He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t choose art. He chose you. And when he told you our father had cut him from his will because he wouldn’t come home… Well, you didn’t want him if he didn’t come with the Dyson fortune, did you?”
She stepped back from him and folded her arms across her breasts. Breasts that would feel firm and heavy and perfect against his palms. “It’s definitely time you left.” She looked up at him, a faint pink painting her checks. The glorious copper mane of her hair tumbled around her face in wild abandon, brushing her serious, straight eyebrows, emphasizing the creamy velvet of her flawless flesh.
She looked completely and utterly sexual, a creature of heightened passion that would willingly throw herself at the mercy of her desire.
Her legs were parted and her bare feet planted firmly on the studio’s wooden floor. James noted the painted burgundy of her trimmed toenails and a delicate butterfly tattoo on her right ankle. That butterfly had featured more than once in his dreams. It had stirred something in him the night of Clinton’s exhibition, something completely male. It stirred that same something in him now.
He devoured the length of her legs exposed to his gaze. So smooth and toned and sun-kissed. He had imagined more than once how they would feel wrapped around his naked hips, her skin slicked with perspiration, her breath short and panting.
Did he need to imagine any longer? Despite her obvious hatred for him, something else smoldered below the icy fury. He’d witnessed it burning in her eyes the very first time they’d met. He’d recognized it then because it had surged through him as well. Primitive and carnal. Hungry and eager.
It throbbed through him now. It throbbed through her as well. He had no doubt. The way she looked at him, the way her body spoke to him…
A hot lump filled his throat. Christ, he wanted her.
“James…” Her voice played with him, her gaze as confused as he suddenly felt. “If only we could talk about what happened?”
“Talk?” He shook his head. “That’s not my plan.”
“I can’t believe you can be this much of a Neanderthal. I don’t care how sexy it is, you—”
She stopped, her hand pressing to her mouth, her eyes wide above it.
“You think I’m sexy?” Why did the admission stir him so much?
“Sure.” She narrowed her eyes, hands back on the delicious curve of her hips. “And arrogant and smug and narcissistic and…and…too damn tall.”
He chuckled.
She glared at him. But she didn’t back away. In fact, she’d inched toward him during her tirade. Drawn closer. Close enough the warmth of her body caressed his own.
He met her eyes, enjoying the defiance—and excitement—he saw there.
Why deny what he wanted? He’d never done so before. Why now? And he wanted Sienna Roberts. More than he could fathom.
A sudden rap on the door sounded through the studio, shattering the charged silence arcing between them.
“Sienna?” A female voice called from the other side. “Open up, girl.”
“Coming, Carrie,” she called back, holding his stare. A small frown dipped her eyebrows, a flash of disappointment filled her face a second before triumph danced in her eyes. “I told you it was time for you to leave. I’m sure I’ll never see you again.”
He returned her smile. “And I’m sure you’ll see me tomorrow.” She opened her mouth, no doubt to lash him further with farcical contempt, but before a word could pass her lips, he covered the distance between them to tower over her. “And let me assure you, tomorrow we won’t be interrupted.”
He kissed her then, demanding and taking, his entire being igniting as she immediately kissed him back. Perfect. Wild and untamed. Just as he’d imagined.
Just as he’d fantasied.
He let her go and strode away. If he didn’t now, he never would.
“I hate you,” she whispered at his back.
He swung open the door. “Hate has never stopped good sex, Sienna,” he replied over his shoulder before dropping a wink at the blonde gaping at him from the step. “And from the moment we first met, great sex is exactly what we were destined for. You know it, just as much as I do.”