I don’t want to. I want to keep kissing him till he loses control and takes me on the sofa a few feet away. I want to know all that power and intensity focused on me and the arousal whipping at my body.
But he’s right. The time…I can’t just sleep with him, not if I want to keep the few shreds of self-respect I still have after years of failed relationships.
I can’t take him to the eyrie. It’s too embarrassing to admit that all I’ve done this past week is paint the very face I’ve spent half the night trying to forget, so I lead him to the spare bedroom instead and watch nervously as he walks around, studying my mediocre landscapes and the few portraits I’ve done.
My favorite is of a little girl in the park. She’s chasing a ball, her blonde curls fanning out behind her as she giggles in delight. I can’t tell you why it’s my favorite above the others, except to say that I’d felt every tinkle of her happiness and innocent glee that day, and painting it had been as much a joy as watching her chase her tiny yellow ball on the grass.
Vincent takes his time and truly studies them all, his face giving nothing away. When he finally turns back to me I force myself not to blink away and raise my head defiantly.
“They’re like—”
“Photographs? Yeah. And that’s apparently why I’ll never be anything more than a struggling artist. They—”
“Perfect,” he growls, interrupting me. “The detail, I— Have you shown these yet?”
“No, they’re due at Vernon’s Gallery in two days. I just finished the last piece in the series,” I say, running a critical eye over a view of Central Park from a window at the Met. “Not that they’ll sell. Vern only displays my stuff as a favor. He doesn’t really do much to promote it.”
“I could—”
“No. I want my work to sell because people like it, not because someone I know is a rich art buff,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at the seascape I’d painted last month when Bee had dragged me to Long Beach with her and Eric.
Vincent sighs and casts another look over at the canvasses before following me out and back to the living room.
“What’s up there?”
I follow his gaze and cringe inwardly at the four covered canvasses up in the eyrie. I really do not want him going up there and witnessing my monumental crush.
“Just a few pieces I haven’t finished yet. No!”
He’s taking the stairs and whipping the sheet from the easel before I can follow and stop him, and I freeze, blushing crimson. That specific piece depicts the man reclining back against a sea of white pillows, and a sheet barely covers his lower half.
I’d painted him looking up from beneath lowered lashes, his vivid green eyes seductively inviting, just as I’d seen him in the erotically charged dream I’d had three nights ago.
It had started with a stroke of his hands over his muscled chest as I watched, rapt and needy, my hand frozen over the canvas. In the dream he’d been luring me, tempting me to stop working and come play. When I’d refused, unable to do anything but work frantically to capture the heat I’d seen in his eyes, he’d stroked all the way down his flat stomach and beneath the sheet, the movement of his fist showing in stark detail what I wanted to do to him.
I’d woken, aroused and unfulfilled, and painted till my hands had cramped, and still I can’t seem to capture him as perfectly as I’d seen him in that dream.
“Um—”
My words die when he turns to look at me, a dark, sensual smile curving his ruby red lips. Arousal, thick and hot, sets up a steady beat between my legs, reminding me of the dream and my as yet unfulfilled desire.
“I’ve set up a studio at my home,” he murmurs, his eyes running the length of my body, heating me everywhere. “You’ll paint me there, in my sheets.”
I nod, swallowing loudly when he prowls down the stairs and comes closer, not stopping till we’re melded together. He takes my hand and pulls it between us, cupping my fingers over his bulging girth, using me to stroke himself.
“And then I’ll show you why your dimensions are off.”
Chapter Four
By four o’clock the next afternoon I’m standing on his doorstep, a mess of nervous anticipation as my hand hovers over the doorbell. If I push it I know it’s a step that I can never go back from.
This is why he’d planted a kiss on my lips and left last night. He wants me to choose this. He’s used to getting his way; I know this just as I know that my father would always play to win while keeping his integrity and respecting others’ decisions.
I’m used to powerful men. My father, brother, and cousins are in the same league, and I know how they think. They want what they want, but they won’t and never will force someone to take that step.
Vincent is exactly the same. He’ll keep after me, but in the end it will always have to be me capitulating, not being forced into a decision.
My finger stops hovering and presses down, and I hear the soft chime echo from somewhere inside the town house. When the door opens, I’m surprised to see him and not a butler or housekeeper, and I say so.
“If I’m to lounge around in the nude I’d prefer we have privacy. Let me take your coat.”
“Gosh, I love this place. Who did the mosaic?” I ask, following him down the hall and into the kitchen I’d admired a week ago.
The center island is glass topped to protect the farm scene depicted in thousands of shards of colorful tile. Whoever had done this knows their craft, and I have to admit a certain jealousy. I can’t do anything this technical without making a mess, artist or not.
“Wine?”
I nod, noting his deflection, and shrug away my irritation. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine by me. I’ve been on edge and needy all day, and part of me would prefer a quick roll between the sheets and an even quicker au revoir.
“I notice a slight drawl in your accent.”
