The Painter's Passion

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  He’d tossed the painting he’d been working on, starting over fresh from his imagination. Only the woman that appeared on the canvas was no imagined seductive goddess – it was a very real Ana.

  Pierce stepped onto the train, bracing himself as it began to move, taking him towards the very same woman who occupied his thoughts. He checked his watch; he was going to be late for the damn meeting and he knew he was going to get shit for it from Her Majesty, Queen Ana.

  The same scenario repeated itself every other night for the past few weeks. And it didn’t matter what he did – if alcohol was involved, if he had the women pleasure themselves in front of him – as soon as he gave up on the painting that was going nowhere, every sexual desire of his was gone.

  It had been over four goddamn weeks since he’d had an orgasm, he thought angrily as he got off at the Green Park stop. It was the longest he’d ever gone and he wasn’t sure he was going to make it much longer.

  To make matters worse, the only woman his body felt like desiring was his friend’s goddamn twin sister – the one woman that practically ignored him each and every day and for good reason.

  The house was big so it was relatively easy to go about business without running into anyone, but he knew she was purposefully avoiding him. When they did come into contact, her words were succinct and to the point, wasting no time conveying her thoughts or getting information from him so that she could be free from his presence. She was biding her time until the rest of her team got there and she was forced to work with him.

  They’d arrived in London sooner than expected because of Tash, so it was only a few days ago that the two agents Ana wanted – and trusted – to help them finally arrived back in London fresh off of a case in Spain and today was the first day that all of them would meet to go over intel and strategy. A meeting that he was currently ten minutes late for.

  Walking up Berkley Street, he knew he should have gone for a run that morning. If he had, he probably could have avoided everything that happened earlier.

  This morning, instead of using exertion to exhaust his desire, he’d woken up on the couch in his studio to the face – the painting – he’d felt compelled to create and the only one that he seemed content with its progress: it was the one of Ana. Invariably, after he sent home each and every model that he brought back, Pierce ended up working on her face.

  The soft waves of her blonde hair and those hazel eyes that seemed to change with her mood… Letting out a frustrated curse, Pierce ran his hand through his jet-black disheveled hair, deciding to get something to eat to satisfy his stomach… and maybe something to drink to subdue his mind.

  The house was three floors with a main staircase that connected them, sweeping down into a grand entryway. A hard U-turn at the bottom of the stairs, would let you follow the hallway into the back of the house where the kitchen and morning room were secluded; it was the way that he should have gone. Instead, he used the second staircase that secretly connected the third floor (where his suite was) to the second floor and then right down into the kitchen; it was probably a remnant feature from back in the days when the third floor was reserved for servants who needed quick, secluded access to the kitchen.

  Not bothering to put on any more clothing, he silently left his bedroom – shirtless and wearing sweatpants that did nothing to conceal his arousal. Pierce stalked down that narrow stairwell in the dead silence of the early morning. The problem with such a large house was that it lulled him into the assumption that, at that hour, he could move freely through the space without seeing his housemates.

  Except of course, for this morning.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs in a rush and stalked around the corner to where the fridge would be waiting a few steps ahead. He was too caught up in his own contemplations to be paying attention to his surroundings and crashed directly into the very object of those thoughts.

  Ana.

  “Shit,” he swore as his arms came around her slender form to steady her, feeling the cold rush of water between them from the glass that she had been holding; he was surprised that it didn’t sizzle right off of his skin considering how hot and aroused he was.

  It was only a few seconds – if that – that she was pressed tight against him, but fuck did she feel good. Even with all the clothes that she had on, Ana was warm and soft in all the right places – a delicious respite for the hot and hard parts of his body that could find no other release.

  “You can let me go now,” Her Majesty retorted a moment later as though being pressed up against his large, hard form did nothing for her.

  He looked down over her blonde hair that was piled on top of her head like a golden crown, down to her sensual, yet sleepy face, locking his black eyes with her hazel ones.

  Two could play at that game.

  “Are you sure about that, Your Highness?” He smirked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hold you a little closer?” He emphasized his question with a squeeze, acutely aware of the torture he was causing himself. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold…”

  Her gaze narrowed. And then she purposely tipped her hand, letting the rest of the water from her cup spill out onto him.

  Pierce hissed and released her, watching as the water ran down his chest and stained the front of his very bulging sweats. His head jerked back up to glare at her, sparks flaring in his dark eyes.

  “Oops! Looks like I got you a little wet. Sorry about that,” she said innocently, biting her lip as though it had been a complete accident. “Don’t worry, it’s just water; hopefully it won’t make you melt.” She paused, her gaze dropping to his blatant erection and then returning to his, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe, hopefully, it will.”

  Her taunting expression immediately evaporated as her brain processed what her eyes had just glanced over – the giant scar that ran down the left side of his neck, down onto his chest, and finally stopped just onto his stomach. The puckered skin was almost half an inch wide in some spots.

  He saw her body language immediately change, her gaze turning to one of shock, concern, and pity. He fucking hated that stare. He growled, stepping towards her to put her back on the defensive from his advances. She responded just as he thought she would, moving back to become trapped by the island that was directly behind her.

