Serving Pleasure

by Alisha Rai

  “Rana.”

  She looked up to find him studying her, his face as soft as she’d ever seen it. He backed away and sat on a stool a few feet from the sofa. Probably so he wouldn’t seem so big and intimidating. “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

  “I wanted to.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve seen me naked. I don’t know why I’m nervous.”

  Micah cocked his head. He didn’t look gruff and cranky anymore, but understanding and patient. Like he’d flipped some switch and settled into a persona she’d never seen before. Was this the professional, experienced artist Micah? “Because it’s a different sort of trust that’s required here.”

  “You’ve been inside my body. I trust you.”

  He placed his hands on his knees. “You’re letting me inside your soul now.”

  She waited a beat before letting out a peal of laughter. When she was able to speak, she asked, “You’re joking with that shit, right?”

  His lips curled. Ah! It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was definitely amusement. “I thought you’d like that.”

  Still smiling, she snorted. “Good one.”

  “In all seriousness, though, I understand it’s not quite the same thing. You might sleep with someone and not let them take nude photos of you, correct? Different levels of trust.”

  “I suppose. But this is…art.”

  “A naked photo captured on a camera phone can be art. In any case, both are a form of recreating your likeness when you’re at your most vulnerable.” He hitched a shoulder. “Perhaps not quite seeing into your soul. But there is intimacy. I understand if you don’t feel ready yet. I understand if you never feel ready. If you like, I can paint you as you are, clad in a robe. Or a sheet. Or dressed. Or I can not paint you at all.”

  She ran a hand down the lapel of her robe. “No one’s ever had to coax me to strip. When I lost my virginity, I was the one tearing off the dude’s clothes.”

  “I’m not coaxing you. I’m telling you you have a choice.” He cocked his head. “I will still sleep with you, if you’re worried about that.”

  “Ha.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You won’t really paint me clothed. You only paint nudes.”

  “I grew famous for painting nudes,” he corrected. “I have painted all sorts of people.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I started art school, I didn’t even have plans to paint, not really. I was going to be a sculptor.”

  “But you discovered you liked painting more?”

  His gaze was far away. “I discovered I enjoyed the thing that made me money. Success meant I was good at it, yeah? I liked being good at things.” He refocused on her. “But success isn’t an issue here. Anything I make with your body as a model—clothed or unclothed—will sell like nothing I’ve made in a long time.”

  No pressure, though. “How do you know that?”

  His eyes glittered. “You inspire me.”

  Her breath hitched. The words should have been as cheesy as his joke about seeing inside her soul, but they weren’t. Because he sounded…honest. And puzzled. And frustrated. Like he didn’t want her to inspire him, but he had no choice in the matter.

  Her decision was made.

  She drew the robe open and let it slip off her shoulders, giving it a little kick so it lay away from the sofa.

  He didn’t say anything, but he surveyed her, starting at her feet and moving slowly upward. She shivered, goose bumps coasting along her skin as he looked his fill.

  Her heart thundered, beating double time when he finally met her gaze. There was heat in his eyes, yes, but it was banked and simmering in the background, behind excitement and wonder.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “Yes,” she answered, with no hesitation.

  “You can stop me at anytime.”

  This was sort of like losing one’s virginity, she thought. She was damn glad Micah was the one who was popping her cherry.

  He nodded to the couch. “Sit down. However you feel comfortable. Curl up your legs, leave them straight, whatever you want.”

  She sat down on the far right, the cool cotton of the sheet rubbing against her ass. Everything felt heightened. It was like sensory overload.

  “Are you cold? Hot?”

  “No. I’m fine.” Since he’d told her to be comfortable, she leaned against the arm of the sofa and curled her legs under her. Her usual TV-watching pose. “Is this okay?”

  “Perfect.” He picked up a huge pad of thin paper and a stub of charcoal from the paint-spattered table next to him, and rested the pad on his thigh. “These first few times we meet, I’ll just be sketching. I’ll tell you when to move and occasionally give you directions. We’ll run through a number of positions. Mostly so I can get accustomed to your body.”

  “How long will our session be tonight?”

  “Until you get tired.” He eyed her sternly. “So you mustn’t be shy about telling me when you’re tired.”

  “What about when you get tired?”

  “I don’t get tired,” he said absently. He stared at her, critically examining her breasts and belly, his charcoal hovering above the paper.

  Her skin prickled, in a good way. “Paint me like one of your French girls, Micah.”

  He smirked, but his eyes were on her stomach. “I’ve never had a French model. Only English ones.” He paused. “One other American.”

  She picked up on the odd note in his voice. “You slept with her. The American.”

  His gaze flew to her face. “Do you have a radar for sex?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I was a twenty-year-old-virgin. She was a twenty-five-year-old not-a-virgin who inexplicably liked my inability to speak to her without stuttering.”

  “Aw. You were a bit of a late bloomer, Micah.”

  “Very much so.”

  “So you do sleep with your models.”

  He shook his head. “She was the first. You’re the second.”

  “Must be us Americans. You can’t resist our charm.”

  His fingers were moving over the paper, fast and sharp. He was barely looking at what he drew, though. His eyes were on her, probing and a little unfocused.

