In here. He said in here.
She swallowed. Given she would never see him anywhere else but in here, painting him was safe. And the only logical thing to do. She still needed the funds to replace the broken violin, and with her father asking for financial support in prison, plus the ominous threat of Pablo Reynard now in her head, painting him was her only option. Sexual tension or not.
“I give you my word, Sienna.”
The sincerity in his voice calmed her. A little. She nodded and let out a slow breath. “Okay. Let’s make art.”
If only she felt as confident as she sounded.
…
There was no denying she was talented.
As the hour passed, James observed her in what was clearly her natural habitat. She sketched angle after angle of his face, his body. He asked to see each one, surprised at first when she turned her drawing board to face him. He’d been convinced she would have refused, if for no other reason than to prove in here she was in control. The exclamation of praise that left him on each reveal wasn’t fake. With each sketch, he watched the tension in her body melt away until, sixty minutes into the sitting, Sienna was chatting to him with the ease of old friends.
He loved it.
Not just seeing her so relaxed as she created drawing after drawing of him, but seeing her with her guard down. They talked for the duration. James asked questions he knew wouldn’t bring that guard back up. He discovered her favorite book was Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, a book he enjoyed reading often. They discussed the latest trend in Hollywood to remake movies, delighted to hear she despised it as much as he did. She confessed to loving B-grade horror films, laughing in disagreement as he insisted George Romero’s zombies were better than the zombies in Shaun of the Dead. He learned her first professional artwork had been for her year-five teacher, who had paid Sienna five dollars to draw her cat. She confessed to getting lost in her work regularly.
She muttered to herself often about the sketch in front of her, flicking frowns up at him as she swept her pencil over the paper or swiped a hand over its surface. Every time her gaze fell on him, he felt his body grow stiffer. The situation was, he realized, ironic. In talking to Sienna, in helping her relax around him, he’d succeeded in filling himself with tension. The kind only relieved by taking her in his arms and losing himself in her body.
Damn it, how did this happen?
“I think we’re done for today.”
He started at her statement, growing aware of the heavy pressure in his groin. Standing now would not be an option. She wouldn’t miss his inconvenient state.
A ribbon of hot anger unfurled through him. He was getting damn sick of this, of the woman taking charge of his body.
Really?
Gritting his teeth, he shifted in the chair, crossing his leg to rest his ankle on his knee in an attempt to hide the incriminating bulge in his trousers. Christ, he hadn’t needed to do something so infantile since he was a teenager. “You sure?”
“About what? Being finished? I think I’ve kept you long enough.” She dropped her attention to the numerous sketches fanned out on the floor beside her, chewing on her bottom lip. “And I have plenty to start the painting.” Looking at him again, she straightened from her stool. “I don’t think I’ll need to see you until next week. Maybe Monday morning? For an hour or so? Is that okay?”
No. I can’t go that long. I don’t want to.
Damn it. That feeling of urgency to be around her hadn’t been part of his plan.
The plan? What plan?
Hadn’t he asked himself that exact question only a few days ago? When he’d first visited her home? So why did things feel so different now?
“Monday will be fine.” He dragged in a steadying breath. “I’ll bring breakfast.”
An unreadable light flared in her eyes. “No, that won’t be necessary.” Dropping into a fluid crouch, she collected the sketches from the floor.
He watched her, enjoying the way the smooth creamy line of her bent leg disappeared into the frayed hem of her denim shorts.
Christ, her thighs are exquisite. Almost sublime.
The urge to trace the velvet length of flesh filled his groin with fresh heat. He bit back a groan. At this rate, he’d never get out of the fucking chair.