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I gust out a sigh.
“Raise your left arm.” Helen does as I say, her eyes fixed on the wall behind me. Is she uncomfortable? Fuck, does she hate this? Am I doing something unforgivable here? “Lean your head on it like a pillow. Yeah, like that.”
The room is filled with soft rustling noises, then silence. She must hear my thudding heartbeat, but I can’t tell. She won’t stop staring at the wall.
“We don’t have to—if you’ve changed your mind, Helen—”
“No!” Just like that, her eyes are on me, wide with alarm. “No, I haven’t changed my mind.” The flush on her cheekbones deepens as she talks. “I want to do this. It’s, um. It’s fun, Mr Grangemoor.”
I hope that’s true. Scrubbing a hand over my chin, I ask: “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Helen says firmly, and as she shifts position, she seems more relaxed. Her tan limbs melt against the green cushions, and her pouty mouth quirks up in a smile. “You’d better paint me after all this, boss. I’ve gotten naked and everything.”
Yes, she has. Lord help me, she has.
And as I limp closer, I chafe my hands together to warm them. Once I stand over her, I raise both palms in question. “May I?”
Helen wets her bottom lip and nods.
Her mouth is shiny as I add a slight bend to one leg, then tilt her knee this way and that. I arrange her, just like I said, with Helen muttering her own quiet suggestions, and with a task to focus on, it’s easier to keep my eyes moving, gaze clinical, not lingering where I shouldn’t.
Fuck, she’s beautiful, though. I could paint this woman a thousand times and never do her justice.
“Could you hold that?” I ask eventually, stepping back to get the full view. She lounges across the chaise lounge, sensual and brave. “For a few hours?”
“Sure.” Helen’s smile for me is shy, and it’s like a punch to the ribs. I limp back to my canvas, ragged breaths drawing in air. “Let me know if I start snoring, Mr Grangemoor.”
Ha. I will.
If I can ever unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth, anyway.
* * *
If I were a religious man, I’d pray on my knees this evening. I’d clasp a crucifix to my lips, and confess my sins to the windy night.
Because today, I watched her. Drew her.Paintedher, each stroke of my brush against the canvas as intimate as a physical touch, and I know Helen felt it too. The longer she lay there, displayed and bare, the harder her nipples got, and the further a flush crept up her neck. By the time we broke for coffee after three hours, she was practically panting, thighs clenched together, and I can’t blame her.
I was just as bad. Hard as goddamn granite, hiding like a coward behind my easel, my throat tight with all the words I choked back.
“Was that okay, Mr Grangemoor?” she asked me, slipping my robe around her shoulders, and all I could do was nod.
Okay?
Was itokay?
From this day on, my life is divided into two eras: Before Helen and After Helen.
I didn’t touch her, though. Not in the way I wanted to. I didn’t kiss her or stroke her or climb on top of her on the chaise lounge, and I cling to that fact as I wash up before bed. We crossed a hundred lines today, but it could have been worse.Icould have been worse.
It’s no defense at all, really.
Helen deserves so much better from her employer.
My room is cold as I limp out of the bathroom, droplets of icy water still clinging to my beard. They drip onto my shirt, speckling the cotton, and my leg throbs like a bastard as I cross to the bed. It’s a monster of a four-poster, carved from scratched oak, and the frame creaks as I shuck my clothes and lower myself down.
The bedsheets are cool, whispering over my heated skin. My cock aches, angry and demanding, but I don’t take myself in hand.
Helen.
