A month ago I would have snorted at wanting a man like this to pose for me instead of losing his control and taking me in every position known to man.
I want him, of that I have no doubt, thanks to my constantly moist and clenching sex, but I want to paint him and…have a part of him to take with me when we part ways.
Yes, of course we’ll eventually part ways. The man is rich and powerful and exactly the opposite of what I’m looking for right now, so there’s no way we could possibly stay together and actually have a real relationship. But for this one brief flash of time I want more than memories and fond nods when we pass each other on the street. I want a part of him that will be with me. Always.
“You won’t be painting me here, Sissy,” he drawls, pulling my hips back into his as we stare out at the setting sun. “My bed and those snowy white sheets await us just down the hall.”
“Then why—”
“I want you to see where you’ll be working from now on.”
His hands stroke down from my hips and land on my jeans-covered thighs, their proximity to my sex shooting tingles of awareness through me, making me squirm with the need to lean my head back against his shoulder and push my hips forward into his grasp.
His lips caress my ear, and I feel his tongue dart out to lick at the shell, the wet tip glancing down to land on my neck.
“Working?”
I’m not tracking right, I know it, but I can’t stop my mind from exploding when he opens his mouth over the skin where my shoulder and neck meet and sucks with enough force to leave a mark.
“Yes. I want to commission you to paint a series of landscapes of my choosing. After the portrait, of course.”
What?
“I…” I breathe through the arousal and clench my thighs when one hand comes up to cup me gently, his middle finger resting from the top of my slit to my opening where the tip exerts the lightest pressure. “I don’t take…oh, private commissions,” I gasp, moaning when that finger starts a gentle back and forward motion over my swollen clit.
“Hmm, and why is that?” he asks.
I can’t breathe enough to form a reply when I feel his tongue flicking at my earlobe in a parody of what his finger is doing between my legs.
“Sissy?”
“I-I don’t paint what other people want me to paint. Ever.”
His finger stops moving, and I groan, twisting my hips with a bump of impatience. He chuckles and turns me around, pressing me back into the glass, his hands planted beside my head.
“I’ll make you a deal, Cecilia Bennet. If you accept my commission you can paint whatever you like. As long as you do it in six months. No less.”
His green eyes bore into me, urging me to accept, tempting me with the promise of more time than I would have ever expected from a man like Vincent Blake.
“I—What about that woman I saw you with? I—”
“She is no longer in the picture,” he says, cutting me off short. “This time is for us. I want you to promise me the next six months. If you can do that, I will allow you free rein here in the studio and a commission that will ensure you no longer need to work two jobs.”
The offer is so tempting I find myself nodding my assent before I’ve completely thought it through. With more time I can completely focus on my work and getting myself into better known galleries. Hell, if he pays me enough I can get my own show.
“I don’t understand any of this. Why? Why do all this?”
I’m a good artist, despite what Vernon has said, but no one offers a struggling, unknown artist a chance like this. Unless they want more than art.
“Because I want you, and I’m not willing to settle for half your time because you need to work yourself to death. I also happen to be fascinated by your style and technique, and I want to monopolize you before you become well known,” he says, earnestly enough that I truly believe he thinks it will happen.
That shot of confidence almost makes me smile before a frown creases my brow.
“This isn’t the same as you paying me for sex, is it?”
I see my mistake when he pushes away and levels a cold, icy hard stare down at me.
“I have no need to pay for sex, and I most certainly would never insult you by suggesting that I see you as a whore.”
“I’m sorry.”
He relaxes slowly and smiles, giving me the same seductive look I remember from that day at the Met, and I feel myself soften in distinctly feminine places.
“You’re mine now.”
I swallow and take his hand, and butterflies attack my stomach.
“For the next six months at least.”
Chapter Six
His bedroom is huge, like as big as my entire apartment, which is not that small, thank you very much, and decorated in deep blues and snowy whites that make me long for some fabric and time to rectify this miscarriage of decorating.