Chapter One
“Your body is a work of art, Lacey.”
Jake hugged me around the middle as he craned over to kiss my neck. I squinted at the large unfinished painting in front of me, trying not to succumb to his distractions. I dabbed the palette knife into black paint, tilting my head to see the painting better, and also to let his mouth taste the full side of my throat.
No. Try as I might, I couldn’t ignore him. Flames of heat licked through my nerves at the touch of his lips.
I couldn’t ignore the way his hands slid up the front of my shirt. I couldn’t ignore his palms pressing hot and wanting against my chest. I sighed as he cupped my breasts, squeezing them lightly. His hands were so warm against my skin. And his lips…
“I need to finish this,” I said, trying really hard to frown.
“Why?”
“The gallery said they wanted something new to put out front.”
And I wanted something new to give them.
Apart from the few sales Jake had made at the opening show, there had been no interest from art collectors who looked through the gallery. It was stupid of me to be so disappointed, but I hadn’t made a single sale on my own in the past month. I felt like a failure.
“You can finish the painting,” Jake said. His fingers flew down to my pants, unzipping my jeans and tugging at the waistline. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”
“I really doubt that,” I said. I turned back to the painting, tugging my jeans up with my free hand and dabbing at the canvas with the palette knife. Should there be more red on the background?
I didn’t know. This, more than anything else, was what made me mad. I was getting all mixed up, trying to figure out what the gallery owners would be able to sell.
Before, my paintings had been all about what I wanted to do. I put my pieces up on subway cars and alleyways. I didn’t care about what anyone thought. I painted flowers because I wanted to paint flowers.
All that had changed. Since Jake rented out the art gallery for me, I felt more and more pressure to do things a certain way. Not my way.
I frowned as Jake’s hands slid my jeans down over my hips. All this attention was taking my focus away from where it should have been—on the painting.
“Seriously, Jake,” I said.
“Jake’s not here,” Jake whispered. His hand slid down over the front of my panties, and despite myself, I gasped in pleasure. The touch of his fingers sent my body into a state of high alert. Every nerve trembled.
“Then whose hands are these?” I asked, my breath coming faster as he slid his hands over me. The slightest brush of his fingers against my front was enough to send my heart racing.
“Nobody’s. There’s nobody here. You just keep painting.” He spoke the words softly as he nudged the hem of my panties down with one thumb.
I reached out, gritting my teeth and swiping a palette knife full of black across the middle. I had no idea what I was doing, and right now I didn’t care. Jake was sending my body into an unbearable state of desire. I didn’t care about the painting anymore. I just wanted to be done.
A hiss of air through Jake’s teeth had me looking back over my shoulder. He was staring at the line my palette knife had taken.
“What?” I said, putting my hand on my hip.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Do you hate it?” I tried to turn around, but my jeans were bunched down around my knees and I lurched backward, off balance. Jake caught me. His strong arms lifted me up to face him.
“I don’t hate it,” he said. He pushed me back.
I eyed the painting over my shoulder. From this angle it became even more apparent that the darn thing sucked.
“It’s horrible.”
“It’s not horrible,” Jake said. He paused, tilting his head. “But that line is a bit out of place, don’t you think?”
“Oh.” It was a grunt of defeat.
“Not that out of place,” Jake said, attempting to backpedal. “It’s fine, really.”
“I’m a bit out of place,” I grumbled. Jake giving me fake praise was worse than his criticism.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I cried.
“Are you really upset with me now?” Jake asked incredulously.
“Look, you can’t come in here and start kissing me and messing up my concentration and… and then critiquing my painting while I’m painting the dang thing!”
“You’re right,” Jake said, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“I am.”
“Yes. And you should stop painting for now.”
“I know. Wait, what?”
But Jake had already plucked the palette knife from my hand. He tossed it down and shoved me back against the canvas. I squealed, feeling the paint squelch through the fabric of my shirt.