Recluse (Wolfes of Manhattan 2)

Roy had his head bent over a palette, mixing paint.

I cleared my throat in what I hoped was a ladylike manner.

He looked up and studied me. No smile, but he regarded me intently.

“Can you take your hair down?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sure.” I pulled the scrunchie and then shook my head to let the hair fall sort of into place. “Let me go brush it out.”

“No. Don’t. It’s perfect just the way it is.”

“It’s got to be a mess.”

“It is. I like it. It goes great with that faraway sparkle in your eyes. Just what I’m going for.”

Faraway sparkle? Horny sparkle was more like it. I knew well what my hair looked like after I took it out of a ponytail.

A mess.

A big mess.

Hardly what went with any kind of sparkle.

“Really, it will look better if I just brush it out.”

“I won’t hear of it. Come here and sit on this stool.” He gestured. “I’ll need to adjust the lighting.”

I obeyed and sat down, letting the robe open to show a fair amount of cleavage. This wasn’t like me, but I wanted Roy to look at me. To really look at my body, which was pretty darned good. Thank you, yoga and Jazzercize.

He didn’t seem to notice the exposed chest, though. He busied himself with the lighting, and then he touched my hair and rearranged it a little.

Hair had no feeling, but I swore electricity shot through his fingertips into my scalp and throughout my whole body. The tickle between my legs intensified.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, meeting my gaze.

His eyes seemed almost black, as if they’d darkened, which I didn’t think was possible. Must have been my imagination.

“Th-Thank you.”

“Your eyes… I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve never seen anything like them, silver. They’re the color of the full moon shining through a night fog.”

I couldn’t stop a squeaky sigh from coming out of my throat. His words did more for my body and my mind than Blaine Foster, or anyone else, ever had.

He gazed at me intently. “You ready?”

“S-Sure.”

“I’m going to put my interpretation of you on this canvas, but know this, silver. It will never be as beautiful as you are.”

That damned squeaky sigh again…accompanied by a growl from my stomach, a reminder that I hadn’t eaten since the lunch in the conference room—the lunch Roy and I had picked up in the lobby, the lunch he set down when he asked me to dinner, the lunch where he refused to meet my gaze.

He didn’t appear to have heard my stomach’s hungry protest. Good. Here I was, modeling for a professional artist, and I couldn’t keep my body from making inappropriate noises. If I got gassy, I’d be mortified.

“Keep your back straight,” he said, regarding his canvas.

Had I been slouching? I corrected my posture. The stool had no back, so I had to make myself sit up straight.

“Good,” he said, without looking.

“How do you know I did anything?”

“I heard the robe rustle. As an artist, I’ve trained all of my senses to be a little more aware.”

“Why don’t you let your models sit in a chair with a back?”

“Because I want to see you as you are, not propped up by something inanimate.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure I understood, but I wanted to do whatever I could to make this easy for him. If he enjoyed painting me, he might ask to do it again, and then I’d get to see him once more.

Of course he’d already asked me to dinner. In fact, he’d promised me a gourmet feast if I posed for him. My stomach gurgled again.

His shoulders quivered slightly. Shit. He’d heard! Of course he’d heard. He just got done telling me how great his senses were. No reason to get upset. We were adults here, and all adults knew that stomachs growled when they were hungry.

“How long will this take?”

“I’ll get the nuances down in an hour or so. Then you can eat.”

“No worries. Take as long as you need.”

“I don’t want to keep you past midnight. I know you have work tomorrow.”

“Yeah. True.”

“Now we need to stop talking. I want you to look at the wall, focus on the spot right over my head, okay?”

I nodded. At least I wouldn’t be looking right at him. That helped. Otherwise I’d need to squirm against the pressure between my legs.

I might need to anyway.

Roy Wolfe was the sexiest man I’d ever met. Truly.

He washed the canvas in a gray. First I thought it was black, but then I realized the color on his brush wasn’t complete darkness.

“You don’t have to let the background dry?” I asked.

“Nope. Not with the technique I plan to use. Now no more talking.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Focusing on the wall above his shoulder, I could only see him peripherally, and I longed to watch the expression on his face as he brushed my image onto his canvas.