She drew a ragged breath, her teeth catching her bottom lip.
“Don’t you.” Christ, he’d never wanted to hear the word “yes” more.
A soft breath fell from her, part confused, part frustrated. “I do. God help me, I do.”
Heat and relief and delight crashed through him. Keeping his movement slow, modulated, he slid his hand around the dip of her waist, splayed his fingers over the small of her back, and drew her against his body.
“This is crazy,” she whispered.
“It is,” he whispered back.
She gasped at his admission. He caught the soft sound with his mouth, pulling her closer to him as he surrendered to the exquisite perfection of her lips. Her heat seeped into his, invaded him. A low groan threatened to escape him. How in the name of God was he to carry out his plan when he could think of nothing but how good she tasted, how good she felt? How good he felt when he was with her?
She deepened the kiss, her lips parting against his for a brief moment, filling him with warmth he didn’t want to analyze, and then she pulled away, moving with such haste she slipped from his grasp before he could stop her.
“No.” She didn’t look at him. “No.”
Anguish tore at him. His body reacted to their loss of physical contact. His heart…
She lifted her head to meet his gaze, fighting to control her breath, her expression guarded. “It’s not that easy. I’m not that easy. There’s something I want from you.”
He forced a smirk to his lips. “I think I’ve figured that out already.”
Pink tinged her cheeks again and the tight heat in his groin throbbed. She looked damn sexy when she blushed. Sexy and completely—
“That’s not what I meant.” Ramming her fists to her hips, she glared at him, angry once again. “I want something else.”
“Other than sex? And that is?”
“I want to enter your portrait into the Barton Prize.”
“Agreed.”
A slight widening of her green eyes was the only indication she was surprised by his response. Unlike his father, he shunned public exposure, and while Harvey’s scowling countenance had appeared in the National Portrait Prize more than once, he had refused every request by other artists, some far more famous and illustrious than her. His father and Lindsey could fill the social pages as much as they liked, but in his opinion, the Dysons gained public exposure via other people’s lives, not their own.
He studied her. What was she going to do next?
Did she know her fiery hair brought out the green chips in her eyes? Or that her eyebrows dipped in a serious frown as she tried to decide what to say? Did she know how goddamn sexy it made her look?
Did she know how much she affected him? “Is there more?”
“You have to pay the entry fee.” She tilted her chin at him, as if she expected him to argue. “And I have complete creative and artistic control of the work. You do not get to dictate how I paint you.”
“Done.”
Her frown deepened. He chuckled. “Anything else?”
She hesitated. For a heartbeat. “No.”
A spasm of disappointment cut through him. He’d wanted her to confess how much she wanted him. His ego had never needed stroking before, but Christ, he’d wanted more than anything for her to ask him to make love to her. Right now.
Make love? What the hell?
His gut clenched. He’d never thought of “making love” to anyone before. It was always just sex. But lately it wasn’t “sex” he thought about when his mind lingered on Sienna Roberts—which it did almost every moment of the day and night. Somewhere in the last forty-eight hours, his head had gotten mixed messages about what he’d planned for her—the kiss this morning, seeing her torment over her half brother’s anger and contempt, seeing her concern for the teenage boy…
And now being overwhelmed with the idea of making love to her? Love, not sex. Neither were the actions of a man bent on cold vengeance.
She’s good. She’s playing my weakness just as I planned to play hers. Careful.
He scowled. Damn if she was going to get under his skin.
“Let them show their hand, Jamieson.” His father’s advice scraped over his control. “Let them give you the means to destroy them.”