“Liz told me you came by the gallery.” His voice was steady. Smooth. And I couldn’t read one damn thing into it.
“I did.”
“If you were looking for an apology—”
“No!” I blurted out the word, then immediately winced. So much for cool and collected. “Dammit, Cole,” I said, and though the words were harsh, my voice was gentle. “Don’t you understand that there is nothing to apologize for?”
There was such a long pause before he spoke again that I started to fear the line had gone dead. When his words did come, they seemed to hang between us, heavy with emotion and regret.
“You tempt me, Kat.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
His low chuckle was like a balm, and I found myself smiling. “You’re a goddamn fool, blondie.”
“But I’m not,” I said. “I’m smart, Cole. And I know what I want. You know what else?” I asked, but I didn’t wait to give him time to answer. “I know what you want, too.”
“Really? And what is it I want?”
“Me,” I said, then hoped that I hadn’t just taken another giant step away from him.
He said nothing—neither agreement nor protest—and so I pressed gamely on.
“I saw your studio space. I saw me.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “And what did you think?”
“The images are stunning, but I told you that last night when you found me looking at the one in the gallery.”
“That was a poignant moment. The beautiful woman unaware she was looking at her own reflection.”
“Beautiful,” I continued, “technically perfect. Pure. But not me. Not really me at all.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“The hell I am. I’m not pure. I’m not innocent. Christ, Cole, you had your fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago, and it wasn’t me who walked away.”
“Kat—”
“No, listen to me. Please, Cole. Don’t you get it? I’m not the girl you painted. I’m not a goddamn angel. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you last night? All of you. Your mouth, your cock.”
“Jesus, Kat.”
I heard the heat in his voice, and my pulse kicked up with the knowledge that maybe—just maybe—I was getting through to him. “And when you left me hanging, I swear to god I cursed you like a sailor. Would your innocent little model do that?”
He said nothing, and I pressed on, determined to win this battle. Hell, determined to win the war. “You wanted it, too,” I said. “Tell me. Please. I need to hear that I’m not crazy. I need to know that last night you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
I closed my eyes, my body sagging from the pure relief of hearing the acknowledgment of what I’d been so sure about. I leaned against the dingy wall of this house that would be mine, sighed, and slid down to the floor in bliss.
“You can have me,” I said. “Any time. Any place. Any way you want,” I added, saying the last in a whisper.
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
I cringed from the resolve in his voice.
“I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t choose when, or where, and certainly not how. But when I look at you—when I paint you—”
His voice had taken on a lyrical quality, and I held the words close, wanting to soak in this moment, because who knew how many more I would get? “Tell me.”
“Put your phone on speaker,” he said. “Set it beside you.”
I pressed the button to turn on the speaker. “All right.”
“Good. You need to understand that when I paint you, it’s not just an image of you that is in front of me. It’s flesh. It’s blood.”
“It’s me.”
“Yes. The spill of your hair. The curve of your neck. The swell of your breasts.”
Gone was his earlier hesitancy. Instead, each word held masculine power. As if by painting me, he had claimed me, and I had no other choice but to submit.
“Go on,” I whispered. My eyes were still closed, but in my imagination, I saw myself sitting on a blanket at the Oak Street Beach. I was looking out at the water, but Cole was there, too, off to one side, so that I could see him only in my peripheral vision.
But though I could barely see him, I could feel him. Every scrape of pencil over canvas was a tease, every stroke of paint from his brush was a caress.
“You’re mine when I paint you, Kat. Mine to touch, mine to stroke, mine to see.”
My pulse pounded in my ears and my skin felt hot. I pulled up my T-shirt to expose my abdomen, then sighed from the caress of cool air upon my overheated flesh.
“And I do see you, Kat,” he said. “My brush doesn’t lie, and when I trail it over the curve of your waist and the swell of your hips, it’s not just lines and form that I’m bringing to life on the canvas, but you. Tell me, Kat. Tell me you understand that.”
“Yes,” I said, because right then I couldn’t seem to think of any other word.
“When I paint you, I capture you. Light. Shadows. I see more than I put on the canvas, Kat. I see everything. The face you show the public, the most intimate parts of you that you keep hidden.”
I made a small noise that might have been a protest, because that couldn’t be true. He couldn’t know me that well; he couldn’t see my secrets.
“Don’t you feel me, Kat? Don’t you feel my eyes exploring, assessing, deciding what I am willing to show to the world and what I want to keep to myself?”
My body, I thought with relief. He doesn’t mean my secrets, but my body.
“I feel you,” I whispered, my voice like air.
“My brush moving softly over your lips,” he said, as I drew my fingertip gently over my mouth. “Then down, lower and lower until I can tease your breasts. Until I’m exploring the shadows that fall between them and the way your skin glows, almost translucent when the sun teases your nipples. Are they hard now, Kat?”
“Very.”
“Take your nipple between your fingers and pinch it. I want it harder, a deep, sensual red. I want to paint you aroused, Kat. The glow on your face and the flush of your skin. Do it, Kat. Do it and let me see.”
“You’re not here,” I protested, though I willingly complied.
“I’m always there,” he replied, and those words combined with the tight pinch of my own fingers against my sensitive nipples brought a moan to my lips.
I arched up, then whispered his name and was rewarded with a low, masculine groan.
“I want to paint you while you come,” he said. “I want to capture ecstasy, Kat. Let me do that, angel. Let me do that now.”
“Cole . . .” I heard the protest in my voice. An unwelcome, unexpected shyness.
“No,” he said. “No argument, no denials. I want to see you. I want to watch your body tighten and then explode. I want to see it, Kat, even if only in my imagination.”
I licked my lips, wanting it, too, but unsure if it was even possible. I’d never come with a man calling the shots in my bed. Not since—not in a very long time. But this . . .
