20. Chapter Twenty

Rose

I can't tear my gaze from him. He looks so beautiful standing there, with his barely contained strength. His chest is broad and toned, his arms thick with slabs of muscle. I can see the veins bulging in places, proclaiming his masculine beauty.

He has a slender waist that tapers into narrow hips. Just visible below the waistband of his boxers is the evidence of how much he wants me.

Is he aware I'm breathing heavily? I tip my head to the side, studying him like a work of art. His perfect bronze skin, the lean muscles rippling across his abdomen, his powerful thighs. As his chest rises with every breath he takes, for one wild second, I want to reach out and touch it.

But I can't bring myself to do this yet. Although I concocted this painting session so I could see him naked, I really do want to paint him. In order to do that, I have to focus on capturing the right pose and mood.

So I step back, breaking the spell, and then clear my throat. "Now, if you'd like to sit on that chair over there." I struggle to keep my voice even and my gaze off the bulge in his underwear.

He moves gracefully across the room to the nearby armchair, and I'm finally able to tear my gaze from his body.

"No!" Whoops that was far too forceful, but it's all wrong. "Hold that thought."

I hurry to my bedroom and muss the white comforter on the perfectly made bed.

"W-would you go into the bedroom and um, remove your… the rest of your clothes and lie on your front?"

"Sure." He shrugs, winks at me, and gives me a devastating smile as he walks to the bedroom. I don't know how he manages to act as though I'm not watching his every step, inspecting him, evaluating him. Perhaps he's confident, knowing I'll like what I see. Which I do. This man is gorgeous.

When I cross the threshold and see him naked on the bed, just as I instructed, I gasp. There are so many nude sculptures and pictures of women throughout time, but other than the Statue of David, there aren't that many works of art with men. But right this moment, I truly believe men are the more beautiful sex.

I'm terrified of touching him, afraid I'll cross a line I'm not ready to cross, so I give him verbal directions until he's lying in perfectly mussed white sheets, his legs outstretched, and most of one arm stretched up the wall at the head of the bed.

It shows off every muscle of his lean body, the curve of his buttocks, and the slabs of meat in his muscular shoulders.

"May I?" I ask as I reach to arrange that long, beautiful caramel hair so that it teases, but doesn't obstruct the view of everything his body has to offer.

"Don't move, Rip, but dear God, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I'll have to paint fast, because that couldn't be comfortable, but first I have to blink my tears away. If I capture only one-tenth of what my eyes see, this painting will be blindingly beautiful.

By the time I move the easel and supplies into the bedroom and throw open the curtains to get better light, my tears have dried.

My hands shake with anticipation as I reach for a brush. I hope I can capture not only what my eyes see, but what my heart is feeling.

Painting with fascination, it's as if my hands aren't my own as I add color to the canvas. Every stroke is like a miniature caress. The mere process of painting stokes my arousal.

My skill seems improved, perhaps because of the subject I'm painting. I don't need the amulet; I have Rip. My brushstrokes accentuate every muscle, contour, and curve. The work of art he's presenting to me is breathtakingly beautiful, and I can't help but get lost in it.

My gutsiest move out of so many bold moves today is that I posed him with his head facing me. Those gorgeous ice-blue eyes watch me with an intensity that could set fire to my skin. It's so hot in here now, we're both sweating with anticipation and desire.

I step back for a moment to catch my breath and see how the painting is taking shape. Each addition of color and texture gives life to the masterpiece that's slowly emerging on the canvas—Rip himself.

"The light is fading." My voice is mournful.

"You'll have to double my fee if you want me to pose tomorrow."

I know he was joking to break the shockingly intense moment, but his voice was so deep and cracked with emotion it just intensified things.

"You're beautiful," he says in a whisper.

Our gazes lock for the first time in long minutes. My heart is pounding in my chest. His voice is like a spell, and I'm completely enthralled. He stands up and slowly crosses the room, his gaze never leaving my lips. I'm trembling now, overwhelmed with desire and longing.

Finally, he sets my brush on the easel, takes my hands in his, raises them to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to each palm. His lips are warm and gentle, and I'm so overcome with emotion I can barely breathe.

He gazes into my eyes, no longer holding anything back. I can see the affection radiating there.

"Can I see the portrait? I know it's not done. If places were reversed, I wouldn't want to show you until I was finished, until it was perfect. But Rose. I can't sit here a moment longer without pulling you into bed with me, letting you explore me with more than your eyes. I don't need more than what we shared last night. I just have to have my lips on you, have your intimate taste on my tongue."

Arousal darts through me, hot and swift. How can I want something so badly when I've never had it before, don't even know what exactly it is I'm yearning for?

I glance at his portrait, seeing a dozen places I have yet to get right. It needs more nuance, more detail. But overall, it shows more than the handsome man in that mussed bed who promised so many things—things I'm not even sure I understand. It shows the affection of the artist.

With my heart thumping in my chest, I step back. "Okay."

As he moves in front of the painting, my attention is momentarily captured by the stiff erection jutting at his hips. I could gape at it all day, which seems intrusive, so I drag my gaze back to his face only to find him mesmerized by the painting.

He's standing next to me, his heat enveloping me, although he isn't touching me at all.

"Rose. It's…"

He sees it. I know he does. He can feel my affection for him in every brushstroke.

He pulls me close and tucks me against him, managing to tilt his body to keep his hard rod from touching me. As sexually charged as this experience has been, as much as he wants to carry me to the bed, in this moment, the portrait seems more important than that.

"We're going to take this at your pace," he whispers into my ear. "I can wait years for you, Rose. Because this? This tells me all I need to know about how you feel about me."

I nod. There"s no use denying it. I need to reassure him, though, that we won"t be waiting years. I"m ready now.