Chapter Twenty-One
Claude is so focused on his paints that he doesn’t even glance at me when I walk into the room. I excused myself to freshen up and change after our usual breakfast together—both mine and his, from my wrist—but I know he won’t be expecting what I’ve changed into.
I walk slowly to my usual seat on the alcove and arrange myself carefully, tugging down the hem of my silk robe so it isn’t too scandalous.
Even so, it still reveals a generous amount of thigh…
and dips low between my small breasts. Beneath it, I’m bare, and every time my thighs rub together it feels deliciously naughty.
The longer it takes for Claude to notice me, the more my self-consciousness grows. But there’s no use in being shy now. I wore this for him to look at me.
When he finally does glance up, he stops short, his brush frozen in hand, his lips forming a small “o” of surprise.
“I thought I might try to inspire you today,” I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes.
“Oh,” he whispers. He can’t seem to look away from my thighs. “Consider me… thoroughly inspired.”
I resist the urge to cross them. Instead I part them slightly, emboldened by his gaze upon me, so heavy I feel it like a physical touch.
“Claude,” I whisper.
“Yes?” He sounds pained.
“You’re going to break your paintbrush.”
He glances down, and seems surprised to notice that the wood is bending in his fingers.
He readjusts his grip, clears his throat, spins the paintbrush between his fingers.
“Right.” He lifts it to his canvas, but it just hovers there.
His eyes keep drifting back to me, again and again, even as he seems to be making a concerted effort to look away.
I bite my lip. I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so affected. I also wasn’t expecting him to actually try to paint me like this, and now that it’s happening, I’m strangely nervous.
“We talked about, um, making paintings only for yourself,” I say, after a moment. “This would have to be another one. Just for you. Not public.”
His smile is strained. “As if I would ever share this sight with anyone else,” he says softly, his eyes still raking over me, as if he can’t get enough.
The intensity in his gaze sends a pleasant shiver through me. “In that case…” I take a deep breath and reach for the belt on my robe.
Before I can undo it, Claude is suddenly there, his hand over mine, the other still holding his paintbrush. I startle back, shocked by how quickly he moved.
“Don’t,” he says. He’s staring down at me with something like agony, his pupils blown wide and his fangs out.
“Why not?”
He hesitates a moment, and steps back, his fingers brushing against mine before he lets go.
“We can’t,” he says. “The contract.”
“I know. But…” I shake my head. “Look, it’s clear there’s… something between us.” Claude raises a brow, spinning his paintbrush in his fingers again. “I think it’ll be easier if we get it out of our systems.”
“Get it out of our systems,” he repeats, each word slower than before, making it sound thoroughly ridiculous.
I clear my throat and try to ignore the color rising to my face. “Yes.”
“Be plain, mon chou. What exactly are you proposing?”
“I am proposing that we have sex,” I say. “One time.”
“Hm.” He looks me over, from eyes to feet, his gaze moving as slow as a drip of honey. “Once isn’t going to be enough for me, Nora. I’m going to want more. And so will you.”
I flush, half annoyed and half turned on, which only irritates me further. “Will I?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t sound smug or cocky, just matter-of-fact.
He sets his paintbrush down and closes the space between us in measured strides, until he’s leaning over my place on the window seat, one arm braced on the wall.
“If I could get my hands on you, Nora…” He touches the inside of my knee with a single finger, nudging me and, after a moment’s resistance, I let my legs slide apart.
“I would have you desperate,” he murmurs.
“Begging.” His finger traces up my thigh, and his touch is a cold fire on my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
When I look up at him again, his lips are parted, revealing the tips of his fangs.
“I would unravel you piece by piece, and you would love every moment of it.”
I swallow hard. My skin is on fire, my heart beating wildly. I lean back against the window, reach up to push my hair off my neck and reveal the bare curve of it. “Prove it.”
He leans in closer. Closer. I feel the prick of his fangs, touching my skin but not breaking it. But then his nose brushes up the curve of my neck, and he whispers in my ear, “No.”
As he pulls back, I stare at him, lips parted in wordless, growing outrage. The sting of rejection is harsh, but worse is my anger, because… “Why?” I snap. “It’s obvious we both want this.” I cast a pointed look at his tented trousers, which he does nothing to hide. “Why should we deny ourselves?”
“Because we are under contract. And there is a certain intimacy clause that is quite explicitly laid out.”
I sigh, brushing my hair out of my face. The damn contract. “Is that what this is about? You want me to admit I was an idiot for claiming I didn’t want intimacy?”
“No,” he says. “I’m sure you had your reasons. And…” He hesitates. “If you recall, it was me who insisted on putting it in the contract.”
I fold my arms across my chest. It pushes my breasts up, which I notice him noticing. “Then why? Explain.”
“The contract,” he says. He reaches forward and carefully pulls up the sleeve of my robe where it’s fallen. His fingers graze my bare skin, and I shiver. “Like I said. It’s important.”
I frown. “I understand, but… Do you think I would go running to Benjamin and tattle? You think this is all some ploy by me to… get out of our agreement, or something?”
His gaze drifts back to me, slowly, as if against his will. “No,” he says.
“Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t tell anyone, so what’s the problem?” He hesitates, and my eyes narrow. “Would you tell someone?”
“You are aware of the relationship between a vampire and his sire, yes?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, impatient at the apparent non sequitur, but then I pause. “You would tell Lord Ambrose?”
“Ambrose could… compel an honest answer out of me.”
“But why would he ask? Does he know about the intimacy clause?”
“Of course he does. He’s the one who suggested it.” I try to wrap my mind around that. I thought Claude suggested it because he thought it was the only way I would agree to this, but it came from Ambrose? “He thought it was for the best. He was worried that you would distract me.”
I roll my eyes. “What, distract you from all of the painting you were doing before?” He winces, and I bite my lip. “Sorry. I’m just trying to understand why Ambrose is involved in this.”
“Lord Ambrose,” he says, a gentle chastisement, “is involved in everything I do. He made me, and he had such great hopes for me. He is always trying to find new ways to… inspire me.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and his shoulders slump.
The humor is gone from his expression now, leaving him somber.
“But inspiration has not found me today, I’m afraid,” he says. “I should go. I’m sorry.”
He leaves me there, half naked with my head spinning.