt.
She stole a quick peek around the side of her easel at his semi-hard cock. “It might help if you touched yourself,” she added.
He wrapped his hand around his hardening length. “Like this?”
“Yes,” she murmured as her need to join him simmered. She focused on the lines and shapes, trading out her thick brush for one with a thin tip.
“Paint fast,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this.”
“I have faith in your endurance,” she said. “But I’m almost done.” She ran her brush over the canvas one last time. “I can fill in the details later.”
She set the paintbrush down and stepped back, briefly admiring her work. It needed shading and a few touch-ups, but those could wait.
She moved out from behind the easel and pulled at the bottom edge of her paint-splattered T-shirt. Before Vegas, she would never have stripped off her clothes under the harsh studio lights.
“Lucia?” he said, his hand moving faster up and down his erection.
“When I’m with you, I feel beautiful—”
“You are,” he growled. “Whether I’m with you or not, you’re gorgeous. One look and every damn fantasy I’ve ever had runs through my mind, all starring you. But I didn’t come here for sex, or to show you how much I fucking want you.”
“I know.” She undid the button on her jeans, drew the zipper down, and shimmied the fabric over her hips. She kicked her pants aside and faced him in the black lace bra and panties she’d bought for Vegas. “I’ve replayed every moment in my head,” she said, drawing her bra straps down her shoulders. “The way you allowed me to bind your hands and ride you, the ice machine, and the shower last night—I don’t doubt your physical desire.”
“Good.”
“But I want an equal partner.” She looped her fingers beneath her thong and stepped out of her underwear. “A man who won’t withhold the truth.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Never again.”
She moved close enough to touch him but kept her arms at her sides. “Someone who wants to make decisions with me. Can you do that?”
