"Why did you draw me?" I ask.
Asher's eyelids drop closed, his fair eyelashes casting dusty shadows over his high cheekbones. There's a refined quality to his face that would be amazing to capture in a sketchbook, but I've never been an artist. Nothing I could produce could ever do him justice. Maybe I could write a song about him. That could work.
"Can we just forget about it?" he says softly.
"No." I cross my legs like I mean business. Asher's eyes drift over the bare skin of my feet, then my calves, and then higher. I keep my eyes on him, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
"I drew you because I like drawing." The tone of his voice is flat and unconvincing, an excuse to cover the truth.
"Bullshit," I say. "There were a bunch of other people you could have drawn, but you chose me. Why?"
When Asher's jaw ticks, I know I'm getting under his skin. "Why do you want to know?"
I hold his gaze, turning the paper and bringing it closer. "Because you captured something about me that I always hoped someone would see one day but never believed they would. I thought I was too broken. I thought I'd seen too much, and that sparkle…that essence was gone. But you drew it."
Our eyes meet, and I hold his gaze, feeling my stomach squeeze with nerves. Lower, my pussy contracts with arousal and anticipation. The war inside him is written all over his expression again, but I won't let him cop out. I'll keep pushing and pushing and pushing the way I know best.
"It's not gone," he says softly. "I see it."
Now it's my turn to close my eyes, his words slowly slipping inside me and filling parts that have felt hollow and brittle for so long.
"Luna."
My name sounds like a question, and when I open my eyes, I see it in his expression. It's what drives me to slide off the bed and cross the room. It's what propels me to stand between his parted legs and gaze down at him. In the low light, we are both cast in shadows, the light and the dark, the two sides of every person on this planet. I reach out and touch his cheek, finding his skin so much warmer than mine. When his eyelids lower, this time, I know it's with pleasure and longing. This time I feel his desire rather than his conflict. This time I know he's losing the battle to keep his distance, and so am I.
We're supposed to maintain a level of professional detachment. He's supposed to keep his mind on the job, and I'm supposed to stay aloof, but none of that is happening. His left hand drifts until it rests on my thigh, and everything in me heats. The sound that leaves his lips is pained, and I like knowing that this is pushing him past a comfortable place. I like that he's not in control and that I am.
Is it crazy to feel this way?
"When you were drawing me, were you thinking about touching me?"
Asher's fingers tighten, pressing little divots into my flesh. "Yes."
"Where were you thinking about touching me?"
When his eyelids fly open, I realize I've gone too far. He's come to his senses, and this will all be over. "We can't…"
I silence him with a finger pressed to his soft lips. "Can't isn't my favorite word, Asher."
His right hand cuffs my wrist and gently moves my hand away. "It doesn't need to be your favorite word for you to hear it, though." His hand drops from my leg, the spell broken, and my heart tumbles in my chest.
But I was telling the truth about the word “can't.” I won't be dissuaded just because Asher wants to hide behind his scruples. Or rather, hide behind Connor's orders.
Connor doesn't rule the world.
Another idea flickers through my mind, taking shape into something sharp and hot and urgent. "I want you to draw me again," I say. "Now."
"I'm working," he protests.
"What better way to closely monitor my safety?" There's a folder on the mahogany desk that contains headed notepaper and a hotel-monogrammed pen and pencil. Before Asher can object again, I take it and hand it all to him, then return to the bed.
The scene from the film Titanic floods my mind. The main character lies naked, wearing only a jeweled necklace. I don't think I'm brave enough to do that, although a rebellious part of me that loves to shock would enjoy it. It's more that if I stripped off this scrap of pink silk, Asher would be out the door, but if I lie back, sliding one strap down and find a spot on the floor to stare at, maybe he'll be tempted enough to pick up a pencil.
My hands are shaking as I arrange myself in what I'm hoping is a seductive pose. My hair is loose, so I leave it trailing over the pillow behind me. I don't look at Asher, scared that if I do he’ll put a stop to this, so I don't see him rise from the chair until his feet enter my field of vision. He's so tall that he looms over me, obliterating the ceiling. I have no idea what he's going to do, so when his fingers gently guide my hair over my shoulder, I shiver with the sensation, and when he pushes the hem of my slip higher on my thigh, I think he's given up on the idea of drawing, and he's really going to touch me.