He smirks at me. “That’s not what you would’ve said earlier tonight. How many times do I have to make you come?”
I shrug, pretending to consider. “At least once more. Twice, if you really want to impress me.”
He laughs, his eyes dark with erotic promise. “I always strive to impress, Ms. Ross.”
As if to demonstrate, his hands drift from my ass to the crevice of my body. He strokes my cleft, plunging two fingers inside my sex without warning. I arch into his intimate touch, a sigh hissing through my parted lips. “Nick. Mmm . . .”
He withdraws much too soon for my liking, giving me a light spank. “Let’s go get that champagne I’m going to earn.”
We head out of the bedroom together, me in my pearls and nothing else, and Nick looking godlike as he strides into the living room where my easel is set up atop a blanket of paint-speckled sheets. My newly finished painting is still on the stand, but covered with a cloth drape.
I pause at the threshold of the kitchen as he approaches the piece.
“What are you working on?”
“Oh. Um, nothing really. Just playing around, trying something different.”
He turns a curious look on me. “May I?”
“No.” I shake my head, worried he won’t like it. I’m terrified he’ll think this new piece is just as awful as my others—or worse, that it will negate even the small amount of talent he claims to see in me. “I’m not ready to show it to anyone, Nick.”
Least of all him since he was the reason I painted it in the first place.
“You don’t trust me?”
I drift over to where he stands, subtly inserting myself between him and my easel. “I’m not ready.”
I don’t think he can possibly understand how many ways that statement is true. I’m not ready to show him my new work. I’m not ready for his criticism or his praise. And I’m not ready for the way I feel toward him . . . the way he makes me want so many things I can’t possibly have.
Not with him, not with anyone.
“If we don’t have trust, Avery, we don’t have anything. Haven’t we covered that?”
He reaches for me, taking hold of the pearls that dangle between my breasts. He winds them around his fist, the tension drawing me inexorably toward him. I can no more fight his pull now than I could any other time we’ve been together. I take a step, then another. Until his pearl-wrapped fist is the only thing between us.
His eyes search mine. I can see the demand in those deep blue depths, the challenge. This is no longer about my painting. We both know it. And I can see from the rigid determination in Nick’s handsome, hard face that he will not be denied. Not this time.
“I want to see every part of you, Avery. That’s the only way this is going to work between us. No fear. No hiding. No barriers, remember?”
“Nick, I . . .” I shake my head miserably. My throat is dry, clogged with all of the words I cannot say. Things he should know about me and my past—things that are far more shameful than any of the half-truths I’ve fed him about my life since I’ve come to New York. “Please, don’t,” I murmur thickly. “I just . . . I can’t.”
I watch something dim, then darken, in his piercing gaze. The mouth that has kissed me so tenderly, worshipped me so pleasurably today and every other time we’ve been together now hardens in a stern line.
“Nick, I know you don’t understand why—”
“Then tell me.” Clipped words. A harsh command that hits me like a slap. “Make me understand what you’re afraid of. Is it me? Have I hurt you, Avery? Have I frightened you?”
“No. Never.” It kills me that he would think that. It breaks my heart to see him trying to make sense of my withdrawal. “You’ve never done anything wrong, Nick.”
“Then why are you pulling back from me?” His voice sharpens. “What are you hiding from? Who are you hiding from? Damn it, Avery, what won’t you say?”
I shake my head. My voice has left me entirely now.
He doesn’t say anything either. His expression unreadable, shuttered to me, he lets go of the pearls and lets the strand drop. It sways against my bare torso, the heat from his hand swiftly fleeing the gems.
He steps back, and his distance creates an even bigger chill in me. I shiver from the coldness I feel opening up between us, and from the impenetrable ice of his gaze.
As we stand there, locked in our miserable impasse, the apartment intercom buzzes with a call from the lobby. The sound punctuates the tension between us, making our unbearable distance widen with each passing second. For a long moment, neither one of us moves.