“I did.”
“If you were looking for an apology—”
“No!” I blurted out the word, then immediately winced. So much for cool and collected. “Dammit, Cole,” I said, and though the words were harsh, my voice was gentle. “Don’t you understand that there is nothing to apologize for?”
There was such a long pause before he spoke again that I started to fear the line had gone dead. When his words did come, they seemed to hang between us, heavy with emotion and regret.
“You tempt me, Kat.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
His low chuckle was like a balm, and I found myself smiling. “You’re a goddamn fool, blondie.”
“But I’m not,” I said. “I’m smart, Cole. And I know what I want. You know what else?” I asked, but I didn’t wait to give him time to answer. “I know what you want, too.”
“Really? And what is it I want?”
“Me,” I said, then hoped that I hadn’t just taken another giant step away from him.
He said nothing—neither agreement nor protest—and so I pressed gamely on.
“I saw your studio space. I saw me.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “And what did you think?”
“The images are stunning, but I told you that last night when you found me looking at the one in the gallery.”
“That was a poignant moment. The beautiful woman unaware she was looking at her own reflection.”
“Beautiful,” I continued, “technically perfect. Pure. But not me. Not really me at all.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“The hell I am. I’m not pure. I’m not innocent. Christ, Cole, you had your fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago, and it wasn’t me who walked away.”
“Kat—”
“No, listen to me. Please, Cole. Don’t you get it? I’m not the girl you painted. I’m not a goddamn angel. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you last night? All of you. Your mouth, your cock.”
“Jesus, Kat.”
I heard the heat in his voice, and my pulse kicked up with the knowledge that maybe—just maybe—I was getting through to him. “And when you left me hanging, I swear to god I cursed you like a sailor. Would your innocent little model do that?”
He said nothing, and I pressed on, determined to win this battle. Hell, determined to win the war. “You wanted it, too,” I said. “Tell me. Please. I need to hear that I’m not crazy. I need to know that last night you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
I closed my eyes, my body sagging from the pure relief of hearing the acknowledgment of what I’d been so sure about. I leaned against the dingy wall of this house that would be mine, sighed, and slid down to the floor in bliss.
“You can have me,” I said. “Any time. Any place. Any way you want,” I added, saying the last in a whisper.
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
I cringed from the resolve in his voice.
“I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t choose when, or where, and certainly not how. But when I look at you—when I paint you—”
His voice had taken on a lyrical quality, and I held the words close, wanting to soak in this moment, because who knew how many more I would get? “Tell me.”
“Put your phone on speaker,” he said. “Set it beside you.”
I pressed the button to turn on the speaker. “All right.”
“Good. You need to understand that when I paint you, it’s not just an image of you that is in front of me. It’s flesh. It’s blood.”
“It’s me.”
“Yes. The spill of your hair. The curve of your neck. The swell of your breasts.”
Gone was his earlier hesitancy. Instead, each word held masculine power. As if by painting me, he had claimed me, and I had no other choice but to submit.
“Go on,” I whispered. My eyes were still closed, but in my imagination, I saw myself sitting on a blanket at the Oak Street Beach. I was looking out at the water, but Cole was there, too, off to one side, so that I could see him only in my peripheral vision.
But though I could barely see him, I could feel him. Every scrape of pencil over canvas was a tease, every stroke of paint from his brush was a caress.
“You’re mine when I paint you, Kat. Mine to touch, mine to stroke, mine to see.”
My pulse pounded in my ears and my skin felt hot. I pulled up my T-shirt to expose my abdomen, then sighed from the caress of cool air upon my overheated flesh.
“And I do see you, Kat,” he said. “My brush doesn’t lie, and when I trail it over the curve of your waist and the swell of your hips, it’s not just lines and form that I’m bringing to life on the canvas, but you. Tell me, Kat. Tell me you understand that.”
“Yes,” I said, because right then I couldn’t seem to think of any other word.
“When I paint you, I capture you. Light. Shadows. I see more than I put on the canvas, Kat. I see everything. The face you show the public, the most intimate parts of you that you keep hidden.”
I made a small noise that might have been a protest, because that couldn’t be true. He couldn’t know me that well; he couldn’t see my secrets.
“Don’t you feel me, Kat? Don’t you feel my eyes exploring, assessing, deciding what I am willing to show to the world and what I want to keep to myself?”
My body, I thought with relief. He doesn’t mean my secrets, but my body.
“I feel you,” I whispered, my voice like air.
“My brush moving softly over your lips,” he said, as I drew my fingertip gently over my mouth. “Then down, lower and lower until I can tease your breasts. Until I’m exploring the shadows that fall between them and the way your skin glows, almost translucent when the sun teases your nipples. Are they hard now, Kat?”
“Very.”
“Take your nipple between your fingers and pinch it. I want it harder, a deep, sensual red. I want to paint you aroused, Kat. The glow on your face and the flush of your skin. Do it, Kat. Do it and let me see.”
“You’re not here,” I protested, though I willingly complied.
“I’m always there,” he replied, and those words combined with the tight pinch of my own fingers against my sensitive nipples brought a moan to my lips.
I arched up, then whispered his name and was rewarded with a low, masculine groan.
“I want to paint you while you come,” he said. “I want to capture ecstasy, Kat. Let me do that, angel. Let me do that now.”
“Cole . . .” I heard the protest in my voice. An unwelcome, unexpected shyness.
“No,” he said. “No argument, no denials. I want to see you. I want to watch your body tighten and then explode. I want to see it, Kat, even if only in my imagination.”
I licked my lips, wanting it, too, but unsure if it was even possible. I’d never come with a man calling the shots in my bed. Not since—not in a very long time. But this . . .