  Pressing his torso flush against hers, he bent in close to her ear to whisper, “Keep that up, princess, and the only thing that will be melting is you underneath my tongue.”

  That should keep her thoughts from wondering what had happened to him.

  If it had been any other place or time of the day, he would have missed the barely perceptible intake of her breath and the slight flush that graced her velvet skin; they were the only things that told him that what he said had had some sort of effect on her. As he pulled back, her face remained just as coolly composed as it had been before – as if he was boring her.

  And that was what he’d been dealing with for four fucking frustrating weeks. Every attempt to tease or taunt her was met with calm composure. It was so goddamn irritating since it was his main talent - and what he might consider the joy of his daily life - to unnerve everyone else around him.

  He reached his arm behind her. She bent backwards to accommodate him as he leaned forward to grab a handful of paper towels from off of the roll that sat on the granite countertop, rolling her eyes as if to say, ‘seriously?’

  Enjoying one last second of the forbidden feel of her body, he stepped back from her. Ana turned to set her now empty glass on the counter and Pierce saw that she hadn’t come away unscathed from the spill. She, too, was wearing looser sweat pants and probably a tank top; but, again, it was hard to tell because she had a giant sweater on that her right hand was holding closed over her chest with a death grip.

  He ripped the wad of paper towels in half and went to hand her half, stopping short when she recoiled, violently clasping her wet sweater even tighter over her chest. She must have thought he was going to attempt to dry her
but quickly realized that that wasn’t his intent.

  “I think you can handle this on your own, princess,” he teased as she begrudgingly took the towels from him, attempting to dry her sweater shield. “You could just take the sweater off, you know. Throw it in the dryer, maybe…” He shrugged, wondering if it was really because she didn’t want him to see any part of her upper body that she stayed clothed in the wet fabric.

  Seeing that her paper towel was now soaked through, he reached towards her to grab her another one. “Let me—”

  “I’m fine.” She huffed, pulling back from him, continuing the pointless attempt to dry herself with the wet rag.

  “Trust me, princess, I’d love nothing more than to dry you off right now. However, I was just going to get you another paper towel…” He chuckled – even more so as she scowled at him, turning to grab a dry sheet for herself. “Actually, that’s a lie. There is one thing that I would love more… and that would be to make you even wetter.”

  “Seriously?” Now the word left her mouth – an acerbic retort as she patted herself off, still not letting go of her sweater, though.

  “‘Seriously’ what?” he asked with a playful smile that she ignored.

  “Does that really work for you?”

  Pierce stepped closer to her again; this time she didn’t recoil, still focused on rubbing the edge of her sweater. “I don’t know, Ana,” he said as he plucked the damp paper towels from her hand. He heard her small gasp as her gaze shot to his, realizing just how close he was to her again. “Did it work?” A devious smile crept onto his face. “You seem a little more out of sorts…” He bent his head even closer. “Do I make you feel nervous, Ana?” His lips now just a breath from hers.

  “No, Pierce,” she whispered, her eyelids drooping as she let the tip of her nose brush his. For a second, he thought that she might kiss him and his entire body froze until she murmured, “You only make me feel nauseous.” Her hard, hazel eyes cut into his stormy stare just like her words cut through him.

  Pierce threw back his head and laughed, letting her sidestep around him to take the narrow stairwell back up to her room on the second floor. He grabbed her arm just before she was out of reach and she spun back to him, still holding her sweater, with fire in her eyes.

  His laughter died into seriousness. “Careful, princess,” he said hoarsely. “Before I take that as a dare to make you feel more.” He released her and she turned and fled, like Rapunzel up to her tower.

  He planted his hands on the countertop as he tried to reign in his body.

  Fuck.

  He tossed the wet paper towels into the garbage, turning to open the freezer and pulled out the bottle of Belvidere. He took two long swigs of the icy liquid before moving to the fridge. In a daze, he grabbed the carton of milk and made himself a protein shake.

  God. The feel of her pressed up against him was like water on his arid body; he’d wanted to suck up as much of her as he could before the sweltering heat of his pent-up desire desiccated him.

  Only, as he walked back up to his room chugging down the nutrients from the shaker cup, he realized that her touch only made his torture worse; his arousal was throbbing to the point where he could no longer will it into submission. Closing his bedroom door behind him, he stalked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, shucked off his sweats, and did what he’d been doing for weeks now.

  He stepped into the ice-cold stream, standing there until the frigid water numbed every ounce of desire from his body – painful, necessary, and rapidly becoming ineffective.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to turn off his arousal like this; he didn’t even know if there was a last time. Pierce had never had this problem before. Then again, he’d never wanted someone like this either.

  He’d never wanted someone who hadn’t wanted him before.

  And it pissed him off.

  And that was why he had to get out of the house this morning. After his shower, he left and just started walking, hoping the city would provide him a distraction from his frustration and fury.

  Ana was an enigma – an enigma that he couldn’t… shouldn’t… want; she was Morgan’s sister for God’s sake. Maybe if he were Sloane, or even Tristan, Morgan might be able to forgive that or find a way to be ok with it. But not him.