“I’m from Texas originally,” I say, allowing the twang free rein as I follow him to the living room and snuggle into the corner of the sofa. “I try not to let the twang out if I can help it, or I’ll be faced with hillbilly jokes and insults a country girl like me doesn’t need.”
He seats himself a few feet away and turns to me.
“Understandable. Some people either talk to me as if I’m another species or they feel intimidated by my accent. Unfortunately, mine is not as easily disguisable.”
“You’re a transplant then?” I ask.
Of course he must be; his accent is all British upper class and definitely not American, but he seems so at ease and free of the lingo I know most Brits use.
“Not quite. My father is Walter Blake of the Chicago Blakes. When he and Mother divorced I went to live with her and only came back for the holidays and the odd family event. I’m what you would call a mutt.”
His derogatory tone and rueful smile make me laugh for the first time since I’d left my apartment this afternoon. For him to call himself a mutt is such a crock. I’ve never met a more well-heeled man in my life, and that’s saying a lot, with Mama’s country club rich boys I’d been forced to date in my teens.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
He shrugs dismissively and leans into the opposite corner, one arm flung across the sofa back as he sips his wine and considers me.
“For a woman of your family connections, you’ve chosen a rather difficult path to tread. You’re a brilliant talent, Sissy. Why not use your father’s connections to further your career?”
“Because I want more than a pat on the head and an easy ride. I spent half my high school career defending myself whenever Daddy made a contribution to the prom fund or the ninth grade camping trip. I want to be recognized on merit or not at all.”
His look says he doesn’t agree with me, as if my reasoning is faulty somehow, and I lose my nerves in favor of the irritation bubbling through me.
Why do I always have to explain and defend myself and my actions to people? It’s so annoying, and it makes me doub
t myself in a way I don’t need right now.
“I leav—”
“You have no idea what it means to grow up struggling for everything you have, so forgive me if I can’t understand your need to live like a poor person. I’ve had to claw my way to the top, one inch at a time, for the last fifteen years. Hell, when I made my first million I was still eating canned soup and living in a bedsit. I understand your need to succeed, just not your desire to suffer while you do it.”
That surprises me enough that I feel my mouth flap and my eyebrows shoot to my hairline.
“But I thought your dad was some rich guy.”
His sardonic smile is so cold it sends shivers down my spine, and I shrink back into the sofa, breaking eye contact long enough to take a huge mouthful of wine.
“My father had no use for me when his new wife gave him a son. I spent my holidays in America because my grandparents couldn’t stand the thought of losing me. They paid for everything I had when they found out my father had stopped paying child support. I was sixteen before I had enough money to stop working at the café while Mum cleaned other people’s houses. So you see, I happen to appreciate everything I have, and every helping hand that got me to this point.”
While I’ve never wanted for anything until the day I chose to walk away from my family’s fortune. I want to laugh at the irony. While he’d been struggling his way through life, praying for help and despising his bastard father, I’d been merrily skipping my way through life, taking everything my parents had ever given me for granted.
I can see his point of view a little better now, but that in no way makes his judgment of my actions any easier to swallow.
“I had no friends. None. I spent seven years of high school being shunned by even the dorks that got wedgied. No one on the planet hated recess more than I did because instead of eating in the cafeteria I hid in the art room and choked down the healthy lunch option my mama made me take to school. We all have our own crosses to bear. Yours ain't no better or worse than mine, Vincent Blake, and best you remember that if you want me to paint your ass any time this century,” I warn, giving him the same look my mama gave me whenever I acted like a brat.
It seems to do the trick, because his face loses that hard cast and he gives me an apologetic smile.
“So no help then.”
“Nope. I want to win on my own terms. Now then, where’s this studio you’ve been promising me, Mr Blake? Daylight’s fading, and I do not paint by the light of the moon, no matter how romantic it may seem.”
“If I thought romance would work…but then, you’re too realistic for that, it seems,” he says, rising and holding a hand out. I take it, wondering exactly what Vincent Blake has in mind for me, and if I am even halfway experienced enough to handle it.
Chapter Five
“Holy shit.”
The studio is everything I could have imagined and then so much more. It easily takes up half of the third floor at the back of the house, and one entire wall is clear glass.
I’m so totally in love at the moment I can’t catch my breath.
“This is… You must really like art.”
He laughs and takes my hand, pulling me along till we’re standing right in front of the glass wall with nothing obscuring the view of the backyard and the city’s skyline.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s fully stocked, but if there’s something you need that isn’t here, Henry will get it for you.”
I take it all in. Fresh canvasses are stacked against the far right wall beneath a wall of shelves that hold every art supply I could possibly need. Except one thing.
“There’s…there’s no bed or settee or…”
I can’t say why I’m awkward all of a sudden, but perhaps it’s the reality of what I’m about to do in this room. Overriding the need to see him and do every dirty thing my mind can come up with is the need to get his true likeness onto my canvas.
A month ago I would have snorted at wanting a man like this to pose for me instead of losing his control and taking me in every position known to man.
