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“I understand why you’re hesitant to trust me, or anyone else in the Brotherhood, for that matter.” Ford dips his head in a nod of concession. “I realize we all face a lifetime of earning your trust after the year is up. I’ll try to do better.”
“I appreciate the effort.” A beat passes as I consider everything he said, weighing his words for deceit, but my gut tells me he’s being truthful. “For the record, I do like you, Ford. I think we could be friends.”
“You’re friend-zoning me, huh?”
“Friends are hard to come by in this place.”
“That they are, which brings me back to my request. Will you go with me?”
“If I go, you’ll let me spend the last weekend of this month with Sebastian?” My tone is dubious at best, because despite wanting to believe him, a part of me just…can’t. Not yet.
“I’ll even set it up with him before the party.”
The thought of Ford bargaining with Sebastian on my behalf makes me sick to my stomach. “Would you mind if I approach him about it?”
“I have no interest in micromanaging your time. If you want to spend some of it with him or anyone else, that’s your prerogative. I only ask that you keep your clothes on. I think we’ve had enough summons for the year, don’t you?”
“What about during the weekend you’re giving me? Am I free to…?” A thick swallow dislodges the sudden lump in my throat. “Can I touch him?”
More than touch him.
Ford shoots me a rakish grin. “That weekend, clothing is optional, my queen. No restrictions, outside the boundaries of the contract.”
A flutter of excitement bubbles in my chest. “Then you’ve got a date, Mr. Stryker.”
8
Sebastian’s studio door stands open a crack, as if someone didn’t check to make sure it was closed all the way. I should keep walking toward my own workspace—I’m already running late and don’t want to keep my team waiting—but that ajar door taunts the punctuality right out of me. How can I not peek in on him?
Since the night of the ball—the last time I set eyes on Sebastian—four days have passed. Four excruciating long days of Ford’s endless stream of guests while I focused on getting things in order to return to my studio. The month of Libra threw off my schedule, and now my team and I need to work overtime to finish the line before the fashion show next month.
But instead of concentrating on work, I find myself stalling at Sebastian’s door, starved for a glimpse of him as I peer through the crack like a voyeur.
He’s standing with his back to me, signature ripped jeans hugging his ass to perfection. A dark gray shirt hangs on him in a way that makes me think he left it unbuttoned in the front. His body is distracting enough, though that isn’t what has me mesmerized.
The way he strokes a paintbrush across the canvas has me glued to the spot. His subject is a voluptuous woman with hair the color of caramel that falls over her creamy shoulders in sleek, elegant waves. Her long legs are crossed at the ankles, while the weight of her luscious hair covers her generous breasts. The pose is discreet, tasteful, and completely risqué despite all that she isn’t revealing.
Everything in me says I should be jealous at seeing him paint another woman, even knowing he does it on a daily basis in a professional capacity, but I’m not.
I’m in awe—of his talent, his passion, his drive. There’s something enthralling about watching him work, about witnessing the way he transfers the beautiful curves of the female form onto the canvas.
All over again, it hits me how much I love this man. Intensely, irrevocably…possessively. His nameless model has the attention of his artist’s eye, but I own every beat of his tragic heart. I’ve got the promise of a lifetime of his love, and it’s a heady realization that shatters the last of my crumbling insecurities.
I’m not sure how long I intrude on their session, lurking from the outskirts, but nothing is more important than watching Sebastian Alexander Stone in his element.
Sexy as sin, indeed.
By the time his model begins to dress, indicating the end of the session, I’m thoroughly flushed, my fingers aching to sink into his thick hair. My breasts tingle in anticipation of coming into contact with his solid, warm chest. My body hasn’t gotten the memo that touching him isn’t allowed.
Not technically, anyway. Ford said I need to keep my clothes on, but he gave no indication of what I can and can’t do in said clothing.
His model exits his studio, and I slip in, unnoticed until the door clicks shut behind me. He’s in clean-up mode when his eyes find mine. A paintbrush drops to the floor, but it does little to distract me from the brutal discoloring around his eyes.
Both are black and blue.
“What happened?” The question squeaks out in alarm.
He blinks before running a hand down his face as if he’s only now remembering the shocking display of his battle wounds. “I got into it with Pax.”
