His Gift 2(5)

“Well, you control me now,” I said, trying to regain some of my confidence while boosting his.

“Do I?”

“You hold all the strings. Don’t you?”

He ignored my question. Instead, he went to the closet and pulled out a robe.

“You’re shivering,” he said, laying the robe on the bed. It was white terrycloth.

I’d been shivering, but it wasn’t the cold.

“I’m fine,” I said, but I stood up and pulled the robe on. It reached all the way down and brushed over the tops of my feet.

For a brief moment, I was consumed with jealousy. What other girls did he have here? Were they tall, graceful supermodels? Did this robe fit them perfectly? Then he put a hand on my shoulder, and I brushed away the thought.

“Come with me,” he said.

He went smoothly into the hallway and I followed behind. This was a different hallway than the one I’d been in before. Another part of the apartment, another floor maybe.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t talk anymore,” he said gruffly.

He walked in front of me and I tried to keep up with his long strides. I tied the robe clumsily around my waist. If there were any servants in this part of the house, I didn’t want to run into them half-naked.

“Is this the same floor as the party was on?” I asked, pausing briefly to check out a pastel painting on one of the walls. A Cezanne. Jesus, this guy was rich.

“Don’t talk.”

“But—”

Instead of telling me to shut up again, he opened a door to his right and stepped through into the room. I stepped in behind him, and I was struck dumb by what I saw.





Chapter Three



It was a studio. No, it was the studio. The art studio of my dreams, if I had ever imagined something as lavish as this.

One long window at the east end looked out over New York City. The sun was beginning to peek out from over the horizon. Pink and orange light shone in, bouncing off of the mirrored windows. From this room I could see why the sky had been getting lighter.

Sunrise. It seemed like it should have been longer. Last night I had left Jake and gone to work. Last night, after he had touched me.

The recent memory sent blood rushing again between my thighs. I ignored it and stepped further into the room.

Everything was white. All of the walls, the ceiling. The floor was smooth white. There weren’t even any lines, although I would swear that it was tile under my bare feet.

And everywhere, stacked by the half dozen against each other, were canvases. Big canvases. Small canvases. Square and rectangular, in every proportion. They scattered across the room and propped against the walls.

Across from the window was another door. It was the only thing in the room that wasn’t white, it seemed. It was wood, dark wood, with a padlock on the outside of it.

Turning slowly, I saw the table that was just to the side of the door. The cabinets were painted white as well, but I could imagine what was inside: brushes, paints. And more canvases, stacked like they weren’t the most precious thing.

Blank canvases. All of them waiting, ready for paint. All of them yearning to be covered.

I breathed in through my teeth and let out the breath in a slow hiss. I had been tired at the end of my shift, and I’d been awake for hours since then. But this room sent a rush of adrenaline through me that made my fingers itch to work. Almost as much as my body itched to be scratched by Jake’s own fingers.

I glanced back at him, waiting for an explanation. He gave me an order instead.

“Paint.”

“What?”

I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t. I would have pinched myself, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. This was a dream whether I was asleep or awake.

“You said you were an artist.”

“I’m half-naked and—” I cut myself off before I could say extremely aroused.

He smiled, as though reading my thoughts.

“It’s good. You have blood rushing through your system. You have emotions.”

“Sure.” I have emotions. Like total irritation. Unsatisfied longing. My body was screaming at me to orgasm, oh God, why can’t he just make me orgasm like before?

“I thought you would be tired, but I couldn’t wait to show you. Would you rather rest first? Or—”

“No,” I said in a rush. “No. I want to paint.”

“Paint, then,” he said. “I want to see what you’re feeling right now. Paint what is going on in that innocent mind.” He smirked.

“Right,” I said. He was well aware what was going on in my mind, and none of it was innocent.

I walked over and examined the canvases. God, these weren’t the cheap ones I always worked with. The frames were solid and the canvas was a quality linen that had already been prepared for painting.