…
They talked as she sketched him—drawing after drawing.
James found himself completely at ease. She didn’t ask him to stay still or to affect a pose. In fact, when she noticed him trying to retain the same position, she scolded him gently.
“Just relax,” she instructed, moving her pencil over the page with a fluid grace both hypnotic and delightful. “I’m not drawing stuffed-shirt James Dyson. I’m drawing you.”
He chuckled, taking a sip of the strong black coffee Zach had made before heading off with his friend. For a moment, as Sienna’s brother had said good-bye to her, James wanted to mention Ricco was the only son of the country’s Federal Opposition Leader. Did Sienna know? Even poor, her family moved in circles beyond the average person. Was it in their blood? To draw those of power and significance?
“Are you sure the me you’re drawing doesn’t have his clothes off?” he asked.
“Zip it, Dyson.” Her lips twitched. “I’m drawing your mouth now.”
“So you’re focused on my lips?”
The thought of her studying his mouth so closely sent a hot pulse of hunger to his groin.
“Uh-hmm,” she said, giving him an absentminded nod as she focused on her drawing.
He sat silently, waiting for her to look up at him.
She did. Finally.
He poked his tongue out at her.
She snorted and poked hers back.
He laughed and gave up any pretense of being the perfect model.
Rising to his feet, he closed the small distance between them, threaded his fingers in the cool tumble of her hair at her nape, and lowered his head to hers.
“Very hard for me to draw you like this,” she whispered, her gaze meeting his.
“Very hard is the operative word,” he murmured a heartbeat before brushing her lip with his in a teasing kiss. “Or words, to be more accurate.”
“It’s important to be accurate.” She placed her sketchbook and pencil on the table without breaking eye contact with him. Her breath fanned his lips, a soft, warm kiss of air that ignited a fire inside him.
“It is.” He exerted just enough pressure on the back of her head to let her know he wanted her to stand. She did so, smoothing her hands up his chest until their bellies, their hips, touched. The heat from her body seeped into his. The curve of her sex brushed the bulge of his groin.
“For instance,” she continued, combing her fingers through his hair, “if I was to say I’d like to make love to you now, it wouldn’t be entirely an accurate statement.”
James stilled. He pulled his head away from hers a little, searching her eyes. “It wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “No. The more accurate statement would be I want you to make love to me right now more than I want to breathe.”
A raw growl tore at his throat, and he crushed her lips with his.
She met his hunger with equal passion, pressing her body to his. He raked his hands down her back, a part of his brain telling him how incredible she felt, how exquisite her curves and dips and planes were, the rest of him surrendering to the concentrated pleasure of kissing and holding her.
The toned muscles of her arse filled his hand, firm and soft in the most perfect, feminine way. Moving his mouth to her throat, he sought out the fly of the loose jeans she wore low on her hips.
Way too many fumbles later, he shoved her jeans down her thighs, dropped to his knees before her, and touched his tongue to the center of her heat.
“Oh God, James.” She buried her fingers in his hair, rolling her hips toward him.
He loved the sound of his name falling from her in a ragged breath. Parting her folds gently with his thumbs, he slid his tongue over the tiny nub of flesh he’d revealed.
She whimpered, her knees trembling enough he needed to support her with his hands.
“You…you make me feel…amazing,” she said, each word little more than a husky rasp.
“You make me feel like I truly have a heart.” He gazed up at her as he caressed her sensitive flesh with his thumb.
She moaned, meeting his eyes. “You have a heart.” She touched his jaw, his cheek, his lips. “You have mine.”
With a low groan, he straightened to his feet, hauled her up into his arms, and carried her to her studio.