  He was a dark devil; and the only thing darker than his appearance was his heart.

  And it was with that dismal thought that Pierce unlocked the front door to the house. He didn’t know how to prepare himself for the wrath of the seductive sovereign within.

  All he knew was that whatever happened, he was royally fucked.

  Chapter 2

  He was greeted with four separate, yet equally displeased scowls as he walked into the giant living room that was off to the right just as one entered into the main foyer. The room was decorated with sleek, modern furniture – just like the rest of the house. There was an elegance to everything about the damn place that made him certain that the house had been seized from some international felon or another. The minimalist modernity of the decor was an attractive contrast to the ornately classical architecture. In this room, a fireplace on the wall served as the centerpiece of the room. And in front of it were two, large gray couches sitting on top of a patterned, purple and lavender rug.

  Morgan stood, his shoulder resting on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, arms crossed in front of his chest about to ream Pierce out. On the couch to his right, sat a stocky gentleman; if he had to guess, he would say it was Gino because the man looked Mediterranean wearing lose pants with a patterned button-down shirt that wasn’t tucked in.

  “Seriously, Pierce. Where the hell were you?” Morgan broke the silence with his angry tone, unable to control his temper.

  It was one thing that they had in common.

  Pierce let the words go in one ear and out the other as he looked to the couch on his left where Ana sat and where his gaze lingered. She was regally perched on the edge of the couch in a blue pant suit, button down shirt, and blazer – it was the most form-fitting outfit he’d ever seen her in. Her hair fell in long loose curls over her shoulders, looking more of a medium brown rather than the golden brown it had this morning; it was the same with her eyes – now appearing browner instead of the greenish-gold hazel.

  An enigma. Always changing, always shifting so he could never get a read on her.

  Always fucking frustrating.

  Again, Her Royal Highness took him by surprise. It was only when she shifted uncomfortably under his stare that he noticed the other agent – presumably Tony. Tony, on the other hand, looked to be about their age with almost a military-like buzz cut. Tony was good-looking and looked like he was about to bust out of the collared polo shirt he was wearing.

  An observation that it seemed like Ana had made as well. Pierce felt his jaw unwittingly clench as he observed that, in spite of the length of the couch, Ana was seated close enough to Tony that their legs almost touched.

  “Morgan—” Ana began in an attempt to placate him.

  “No, Ana. It’s ridiculous.” Morgan put his hand up as though it would halt her words before pointing a finger at him. “We’re here because of your choices, your actions. The least you could do is not be an asshole and show some respect for the people trying to help you.”

  His jaw muscle flexed.

  Ana sighed. “Let it go, Morgan.” She stood and walked over to her brother to softly say, “Let’s just try to stay focused. Stop giving him the attention that he craves.”

  Oh, is that what she thought he was doing?

  It wasn’t attention that he craved; it was her.

  “I’m here now,” he interjected into their conversation. “How about we just get this shit show on the road?”

  “Mr. Lane.” She turned and levied her disapproving stare onto him. “These are my colleagues: Gino—” Her hand moved to indicated the man on her left (his right); his assumption had been correct. “—and Tony.” Her hand made the same g
esture towards the other man, however this time, it was accompanied by a small smile. “Guys, this is Mr. Pierce Lane, the artist who was restoring the painting at the time it was stolen.”

  Muttering brief words of greeting, Pierce stepped forward as the two men stood to shake both of their hands. Their accented introduction told him that they were both originally from the U.K. and not the U.S. like Ana was. That was the first thing that he noticed; the second was the way Ana looked at Tony. It wasn’t anything intense, but her whole expression just warmed as she spoke to him and jealousy made him grip Tony’s hand with a little more force than was probably appropriate. The man gave him a startled look, but didn’t return the show of force for which Pierce was grateful; Tony probably could have crushed his hand if he wanted.

  “Ok,” Ana continued, dominating the direction of the conversation. “I think we should start by reviewing what we know already – not just about that night, but anything that we’ve gathered along our separate paths the past few weeks.”

  Pierce chuckled, earning him a glare from the Queen. “Hate to break it to you, gentlemen, but we know nothing; you are now officially up to speed.”

  “That is absolutely not true,” Ana retorted defensively, a blush rising attractively to her cheeks as she thought about what she’d just said, realizing that it was close to being true. “We just don’t know a whole lot yet.” She crossed her arms and arched one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Pierce, since you seem to want the attention, why don’t you share with the rest of the team exactly what you can remember from the night the painting was taken?”

  Fuck, he hated reliving that night – even if it was just the parts that he could remember.

  He heaved a sigh. “Tristan and I were at some pub – several drinks deep.” A few more than several. “These two women approached us. Tristan was already talking to some emo chick, so I took it upon myself to entertain the two of them.” Naturally. “I began talking to them; Morgan—” He nodded to the man as he mentioned him. “—had just decided that I was going to get the ‘Bridge’ restoration from the Met instead of Tristan. The painting arrived earlier that day and I’d just moved it into my temporary studio apartment. In my excitement—” Or drunken stupor. “—I vaguely remember mentioning to the one girl that I was restoring a famous painting.”