Samhain Publishing Ltd, Ebooks and Books in Print

Marcus didn’t paint. He made love to the canvas and Melanie watched him, feeling as if he were making love to her too. It took every ounce of control not to let him see the tiny vibrations that passed over her skin with each touch and stroke of his brush. Never had she been more grateful for having a poker face, and the ability to hold it, just like she held the pose.

Working at an angle to her, where he could easily look from her to the easel, she had a full view of his body as he stepped back from the canvas. His movements were like a dance, rapid, darting one moment, slow and sexy the next, a tango, a waltz, a tango again. Leaning away from the easel, he clenched his top lip between his teeth, gently tugging on it. Unable to look away, Melanie felt her stomach flutter, a bead of sweat run down between her breasts. That stern, sexy mouth was made for doing unspeakably passionate things to a woman. He would tug on her nipples, her clit; lips by turn soft and then firm, tongue fluttering, probing…

Stop it, Melanie. Just stop. Think of something else.

But it was impossible. With each passing moment, the web of fascination drew tighter, and she found herself unable to frame a single thought that didn’t involve him.

His gaze lingered over her body, and he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. She wondered what it would be like to hear it directly in her ear, his long, strong fingers tangled in her hair, gripping her ass as his cock slid in and out of her pussy.

“Ahhh…the breast, just so.” He glanced up, eyes gleaming, the tiniest liner brush held in his capable hand, and then gently, slowly, he touched the tip to the canvas, sliding it across, around, stippling lightly. “The nipple, so tender, delicate.”

The sensation traveled around her areola as though he touched it directly and Melanie shuddered, glad he was mixing paint on his palette and didn’t notice. Unknowingly he was seducing her, and she was more than willing to succumb. Trapped, clit and pussy wet, trembling with lust, unable to block the sight and sound of him, all she could do was watch. And want.

Despite the breeze still circulating through the room, he was perspiring, his T-shirt getting damper and damper. Impatiently, he raised his arm to wipe his brow on the sleeve, pulling the fabric tight across his chest, and her breath caught in her throat.

“The navel, portal to life. A secret garden of sensation.”

A trickle of heat coiled through her belly, blossoming low and wild. It was so easy to imagine the velvet glide of his tongue over her stomach, the tip swirling into her bellybutton. Melanie drew in a shallow, ragged breath, wanting to squirm, to collapse back on the couch and spread wide for him. Beg him to touch her, love her, the way he loved that painting with his brushes.

“Thighs of a goddess, the cradle of life, sweet and strong.”

She wasn’t sure if she had heard him correctly. His voice had fallen to the low croon he used to instruct her how to pose. It gave her visions of intense lovemaking, with slow changes of position. A tilt of hips here, a shift of legs there until finally, gloriously, the perfect spot is found and the sensation jumps from burn to inferno. The deliberate slide of his brush across the canvas, back and forth, just seemed to emphasize her crazed imaginings.

“The slope of the shoulders, the arms, the sweet curve of hips. Mmm.”

It sounded like he could taste her. The brush touched, withdrew, and then was clenched between his teeth as he reached for a rag, impatiently wiping his fingers, low grumbles echoing in his chest. With a swipe of a forefinger through the paint, he made her shudder.

Melanie closed her eyes, dragging a deep breath in through her nose. Unfortunately she couldn’t block out the scent of the flowers, now mingled with the odour of oil paints. Would she ever be able to pose for an oil painter again without getting aroused?

Nor could she ignore the sounds. Marcus groaned, low in his chest, and her eyes popped open just in time to see him tugging his shirt over his head. Toes curling, Melanie only just stopped her mouth from dropping open. Muscles moved and shifted beneath satiny skin, and a liberal sprinkle of hair emphasized the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. Stretching from one flat nipple to the other, dark and silky, it arrowed down over his belly between highly defined oblique muscles and disappeared into the band of his low-slung jeans. Bulging jeans that seemed hard-pressed to keep his cock confined.

God, he’s hung!

Licking her lips, Melanie closed her eyes again. This was insane! There must be a way to work past this crazy lust. He was an artist, for crying out loud, emotional and probably emotionally stunted, trapped in that childlike place of selfish self-absorption they never seemed to outgrow. It was all too familiar—the excitement, the apparent attraction to the model. From experience, she knew it was just an illusion. Even if he did find her sexy, wanted to sleep with her as badly as she wanted to, there was no way she was going down that road. There were too many minuses, not nearly enough pluses.

Yet, against her best intentions, one eye cracked open, and didn’t seem to want to close again. He was just so gorgeous. The other eye popped open too as he turned away to look for something on the shelf behind him, giving her a perfect view of his long, strong back and tight ass. Swallowing hard, Melanie shifted against the couch, feeling her thighs slip against each other.

He turned back to the easel and looked over at her, his eyes dark and a little wild, hair tousled, face tight, intense. It was the look a wolf gives a sheep, or a lion saves for an antelope. Masculine power radiated off him in waves, calling to her, enveloping them in a bright, hot bubble of lust. In that moment she knew. If he made a move, she wouldn’t have the strength to tell him no.