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Rob narrows his eyes at me. He goes back to chopping wood. I sit back and watch. Beads of sweat glisten and trail down the nape of his neck, leaving a tantalizing path along the defined ridges of his chest. He’s like a portrait I’d love to hang above my bed and stare at as I go to sleep.
“You never showed me your painting of me,” I call out between his swings.
“You’ve seen it.”
“I think I’d remember a portrait of my half-naked body.”
He halts his work and looks up at me. “Oh. That one. It’s not done.”
“Can I see it?”
“I let you in my studio once. I don’t plan on making it a regular thing.”
“Why do you hide your talent like that?”
“It’s not about hiding. It’s about keeping something for myself.”
“So, you want to keep a picture of my breasts. I’d be creeped out, but instead, I’m quite flattered. They are amazing.”
“On second thought, you can have the painting.”
“You don’t want a souvenir of my breasts?” I ask, mock offended, and look down at my hands twisting in the flowery silk of my dress because I’m lying. I am offended. Just when I think I have a bond with this man, he throws ice-cold water on the fuse, and it dies.
“I like the souvenir I already have,” he states.
My head jolts up. Our gazes are locked in a magnetic embrace, and the moment is charged. His eyes caress me with an intensity that travels down to my soul. I feel vulnerable, a sense of being seen and desired in a way that’s both exhilarating and intimidating. It’s a silent negotiation, an understanding that the connection between us is tangible.
There’s a story between us, a story that’s yet to be written, a tale of desire that hangs in the balance, awaiting the courage to be set free. I just wish he’d pick up the damn pen and start writing it.
He’s the first to look away. My heart drops to my stomach.
“Would it really kill you to take that shirt off and just let me live out one teeny-tiny fantasy?” I say with a flip of my hair and a shimmy of my shoulders.
He rolls his eyes. To my surprise, he does exactly as I asked.
My jaw falls, and I clench my invisible pearls at the sight before me.
If there ever was a perfect piece of art, this man is it in the flesh.
Broad and powerful? Check.
Rippling biceps, contoured to showcase his sinewy muscles? Double check.
Abdominals that flex subtly, revealing his core’s strength that extends down to his hips, emphasizing the V-shaped taper of his waist and accentuates his masculine form? Triple check.
His eyes are trained on mine as he lifts a brow. “Happy?”
“Very.” My eyes are still focused on his gorgeous skin.
His pectorals rise and fall with each heavy breath he takes.
“Tara,” he warns, and I blink up at him, a hum coming off my lips to let him know he has my attention. “You can’t look at me like that.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for all of this.” I wave my hand at his perfect frame, attempting to be witty when, in reality, I’m gobsmacked with attraction.
“All of what?” His tone is serious.
It snaps me out of my haze, and I look up at him, to his chestnut eyes and searing good looks that render me helpless.
