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Four
She froze. Her heart started pounding. Now? He was going to make love to her now?
Grant ignored her and went to the fire, adding more logs and poking the coals until he had achieved the original level of intense heat. Once again, he ripped off his shirt and shoes and kicked them aside. He turned to look at her. “It’s getting late. Undress, please.”
Despite the polite words, it was a command.
“I thought artists needed a well-lit studio.”
“I want to paint you by firelight.” The words were a promise, a verbal caress. His voice was deep, whiskey smooth.
She hesitated still. “I made popcorn and hot chocolate.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We could do this tomorrow,” she said, grasping any opportunity to postpone the inevitable.
“I have other plans for tomorrow.”
His meaning was clear. She flushed from her collarbone to her hairline, and it wasn’t from the fire’s wicked heat. She licked her lips, her mouth and throat as dry as the Sahara. “Will you turn around, please?”
“No.” His response was unequivocal. Buried beneath his impassive expression was a dare. He expected her to be confident and daring. She wasn’t sure she had it in her.
She slipped off the floppy clown socks one at a time and dropped the bulky sweatpants. The turquoise flannel shirt covered her respectably, but her legs and feet were now bare.
A muscle in his granite jaw flexed, but otherwise his face didn’t change. “Keep going.”
Which would be easier? Panties first or the top? Deciding that the long shirttails provided the most protection, she reached under and dragged her underwear down her legs.
He was waiting patiently, but she stalled, shaking with nerves. He had seen her breasts only hours before. Why was it so difficult now? Perhaps because he was staring at her with all the hungry intensity of a young cowboy eyeing his first hooker. Not that Grant would ever have been forced to pay for a prostitute. He would have been the kind of Western hero who got the preacher’s daughter and the brothel owner and every other woman in town.
She unbuttoned the shirt, her fingers clumsy and chilled, despite the room’s toasty temperature. When the fabric hung free, she managed to look at him. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and his hands were clenched at his sides. She shrugged her shoulders and the shirt slipped to the floor.
His muttered imprecation was audible in the quiet room, but his next words were calm. “Lie down.”
She sat awkwardly, tucking her legs protectively to her chest.
He frowned. “Turn partway on your side. Let your back rest against the back of the sofa.”
She did as he asked, refusing to look at him. She sensed his approach, and her breasts tightened in anticipation. He tucked a small throw pillow beneath her head, and winnowed his fingers in her hair, spreading it in careful disarray. His actions were matter of fact, impersonal.
He lifted one leg so her knee was bent, and positioned her arm loosely balanced on her hip. She jerked when she felt his touch between her legs. He fluffed the curls there, combing them with his fingers. Moisture gathered in the secret folds of her body, and hunger began to build.
He tucked her other hand under her cheek, a position that gave him a clear view of her breasts. Without warning he bent and suckled her nipples, one after the other. “Don’t move,” he said.
His mouth tugging at the tips of her breasts sent an agonizing wave of need crashing though her body. She moaned, desperate to pull him inside her. She grasped his arm.
He moved away, his voice unsteady. “We’re ready to begin. Get comfortable. Let your body conform to the sofa.”
She tried to find a place inside her head where she could exist without being so terribly aware of Grant’s presence. She slowed her breathing, consciously relaxing each muscle, closing her eyes and drifting on a daydream. . .
* * *
Grant mixed a swirl of paint and saw his hand shake. He wasn’t entirely sure he could follow through with this and not go stark raving mad. He was being ripped apart by opposing forces. The artist in him exulted in the chance to create a painting that would be perhaps the best he had ever done. The man, uninterested in such high-flown ambition, wrestled with primitive lust.
Keeping one in check while allowing the other to thrive was a challenge that required his utmost concentration. He looked at his subject, trying to view her non-sexually. Her pale skin took on a golden sheen in the flickering firelight. The red highlights in her hair caught the fire’s glow, and the planes and curves of her body reminded him of a medieval canvas he’d once seen at the National Gallery, its ancient beauty still mesmerizing.
He steadied his hand and began to paint.