I want him, of that I have no doubt, thanks to my constantly moist and clenching sex, but I want to paint him and…have a part of him to take with me when we part ways.
Yes, of course we’ll eventually part ways. The man is rich and powerful and exactly the opposite of what I’m looking for right now, so there’s no way we could possibly stay together and actually have a real relationship. But for this one brief flash of time I want more than memories and fond nods when we pass each other on the street. I want a part of him that will be with me. Always.
“You won’t be painting me here, Sissy,” he drawls, pulling my hips back into his as we stare out at the setting sun. “My bed and those snowy white sheets await us just down the hall.”
“Then why—”
“I want you to see where you’ll be working from now on.”
His hands stroke down from my hips and land on my jeans-covered thighs, their proximity to my sex shooting tingles of awareness through me, making me squirm with the need to lean my head back against his shoulder and push my hips forward into his grasp.
His lips caress my ear, and I feel his tongue dart out to lick at the shell, the wet tip glancing down to land on my neck.
“Working?”
I’m not tracking right, I know it, but I can’t stop my mind from exploding when he opens his mouth over the skin where my shoulder and neck meet and sucks with enough force to leave a mark.
“Yes. I want to commission you to paint a series of landscapes of my choosing. After the portrait, of course.”
What?
“I…” I breathe through the arousal and clench my thighs when one hand comes up to cup me gently, his middle finger resting from the top of my slit to my opening where the tip exerts the lightest pressure. “I don’t take…oh, private commissions,” I gasp, moaning when that finger starts a gentle back and forward motion over my swollen clit.
“Hmm, and why is that?” he asks.
I can’t breathe enough to form a reply when I feel his tongue flicking at my earlobe in a parody of what his finger is doing between my legs.
“Sissy?”
“I-I don’t paint what other people want me to paint. Ever.”
His finger stops moving, and I groan, twisting my hips with a bump of impatience. He chuckles and turns me around, pressing me back into the glass, his hands planted beside my head.
“I’ll make you a deal, Cecilia Bennet. If you accept my commission you can paint whatever you like. As long as you do it in six months. No less.”
His green eyes bore into me, urging me to accept, tempting me with the promise of more time than I would have ever expected from a man like Vincent Blake.
“I—What about that woman I saw you with? I—”
“She is no longer in the picture,” he says, cutting me off short. “This time is for us. I want you to promise me the next six months. If you can do that, I will allow you free rein here in the studio and a commission that will ensure you no longer need to work two jobs.”
The offer is so tempting I find myself nodding my assent before I’ve completely thought it through. With more time I can completely focus on my work and getting myself into better known galleries. Hell, if he pays me enough I can get my own show.
“I don’t understand any of this. Why? Why do all this?”
I’m a good artist, despite what Vernon has said, but no one offers a struggling, unknown artist a chance like this. Unless they want more than art.
“Because I want you, and I’m not willing to settle for half your time because you need to work yourself to death. I also happen to be fascinated by your style and technique, and I want to monopolize you before you become well known,” he says, earnestly enough that I truly believe he thinks it will happen.
That shot of confidence almost makes me smile before a frown creases my brow.
“This isn’t the same as you paying me for sex, is it?”
I see my mistake when he pushes away and levels a cold, icy hard stare down at me.
“I have no need to pay for sex, and I most certainly would never insult you by suggesting that I see you as a whore.”
“I’m sorry.”
He relaxes slowly and smiles, giving me the same seductive look I remember from that day at the Met, and I feel myself soften in distinctly feminine places.
“You’re mine now.”
I swallow and take his hand, and butterflies attack my stomach.
“For the next six months at least.”
Chapter Six
His bedroom is huge, like as big as my entire apartment, which is not that small, thank you very much, and decorated in deep blues and snowy whites that make me long for some fabric and time to rectify this miscarriage of decorating.
“You don’t like my bedroom.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just not…” How can I say this without being offensive? “It’s one—”
I start laughing, hard, when I realize I’m about to tell him that his choice of décor is one-dimensional. Oh my God, I must be a color snob or something to think that I can judge a person of their color preferences. The irony, something I’ve learned a lot about lately, makes me bust a gut hard enough that by the time I stop laughing he’s looking at me curiously.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I was about to tell you that your colors are one dimensional, and…I can’t believe I’d ever say that to anyone after the criticism I get for my choices.”
His lips twitch a little, and I smile back, feeling the tension drain away to be replaced by need and anticipation.
An easel and clean canvas sit a few feet from the foot of the bed, the stool lined in padded velvet that I am strangely grateful for. An artist’s ass takes as much of a beating as the arms do, you know.
“Right. I’m going to go take a shower while you get naked and get your supplies ready. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“You want me to paint you? Now?”
We’re in the bedroom, for goodness’s sake. He’s just spent an agonizing few minutes getting me wet and aroused, and he wants me to paint him?
JARED (Lane Brothers Book 4) Page 16
