Page 13 of She’s Worth the Risk

He remains angled away from me, sleeves still pushed up his arms, and his hands go to his hips. My gaze traces his forearms, the inside of his wrists, wondering what his skin smells like there, how soft it is.

“It inspired me to be a little bolder this evening,” I add. “I hope that was okay.”

His head falls forward for a beat, then he sucks in a breath, straightens, and turns to me. “You did great,” he says, and just like that, he’s back to being as composed as ever. I should be relieved, but I’m not.

“Really?” I press. “It wasn’t too much?”

“Nope.” His expression remains unchanged, apart from a tiny flicker in his jaw. To anyone else it would be nothing, but I focus on it, letting it tell me what I need to know. He’s more affected than he’s letting on.

I watch as he folds the last of the chairs, then pulls on his tweed jacket. Part of me wants to ask him if he’ll get a drink with me, but another part knows he wouldn’t dare take me up on it. The more time I spend around Nick, the clearer it becomes how tightly wound he is. If I want to see him come undone, that will take patience. Persistence.

I slip behind the folding screen to dress, smiling a secret little smile to myself. If Gran doesn’t need me this summer, I’m going to spend it getting to know Nick.

Because how freaking hot will it be when he finally loses control?

7

NICK

The next three days are rough. I tell myself it’s because I’m mentally preparing for class to start, but I know that’s not it. I’ve never been this unsettled at the start of the semester before.

And it doesn’t explain why my mind constantly drifts to Zinnia.

By Sunday night, I’m a wreck. I’ve hardly slept in days, barely touched the syllabus, and put in far too many hours at the faculty gym, including this evening. I kick off my sneakers by the front door, too agitated to put them on the shoe rack where they belong, and glance around my apartment—a one-bedroom, second-floor walk-up in a redbrick building on Cornelia Street, just minutes from campus. Home for the last decade and a half.

Tossing my gym bag onto the sofa, I pull a bottle of water from the fridge and down it in one long swallow. It’s been a scorching hot July day, not helped one bit by the woman taunting me in my head.

My gaze lands on my sketchbooks, tucked under the coffee table. I don’t know why I pulled them out last week. I shouldn’t have. Even now, my fingers itch to pick them up, to get Zinnia’s endless curves on paper.

To get them out of my head.

I push the thought away and stride to the bathroom, stripping and stepping under the warm spray of the shower. I don’t draw. It’s not who I am anymore. My carefully organized life revolves around appreciating art from the outside, examining it, explaining it. The creative process is chaotic, and I don’t do chaos. I don’t do mess, or unpredictability.

Which is why I stay the hell away from women.

Moving on autopilot, I soap myself, muscles still burning from my workout. I was hoping it would help to clear my head for the start of class tomorrow, to exhaust me so I could fall into bed and sleep soundly tonight, but it’s had the opposite effect. I feel more muddled, more on edge than ever, and it’s pissing me off.

Bracing one arm against the shower wall, I force the air from my lungs and stare at the tiles. Water falls in rivulets through my hair, down my forehead and into my eyes, blurring my vision. God, I wish I could do that to my brain. Wish I could erase the image of her.

She appears in my mind for the thousandth time, draped across that chair, acres of milky-white skin. Every inch of her so smooth, so soft. And on Thursday, when I realized she’d removed her bra… Shit, I nearly lost my mind. It’s not about her breasts, though they’re stunning, with their full, round globes and rosebud-pink nipples. No, it was about the burning look in her eye. The way her gaze followed me around the studio, daring me to look at her.

And fuck, I wanted to.

As much as I tell myself I see her only through an art historian’s eyes—her lush curves, her porcelain skin, the perfect proportions of her waist and her hips—I can’t deny it’s more than that.

Christ, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I stop thinking about her? I’ve only met her three times—twice, if you count Thursday as one.

Get a grip.

I turn the shower temperature to cold, but my mind strays to her smile in the coffee shop, the way she used “contrapposto” correctly to describe David, as if she’d done her research. As if she’d wanted to impress me.

I rinse off under the cool water, intending to step from the shower, but when my fingers brush my stiff cock, I curse. I can’t remember the last time I was this hard. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I even jacked off. It’s not something I indulge in often, because I’m normally far more in control. There’s something about Zinnia that dismantles that control, and I don’t like it.

But as I scowl at my erection, willing it to go away, I know I’ve lost this battle.

My hand circles my shaft, hot and throbbing under the cool spray. It’s been far too long. The body has needs, and if I allow myself this moment of weakness, life can go back to normal.

I think of Zinnia as I stroke. The way she spoke about David with such insight, really understanding what Michelangelo achieved. And God, her word choice was uncanny: tense and coiled. That’s how I’ve felt for days, and it needs a release.