It’s true, and yet I’d taken the shift with the very real intention of avoiding meeting him. Part of me is really glad he’s not taking the hint and moving on to his next conquest, even as I know teasing this very powerful man is not a good idea.
“You were hoping I’d lose interest and leave you alone,” he growls, hooking an arm at my waist to pull me into him. “Guess what, Sissy Bennet? I don’t take no for an answer.”
I don’t get a chance to reply because his mouth is on mine, his lips grinding, hand fisting my hair to get the right angle. When I whimper and try to pull away, needing air, he takes advantage and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.
His taste is a mixture of coffee and spearmint, two of my favorite things, and I moan, melting into him instead of pushing away. This… I’ve never felt this before with a man.
His kiss is a claim, an angry taking, a hard denial of my rebuff, and I glory in his aggression when he deepens it, his tongue diving deep, owning me.
I kiss him back, throwing my arms over his shoulders, grinding my moistening sex into the hard bulge at his hips.
“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll walk away,” he growls, slowing the kiss to run the tip of his tongue over my lips and teeth. “Tell me you’re not getting wet for me right now and I’ll let you go and leave.”
My only response is to lick him back and moan low in my throat when he cups my ass and squeezes, grinding my clit into his erection.
“Jesus, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”
Me too. I’d heard his voice, that crisp English accent, and seen his mesmerizing green eyes, and I’d fallen into an obsession that even a week later isn’t easy to shake.
I’ve painted him, dreamed of him, wanted him as I’ve never wanted another man. This is not a good idea; in fact, this is the worst idea I’ve ever entertained, but as he kneads my ass, stroking a glancing finger over the entrance of my sex through my jeans, I am helpless against the desire drenching my every nerve ending.
“Me too. But we hardly know each other.”
My answer is rewarded with another swift kiss before he releases me and takes a step back.
“We will, Sissy Bennet,” he promises. “Now show me your work, distract me, or you’ll be full of my cock before you can take your next breath,” he growls, his own breath a stuttered snarl.
I don’t want to. I want to keep kissing him till he loses control and takes me on the sofa a few feet away. I want to know all that power and intensity focused on me and the arousal whipping at my body.
But he’s right. The time…I can’t just sleep with him, not if I want to keep the few shreds of self-respect I still have after years of failed relationships.
I can’t take him to the eyrie. It’s too embarrassing to admit that all I’ve done this past week is paint the very face I’ve spent half the night trying to forget, so I lead him to the spare bedroom instead and watch nervously as he walks around, studying my mediocre landscapes and the few portraits I’ve done.
My favorite is of a little girl in the park. She’s chasing a ball, her blonde curls fanning out behind her as she giggles in delight. I can’t tell you why it’s my favorite above the others, except to say that I’d felt every tinkle of her happiness and innocent glee that day, and painting it had been as much a joy as watching her chase her tiny yellow ball on the grass.
Vincent takes his time and truly studies them all, his face giving nothing away. When he finally turns back to me I force myself not to blink away and raise my head defiantly.
“They’re like—”
“Photographs? Yeah. And that’s apparently why I’ll never be anything more than a struggling artist. They—”
“Perfect,” he growls, interrupting me. “The detail, I— Have you shown these yet?”
“No, they’re due at Vernon’s Gallery in two days. I just finished the last piece in the series,” I say, running a critical eye over a view of Central Park from a window at the Met. “Not that they’ll sell. Vern only displays my stuff as a favor. He doesn’t really do much to promote it.”
“I could—”
“No. I want my work to sell because people like it, not because someone I know is a rich art buff,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at the seascape I’d painted last month when Bee had dragged me to Long Beach with her and Eric.
Vincent sighs and casts another look over at the canvasses before following me out and back to the living room.
“What’s up there?”
I follow his gaze and cringe inwardly at the four covered canvasses up in the eyrie. I really do not want him going up there and witnessing my monumental crush.