Instead, I retreated like a fucking coward.
My hands are clumsy as I retrieve the Macallan and a cut-crystal glass from the cabinet. Seeing the way my fingers tremble only adds fuel to my beastly mood.
It’s getting worse over time.
The tremors that started out as a faint and fleeting lack of dexterity a few years ago are almost a daily annoyance now. I’ve been able to conceal it so far, but I know it can’t last. It won’t last. The whisky helps. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pour an oversized shot into my glass and throw it back in a single swallow.
The forty-year-old single malt cuts a warm, familiar path into my body. I gulp another large shot, then pour some more into the glass to take with me to the studio. By the time I make my way to the other end of the house, the whisky has worked enough of its magic that my hands feel loose and nimble again. The worst of the unsteadiness has passed.
My surly attitude is less persuaded by the alcohol, especially when I walk back to the studio and find Melanie standing there unclothed and waiting for me, just as I’d instructed her. At the sight of her nudity, my molars clamp down hard behind the flat line of my mouth. The erection I’d been sporting when I left her a few minutes ago comes raging back to life again, arousal twisting through me in molten coils.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
Exquisite.
Having already seen her undressed once before, it’s not like I’m unprepared for it now. But even if I’d seen her naked a thousand times, I doubt I’d ever be anything close to immune.
I stop just inside the studio and soak her in with a hungry glance. Long, graceful limbs. Lush curves. Creamy smooth skin that makes my mouth water with the urge to run my tongue along every lovely inch of her.
When our eyes clash, she lifts her chin a notch, defiance in her schooled expression. She doesn’t try to hide herself from me, instead standing tall with her delicate shoulders squared and her arms loose at her sides.
The straightness of her spine only accentuates the thrust of her perfect breasts. The dusky nipples darken with each second my eyes linger on them, tightening into ripe little berries I’d like to take between my teeth. Below the hourglass curves of her abdomen, her sex draws my gaze like a magnetic force.
I have to give her credit. I know she’s well out of her depth with a man like me, yet her poise is unshakable, even under the blaze of my lingering stare. At least until she notices the glass I’m holding. I see the flicker of disapproval move over her pretty face, and for some reason her reaction pricks a shame in me the way nothing else can.
Pushing the feeling aside, I give her an unrepentant smirk. “Pardon my lack of manners. Would you care for something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Her reply is clipped and cool.
“Suit yourself.” Deliberately, I lift my hand and take a slow drink while I regard her over the rim of the glass.
Her gaze hardens on me. “Do you intend to be drunk every time we’re together like this?”
“I’m nowhere close to drunk, darlin’.” I walk over to my work area and take a seat on the stool near my empty easel. The table next to it holds assorted paints and containers of cleaned brushes, along with dozens of sketching tools.
It’s been months since I’ve touched any of them. Months since I’ve even wanted to try. But she’s changed all of that.
Not because of the contract we’ve signed. Not even because of Daniel Hathaway, either. I look at Melanie Laurent and I see a goodness I haven’t known in a long time. I see a rare strength. Most of my paintings explore the fissures and frailties of human existence, the darkness, even depravity. With this woman, it’s her light that draws me. It’s what drew me to her that night at Muse, even more than the fact that she belonged to Daniel Hathaway.
I see a ferocity and a tenaciousness that makes me want to protect her. From struggle and pain, from Hathaway. From anything and anyone who might hurt her or do her harm.
If I were a better man, I’d want to keep her safe from me as well. Unfortunately for both of us, that’s where my honor ends.
Because she refuses to look away from me as I get settled at my easel, I take another unhurried swallow of whisky, draining the glass before setting it down on the table next to me. There’s only the slightest tremble in my fingers as I reach for one of the large sketch pads situated nearby. Thank fuck for that. I flip open the pad and prop the blank canvas on the easel, then pick up one of the charcoal pencils from the table.
I didn’t expect to feel so eager to begin, but my hands move almost on their own, as if driven to capture every nuance of what my eyes are seeing. Christ, it’s been so long since I’ve had this feeling, I’ve practically forgotten what it’s like. And never has my impulse to create been as intense as it is when I’m looking at this woman.
I sense her uncertain gaze on me as I sweep the first few experimental lines across the paper.
“Um . . . what do you want me to do? Should I sit somewhere or is it better if I stand still?”
“Do whatever feels natural. I’m just warming up before we get started.”
That’s not entirely true. I’m only sketching rudimentary lines and arcs for now, trying to make sure the tremors are gone. As for warming up, I’m well beyond that. My hand moves with a speed and fluidity I can hardly control. Strokes of charcoal