  He was in his zone. It was sexy. “Yes. Perhaps it’s my American side dominating,” he said absently.

  She propped her chin in her hand. “Your American side?”

  “I have dual citizenship. I was born in Hawaii.”

  Surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

  “No reason for you to know.” The words were matter-of-fact.

  “Is it bothering you when I talk?”

  “If talking makes you more comfortable, go ahead.”

  “Can I ask you questions?”

  His fingers stuttered, but otherwise he gave no outward sign of discomfort at the question. “Depends on the question.”

  Oh man, did she have a ton of questions. She settled on continuing their conversation. “Are you Hawaiian, then?”

  “Yes. Half.”

  “What’s the other half?” she asked, and then made a face when she heard herself. “Sorry, you can tell me to shut up if you don’t want to talk about your ethnicity. I only ask because when I first saw you, I thought you might have some Indian in you. Just wondering if I need to welcome you into the brotherhood.”

  His lips curved. His charcoal didn’t stop, his eyes traveling down to her legs. “There’s a brotherhood?”

  “Oh yes. The Order of the Samosa. We have a handshake and everything.”

  Oh, oh, oh! There it was. A smile. So quick and fleeting Rana would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him, but the flash of white teeth and the crinkles at his eyes made her heart swell.

  Damn. Had she thought he was sexy before? Nope. It was nothing compared to him smiling.

  “You have a good eye, but I don’t know if I would qualify for the order. I’m...” He narrowed his eyes and ripped
off the sketch he had been working on, tossing it onto the floor next to him. “Can you shift a hair to the left? Put your hands in front of you if you can. I’m shite at drawing hands.”

  She obeyed, arranging into a different position. His charcoal flew again. She wished she could see the sketch he had done of her, but the paper had landed face down.

  “You were saying?” she prompted.

  “I’m one-eighth Indian. My father is Hawaiian. My mother is Jamaican. But, racially, she’s a little of everything. I believe her grandfather was Indian.” He shrugged. “Might be a Chinese grandparent or two in there as well.”

  She flexed her foot. “Now I feel boring.”

  “Nothing boring about the Order of the Samosa.”

  She chuckled. When she stopped, she noted him watching her mouth, his pencil arrested, a perplexed expression on his face.

  He ripped off another sheet. When she stirred, he shook his head. “No, you can stay where you are for now.”

  She made a minute adjustment so her leg wouldn’t fall asleep. “So, you have a Jamaican mother and a Hawaiian father, and you grew up in England instead of some tropical paradise?”

  His eyes warmed the slightest degree. For such a solitary, reserved man, it was practically a declaration of adoration. “My mother is English. Born and raised. She met my father when she was on holiday from uni.” He dipped his head. “Papa was working at his friend’s restaurant. A tourist trap, it was, where they did hula and ate fire. Story is he looked up from the show, saw my mother, and that was it. They got married a month later. I was born in ten months.”

  Rana wasn’t the romantic in her family, but her heart was pretty damn close to melting. “Aww. That’s so cute.”

  He didn’t disagree with her. “I would have been raised in Hawaii. But my mother missed her life and her family, and my father has never been capable of denying her anything. We moved to England for good when I was under a year old.”

  “They sound like a sweet couple.”

  His face softened even more. “They are very devoted to each other. And to me.”

  “No other siblings?”

  He ripped off his sketch. “No. I’m it.”

  “Only child.”

  “Yes,” he replied dryly. “It’s exactly as wonderful and lonely and sad and whatever else the stereotypes are. Straighten your legs?”

  She straightened them, surprised to find her legs asleep. Good thing he was moving her around, or she might actually be in pain at the end of this.

  He caught her wince. “Do you need a break?”

  “No. Pins and needles in my legs is all.”

  He leaned over, grabbed a cloth from the table and wiped his charcoal-dusted hands off before he rose and took the couple of steps to the couch. Unexpectedly, he put his hands on her legs and massaged them softly, until the discomfort was gone.

  “You fondle all your models like this, Micah?”

  His dark eyes met hers. “No. Only you.” He lowered his head and pressed a kiss on her hip, rising with a self-satisfied smirk when he heard her indrawn breath. “I would fondle you some more, but you wanted this to be professional.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Yeah, yeah. Keep drawing, sir.”

  Chapter 14

  Rana glanced up at the two enthralled men in front of her. “I hope everything is to your liking.”

  The blond cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on her breasts. “Everything looks great.”

  With one last pat on the back of the loveseat, she straightened away from the sofa nestled in the corner of the restaurant. She’d pestered her sisters into ordering the plush couches last month, and the after-work crowd tended to love them. “There you go. Best seat in the house.”

  “I doubt that.” The dark-haired man leered at her.

  Normally, she might have smiled, but these two were barely welcome as it was. She gave a nod. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

  “Rana, you won’t be waiting on us?”

  So you can have too many martinis and make veiled innuendos you think I’m too stupid to understand? In a perfect world, Rana could have banished the assholes from her restaurant after the first and only time they’d decided to ogle her ass and act like obnoxious, sexist fifties ad executives instead of progressive, intelligent humans. Sadly, diplomacy and customer satisfaction had been drummed into her head from an early age.

