Humiliation crashed over her like a wave. This was mortifying. She was not some model in his wicked red room; she was a respectable widow, or at least she had been until this infuriating man had upended her world. Yet even as shame burned through her, a darker, slicker heat gathered between her thighs; her body was betraying her, aching for his touch, for the very things he had promised in their deal.
“I…” Her voice wavered as she gulped and looked down at her body.
She was not particularly proud of her body, and no one had ever seen her naked before. It was all new to her, and Iris did not know if she felt ashamed or thrilled.
“You are free to walk away from our deal anytime you want, Iris,” Blaise said, his tone deceptively gentle as he watched her. “Say the word, and I will leave this chamber right now. No consequences. The house and the renovations can proceed?—”
“No!” She sat up.
She had come too far, sacrificed too much pride to back down now. With trembling fingers, Iris loosened the belt of her robe and let it fall open, revealing the soft curves of her body, but she did not shrug it off entirely. The damp fabric still draped over her shoulders and pooled at her sides, offering the barest veil of modesty.
“Is this all right?”
Blaise’s lips curved, but his expression was unreadable. Iris knew that all the women he drew were fully naked, but she could not do it. She waited for his disappointment or for him to get up and leave, but when he looked at her exposed breast and thigh, his eyes darkened. Blaise did not insist that she remove it completely. Instead, he studied her for a long moment, charcoal poised above the paper.
“You are too stiff,” he murmured.
He rose from the sofa, and she noticed the outline of his shaft pressing against the thin material of his trousers. He approached the bed completely unashamed. Iris’s heart hammered wildly as he leaned over her; she exhaled through her mouth and watched the gooseflesh form where her breath landed on his forearm.
“Keep your body loose, Little Blossom,” he cooed as his rough hands moved with surprising gentleness.
Blaise adjusted the angle of her arm, tilting her head slightly on the pillow, and brushing a damp curl away from her face. Every touch felt like a fire burning across her skin. She wished desperately that he would use those hands for something far more wicked than positioning her for a sketch. Even these innocent adjustments were driving her insane, making her nipples ache and her core throb with empty need.
“Relax,” he whispered near her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Breathe, Iris.”
She let out a shuddering breath and clamped her thighs together while Blaise towered over her and smiled. His hand snaked down her thigh, and he grabbed the flesh, raising it until her knee bent slightly. His fingers slightly brushed against her core, and Iris pursed her lips, stopping herself from moaning.
“Perfect,” he said as he finally stepped back and returned to the sofa.
Iris felt as though she might combust. She lay there, exposed yet partially covered, while the scratch of charcoal against paper filled the room. Blaise’s dark gaze flicked between her and the page with intense focus. The silence stretched, thick with tension. She could feel his eyes tracing every curve and flaw. Blaise studied the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the length of her legs.
After what felt like an eternity, he tore the page from the sketchbook with a decisive rip, and shame flooded her. Iris satup slightly, clutching the edges of her robe and covering herself desperately.
“Is it… not good enough to keep?” she asked in a small and embarrassed voice.
Blaise looked up, his scarred face softening with tenderness.
“On the contrary. This one I will gift to you.” He rolled the sketch loosely and set it on the small table beside her bed. “The one I plan to keep for myself will be of you with no clothes on at all. I would like to keep every exquisite inch of you, exactly as you were meant to be seen.”
Heat exploded across Iris’s entire body. Before she could form a reply, Blaise rose, tucking the sketchbook under his arm. He gave her one last lingering look filled with a dark promise of what was to come. Iris longed to stop him from leaving, but she was not brave enough. He turned and left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him.
Iris remained frozen on the bed for several long moments, her robe still damp and her skin still flushed and tingling. She had never felt more embarrassed in her entire life, nor more aroused. Her body throbbed with unfulfilled desire, and the area between her thighs was slick and aching. For a wild second, she thought about sliding her hand down and touching herself to ease the torment.
But she stopped. She did not want to do it while thinking of Blaise. He was arrogant and commanding, and he had justsketched her half-naked and left her trembling. It felt too much like a surrender to the enemy.
Her gaze drifted to the mirror across the room.
Perhaps I could look at myself instead?
Iris rose from the bed on shaky legs, clutching the robe around her body as she crossed to the full-length mirror. The rolled sketch lay on the small table beside it. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and unrolled the paper.
Her breath caught.
Blaise had captured her with breathtaking skill. The drawing was intimate and sensual. He had drawn her with a raw, hungry beauty she had never seen in herself. For one dizzying moment, heat flared again between her thighs.
She placed the sketch down gently on the table, almost reverently, and before she could lose her nerve, Iris untied the belt and opened the robe fully. The damp material slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her completely naked before the mirror.
She stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was flushed, full-breasted, with generous hips and a soft stomach. It was a body that had never been truly seen or truly touched. But instead of pride, she felt shame, crashing over her likecold water. Her arousal slowly ebbed away, replaced by a deep, aching embarrassment.
