Page 97 of Into Pitch

“Yes, and your intent.” I pull her a little deeper between the V of my knees. To my relief she lets me.

“I’ll admit it was a fucked-up way to try and connect,” she murmurs and I nearly shiver when her hands slide to cup the sides of my neck. Her fingers tangling lightly in the dark hair at my nape.

“I’m not asking you to stop looking, nor am I asking you to avoid subjects that revoke response.” I add softly.

“I know you’re not,” she sighs as I push up, standing above her once more. My lips brushing her brow because I can’t help myself before I give her space.

“For what it is worth, your painting was beautiful.”

“Well, beauty and pain can be synonymous.” She teases.

“That it can be,” I grin and turn into the living room.

I have an idea.

A stupid one, but an idea. One that is born out of sheer boredom and desperation to shake anything out of this silence that has settled between us.

“I want to paint you.”

I blurt into the quiet of the evening, Alex’s brow arching as he looks up to me.

“Yeah?”

I bite down onto my cheek and nod. “I swear if you say like ‘one of your French girls’…”

He laughs softly and shakes his head, tossing his book aside. “Then paint me, little fox.”

I enter the sunroom a step behind him as he talks to me over his shoulder. “If we are doing this, we’ll do it properly.”

“What does properly—”

My words die as I watch him peel from his clothes. My brows raising as I watch each layer of fabric shed from his beautifully made body. Gaze sharpening on the lean pull of his muscles beneath his skin and the physique a man who sits often shouldn’t possess.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he says. A smile playing at his mouth when he catches my eyes snapping up from all the shit artists usually don’t stray from when painting.

“Right,” I choke and attempt to look like a professional. Even if my mouth goes a little dry, because he’s all clean lines. Long limbs that tether into broad shoulders which taper perfectly down to narrow hips. And somehow—despite being stark naked—he looks comfortable.

“Sit,” I croak, hurriedly dragging a chair into position near the far window. Careful to give him plenty of space to get past me as I move back to the safety behind the canvas. Taking my time to set up my palette so that I can figure out what the hell I was possibly thinking asking to paint him.

Well, I know what I was thinking. And I can honestly say I didn’t think he would agree to it by a long shot. Getting naked? I think a pig somewhere gained its wings, because nothing in this room makes fucking sense.

Worse, I’m acutely aware of everything he is doing. Every shift of his weight and every breath.

I shake my head and decide to start somewhere safe—shoulders. I block in the shape without any real detail, broad and solid. I don’t let myself rush, instead I trace the lines of him. Committing every inch of him to memory before translating it to canvas.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he observes. Obviously amused.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On the painting?”

I level my gaze at him, brush hovering midair. “Really?”

“Really,” he grins.

Fuck, he is so pretty when he smiles.

Shaking my head, I attempt to focus on the painting once more. I really fucking do, but he adjusts his posture again and I know he’s doing it on purpose. There’s just not a way in hell he doesn’t think this is provocative in some way.