Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(14)

He was looking down at me, his expression open and curious, as if he really didn't understand why what he had just said had infuriated me. In the bright light of the studio, his beauty shone, probably far better than my paltry looks ever would. His clear skin, tinged with the hint of a tan, glowed with health and vigor, and the sandy locks of his hair spilled over his forehead in golden waves. The brown of his eyes startled me, deep and intense, with hidden depths, like well-polished cherry wood, and his mouth, full and soft, quirked at my dumb, wide-eyed staring.

I couldn't help the sudden picking up of the pace of my heart in my chest. He was near, too near to me, but even though this room had to be over a thousand square feet, I couldn't move an inch. I wouldn't give an inch. I absolutely could not let this guy know how much he affected me.

The shadow of his beard, now almost two-day's growth, stubbled his cheeks, and I found myself aching to run my own face over his skin, to feel the rough evidence of his masculinity on my smooth, feminine jaw. It was an impulse I was almost entirely unaccustomed to. Deep, raw. Primal. An animal attraction I hadn't felt since the heady days of doing E at raves in college. And I was one hundred percent sober right now, feeling everything, feeling it all, and it was entirely in response to Malcolm Ward's proximity.

It scared me.

That alone gave me the strength to step away. Otherwise I might have leaned in and kissed him right then and there.

God, what a tragedy that would have been.

Ward seemed to realize that I was uncomfortable, and he stepped back as well. The lights were warm lights rather than traditional hot lights, but I was still feeling too heated. The brightness gave me a headache, and I retreated, stepping away from the set up.

“That's a really lame line,” I told him. “Wanting to become an artist for me, I mean.”

He tilted his head. “It is the truth,” he said simply.

I didn't know what to say to that. I crossed my arms in front of me and cast about for something to talk about other than my inspiring beauty, which was a lie. Clearly a lie. I had a mirror. I knew quite well it was a lie. Why then couldn't I get my heart to stop racing?

“You saw me do it?” I asked him finally, my breath light and fast. “Set up the lights, I mean?”

He nodded at me, and the spell of him began to fade. “I think I can handle the rest of it.” He waved a distracted hand at an old-fashioned dressing screen about twenty feet across the room. “I know we said no nudity unless discussed first, but would you remove your clothes? You'll find a length of cloth to wrap yourself in over there.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but something stopped me. I knew just as well as anyone that the nude form is superior to the clothed form. I hadn't spent a bazillion years in art school sculpting and drawing and painting naked people just to protest my own nudity.

Besides, the thought of being naked around him, but not truly nude... it thrilled me, in small, shivery, secret ways. Yeah, we're all naked under our clothes, but sometimes you want to make that really explicit.

My mouth dry, I moved to the screen and slipped behind it.

On the floor, neatly folded, was a square of satiny fabric in a shade of white so bright it hurt my eyes. I wondered if he had chosen white as an afterthought, or because he thought it would look good on me. Lots of people looked washed-out in white. I wasn't one of them. I just hoped he knew something about lighting and color, or I was going to end up looking like a ghoul anyway.

Nervously, I began to shed my clothes. First came the high, dark brown leather boots—low heels—the swish of the zipper loud in the quiet of the penthouse studio. Then came my socks. Yes, I wear socks under my boots. Homemade wool-knit socks. My feet are narrow, and it was cold outside. Don't judge me. My manicured toes met the chill of the floorboards with a shiver. Now came the hard part.

Crossing my arms in front of me, I lifted my sweater over my torso. The buttery-soft alpaca slipped over my bare skin in an intimate caress, and when I dragged it over my head my hair crackled with static electricity. Smoothing my hair down with my hands, I lowered my fingers to the front-closing clasp on my bra. Clumsily I undid it and my breasts—such as they were—bounced free. Pert and tiny. My nipples hardened automatically at the change in temperature, and knowing that only a thin partition of wood separated my naked tits from Malcolm Ward's gaze just made them tighter. Between my legs I felt a tiny rush of heat, a sweet little gush of warmth and wetness.

Was I... was I actually getting turned on by this?

I was. I was getting turned on. I must be a secret exhibitionist!

Now I can no longer tease Felicia about her public sexcapades in good conscience, I thought to myself. Good thing I don't have a conscience.