  Still, the front end was her domain, damn it, and its people were her responsibility. So far, at least, these two behaved around the other waitstaff. If they didn’t, she would ensure they never came back.

  “Sorry, boys, not tonight. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Rana walked away, leaving the men nudging and grinning. Rana could feel their gazes on her ass. Out of their sight, she rolled her eyes. Jerk wads.

  She surveyed the restaurant, mentally checking off every employee’s position in her head as well as each customer’s general well-being. As she skirted through the tables, she smiled and greeted the table of blue-haired crones who came in every Friday for dinner, righted a toddler’s sippy cup, and signaled a waitress to refill drinks.

  As she put some distance between her and the problem customers, her mood perked up. More than one person had commented on her happiness today. How could she hide it? It was basically impossible.

  She’d avoided her sisters, fearful they would somehow take one look at her smirking face and know she was bringing shame on their family by posing naked for a world-renowned artist. And having sex with him, sex with so many lovely orgasms. Without a single thought to putting a ring on it! My, she was naughty.

  The modeling part was surprisingly tiring work. Last night, their second session together, Micah had her standing in different poses for almost two hours before she’d called uncle, tired from the strain of not moving. Lying-down poses were much easier. She didn’t have to think quite so much, and could simply enjoy the pleasure of being naked while he admired her.

  To his credit, he had spent a good half hour massaging her muscles and fingering her clit before sending her home on weak legs, so she couldn’t complain that he didn’t take care of her. And she got to do it all again tonight. Halleluiah.

  “There you are.”

  Oh, shit. Rana hid the instant flash of guilt, and turned to face her sister. Leena was frowning at her. Bah. What had she done now? Other than the whole naked-modeling thing.

  “Hey there, you,” Rana said, with such forced cheerfulness she was surprised Leena didn’t immediately challenge her on it. “What are you doing here? Thought you were grabbing a bite with Rahul.” Look at that, she managed to say the guy’s name without hissing like a cat. Leena’s long-time boyfriend wasn’t overtly awful, but Rana disliked him intensely. When Leena was with him it was like she became someone else, all of her personality sucked away.

  Gosh, though, he was a doctor, so their mother had been in love with him since the moment Leena had brought him home almost four years ago. Enough that she’d turned a blind eye to the two of them living together. It was understood they’d be married as soon as he finished his residency. As far as their mother was concerned, living in sin could be forgiven if one ended up with a doctor son-in-law.

  Leena froze for a beat, but then recovered. “No. I’ve been looking for you. Did you tell the contractors to wait a week to paint?”

  “I— Oh! Oh, yes.” They would have expanded to this second location a long time ago, but for their mother’s worry it would be a bad risk. Mama wasn’t in charge any longer, but all three of them found it difficult not to defer to her. “I did. Because we didn’t talk about what the color scheme will be.”

  Leena made an impatient noise. “It’ll be the same as here, obviously.”

  “No, see it doesn’t have to be.” Rana reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone, bringing up the picture that had triggered her imagination. “Ta-da!”

  Leena eyed the soft blue dress. “I don’t like the cut.”

  “Not t
he cut. The color. That’s the color that should go on our wall.”

  Leena gave a frustrated sigh. “Rana. Please call the contractors tomorrow and tell them to slap some red on one of the walls so we can see what it looks like, okay?”

  Rana wilted a bit. “I think…”

  “We don’t have time to get held up on tiny decisions like this.”

  Paint colors weren’t a tiny decision. They would influence the whole feel of the restaurant.

  “But…” Rana was about to say as much when she caught sight of Jyoti out of the corner of her eye, scrambling away, her face flushed and long braid swinging. Odd. The girl did get flustered, but that didn’t look like simple bashfulness. “Hang on. We can continue this conversation later.”

  “We’re not continuing it. I told you, we’re on a tight schedule.”

  Ugh. If Rana had time to get her mad on properly, she would, but she didn’t right now. She gave her sister an irritated wave and followed Jyoti.

  “Hey, girl,” she said when she caught up to the younger woman at the hostess stand. “What’s up?”

  Jyoti cast her a terrified glance. Her eyes were red with unshed tears. “Nothing.”

  “Something’s wrong.” Rana leaned against the counter. “Spill.”

  Jyoti clasped her hands together. “Those two men at table eleven made some lewd remarks when I delivered their food, is all.”

  The ad execs. Rana clenched her hand into a fist. “Lewd, eh?”

  “One said I—” Jyoti bit her trembling lip. “I can’t repeat it. I’m sorry. They didn’t touch me or anything. It’s okay. I overreact sometimes.”

  “Aw, no, darlin’. No such thing as an overreaction when a dickhead’s dicking.” She would have moderated her language for Jyoti, but she was furious. The girl didn’t seem to mind, a sign of how upset she was.

  Jyoti nodded once. “Do you…? Could you maybe assign Ken to finish waiting on them? He could have my tip and everything,” she tacked on, referring to one of the busboys.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rana soothed, and moved over to the register. She quickly tapped in some information and waited for the check to print. “You’ll be getting your tip. But you don’t have to see them. They’re leaving.”