I grabbed a piece of deep blue fabric, silky in texture and soft against my fingertips. “This is pretty.”
“It is.” He leaned against the table, his sketchbook beside him on the surface.
“How about something with this?”
“I’ve already used a similar color.”
“Alright…” I hung it up on the rack and pulled out a red color.
“No,” he said immediately. “Nothing red.”
“What’s wrong with red?”
“Not your color.”
I returned it then looked for a new shade of color, something that might look good against my skin tone.
“The color isn’t what matters.”
I stopped and turned to him.
“The color accentuates, yes. Picking the wrong color tone can completely upset everything. But when you start from the ground and work your way up, the design and fit are the most important. Nail those, and then worry about that other stuff later.”
“Alright…then where should we start? I can tell you which pieces are my favorite. Maybe that can get your inspiration going.”
He straightened beside the table, his long frame tightening with strength. His broad shoulders matched his broad chest, but his hips narrowed dramatically at his waist. He was a perfect triangle, a symbol for the ideal physique for a man. But his body couldn’t compare to his chiseled face. Like an old-fashioned movie star, he had a distinct hardness to his face. With a beautiful jawline and intense eyes, he belonged in front of the camera rather than behind. “You want to inspire me, Muse?”
It seemed like a trick question, so I didn’t say anything. He was suddenly tense, borderline angry.
He stepped away from the table and walked to the gray couch next to the coffee table. He patted the back of it. “Lie down.” He kept one hand on the top of the cushion as he waited for me to respond.
He didn’t order me around that often anymore, so his request was a novelty. If he wanted to fuck me, he usually just kissed me and guided me to the nearest surface. I hesitated before I moved to the couch and took a seat.
“Lie down,” he ordered.
I lay back, my head resting on the armrest. I was in a sundress that I’d pulled on before I left the bedroom to join him for breakfast, so everything below my thighs was bare. My ankles were crossed, and I stayed still until he told me what to do next.
He grabbed his sketchbook and pencil and sat in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. He crossed his legs and sharpened his pencil, his eyes on me. With every grind of the head of the pencil, the sound filled the room. His eyes remained locked on me until his pencil was at the perfect sharpness.
Then he rested his elbow on the armrest, grasping the pencil. “When you were in New York…did you think of me?”
“Always.”
“Did you think about me when your fingers were between your legs?”
Flashbacks of my nights alone in bed came back to me. My sweaty, writhing body rose in temperature as my fingers circled my clit. Sweat collected on the back of my neck. I pictured Conway on top of me, his muscled mass thrusting into me deep and hard. My legs always shook when I came, saying his name to the shadows in my bedroom. I wasn’t sure why it was so difficult to simply answer him. I thought of the magazines I found in his drawer, along with the half empty bottle of lotion. I shouldn’t feel any shame for admitting the truth, not when he was guilty of the exact same thing. “Yes.” I couldn’t hide the redness that filled my cheeks.
“Show me.”
I stared at him blankly.
“Show me,” he repeated, this time more aggressively.
I’d touched myself before, but it was always in private. I’d felt it was a shameful act, but when no one was around, it didn’t seem to matter. But to have Conway watch me when I could just have the real thing made it feel unbearably awkward.
His eyes narrowed even more. “I won’t ask again, Muse. You work for me. Don’t forget it.”
I still felt innately bashful, but the darkness in his eyes and the authority in his voice made me want to touch myself anyway.
“Pretend I’m not here.”
I finally parted my knees and lifted my dress up enough to reveal my thong.
His eyes shifted down.
My hand slid down my stomach until my fingertips slipped underneath my panties. I glided farther down until the soft skin of my fingertips came into contact with my yearning clit. The second I made contact, I took a deep breath.
It felt good.
Conway rested his fingertips against his lips, the pencil still between his fingers. He watched me, his expression hard and full of arousal.
My fingers rubbed my clit in a circular motion, and I went slow, partially trying to restrain myself from making it feel too good. I was still self-conscious about what I was doing, aware of the man watching me.