“I’m glad I could help.” His boyish smile curled his lips once again. “I know what it’s like to be an angry teenage boy feeling like the world is ganging up on him.”
She snorted. “Really? The world ganging up on a Dyson?”
He chuckled before walking into her studio area. “I had to learn my bastard ways from somewhere, didn’t I? And just because I was a Dyson didn’t make me off-limits to the other kids at school. When I was thirteen, the prime minister’s son thought I’d make an excellent target for his developing talent as a politician. By third period most days, I was flayed into tears by his sarcastic evisceration of my character.” He stopped at the old paisley armchair, turning to face her as he rested his butt on one of the chair’s arms. “Sticks and stones may break my bones and all, but when Nathanial Howes threw names at me, it bloody shattered my young pride over and over again.”
What did she say to that? She was all too aware what it was like growing up to famous parents. It wasn’t as easy as the general public thought. Rich kids were just as mean as poor kids.
He chuckled again, sliding from the chair’s arm to its cushioned seat before stretching his legs forward and crossing his ankles. It was a relaxed, comfortable position. For some stupid reason, it made her already rapid pulse pound faster. “But I’m not here to lament my childhood. I’m here to be at your disposal.”
At her disposal? Did he have any idea where her mind went at that declaration?
Be calm. Calm, damn it!
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrubbed her hands on her hips and then closed the door. She had sketches to do. Sketches. Not—
The automatic lock of the door engaged with a soft click behind her, and she bit back a low moan.
A small grin played with his lips. “How do you want me?”
She drove her fingernails into her palms. She needed to get a grip. “I was thinking of sitting you in a steel chair, reading one of your newspapers.”
“The media-mogul engaged with his own product? I like it.” Approval crossed his face. She wished it hadn’t. Approval from him would undo her, especially when it looked so good on him. “Should I be naked?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t…” Stop picturing him naked. Stop it! “I don’t think so. Do you normally read the paper naked?”
His boyish grin returned. “Not normally, but in the name of art, I’d make an exception for you”
She crossed her arms again. “Mr. Dyson.”
Before she could blink, he stood toe-to-toe with her, head lowered, dark gaze holding her prisoner. “Sienna, your tongue has been in my mouth, my hands have been on your breasts. I think we are long past Mr. Dyson, don’t you?”
Her heart smashed into her throat. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out. Nothing.
His nostrils flared. “Damn it, I swore to myself I would make you beg me to kiss you before we did this.”
“Did what?” she whispered, not moving, her pulse racing.
He slanted his lips over hers.
The kiss seared through her. He captured her bottom lip and sucked with gentle force, nipping on the full flesh with his teeth before dipping his tongue into her mouth.
It slid over hers, a wicked promise, and then, with a growl, he stepped away. Just like that.
She stared up at him, every nerve ending in her body thrumming with tormented want. The junction of her thighs ached. Lifting her hand, she pressed her fingers to her tingling lips. “I can’t do this. I won’t survive you. I thought I could, I thought I could play your game, but I can’t. Please don’t make me do this. Please? Just leave my life so I can—”
“Let’s make art,” he said, his voice low and deep and strained. “I promise, I will not touch you again while we are in your home and your studio. You are safe in here.”
“Safe?” God, she needed to stop trembling. Now.
He twisted the end of an imaginary moustache in Machiavellian delight. Mirth played with his smile. “From my debauched lust.”
Her stomach twisted. He was trying to lighten the mood. Trying to defuse the sexual tension arcing between them.