Chapter Eleven #2
Her lips curve up. “That turn you on, does it?”
“I’m a straight male. Of course it turns me on.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m sure you have more than the regular amount of testosterone that most men have.
” I snort, and she giggles. “So come on then,” she teases, “how often do you… you know? Indulge in a little DIY?” I roll my eyes, and she pokes my leg with her foot.
“Don’t tell me you don’t do it,” she says, “because I won’t believe you. ”
“Of course I do it. If a man says he doesn’t, he’s lying.”
Her eyes flare. The thought turns her on. “So how often?”
“As often as I need to. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Once a week? Once a day?”
“A few times a week, I guess. More if I’m…”
“Horny?”
That makes me laugh. “I was going to say ‘not tired,’ but yeah, your word works too.”
She smiles. Then she says, “I think you’re an extremely sexy man.”
“Well, thank you. I’m flattered that such a young, beautiful woman would say so.”
“Aw, come on. Women must fall at your feet all the time.”
“Not quite, no.”
“Really?” She looks puzzled. “I thought they’d be throwing themselves at you.”
“If they are, I haven’t noticed. Most of the women I meet are married businesswomen. And I haven’t been out much since Eleanor died.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t appeal to me. I have no interest in going to clubs. As you know, it feels awkward to go to dinner parties when you’re single, and I hate small talk.”
“Do you? You don’t seem to mind talking to me.”
“I don’t consider this small talk. Small talk is talking to a stranger about the weather or what the latest celebrities are doing. It bores me. You don’t, though. You’re not a stranger.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“You’re very easy to talk to,” I admit.
She smiles. “So are you. You only talk about things that matter. You only speak when you have something worth saying. A lot of people could do with learning that skill.”
With some surprise, this relationship—such as it is—with Marama is different from any I’ve experienced before. We actually like one another.
“Why do you like me?” I ask, genuinely bemused. “I’m cold, hard, and standoffish. I’m bossy and unforgiving. I work too hard and I don’t play enough. I don’t see anything to like.”
She tips her head to the side, her expression softening. “You’re very hard on yourself. You have a great sense of humor. Yes, you work hard, and you don’t suffer fools gladly. But in your line of work you have to be driven and tough. And anyway, I like a bossy man.” She wrinkles her nose.
My gaze drops to her mouth. It would be so easy to lean across, pull her chair toward me, and crush my lips to hers.
So, so easy. I want to do it so much it hurts.
I want to lose myself in her beauty and her youth and her soft body.
I want to be loved by someone who loves me back.
I’ve never had that before, and I yearn for it.
I look away, across the garden. The sun has disappeared, and it’s growing cool. “Are you going to be able to paint in this light?”
“There’s this thing called electricity,” she says. “You might have heard of it. It’s pretty magical. You just press a button and it makes stuff light up!”
“Haha.” I get to my feet and pick up my plate and glass, and she does the same. “I mean don’t you need natural light?”
“No, I’m not precious about it. I can paint anywhere and in any conditions.” She leads the way inside.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say as we stack the dishwasher. “It was perfect.”
“You’re welcome. You want a coffee?”
“Yeah, okay.”
So we make ourselves a coffee, then take them back into the studio.
Marama turns some lamps on, including a spotlight that shines on her canvas, and one to my left that illuminates me. With the fairy lights, the room glows like a grotto, a place full of mystery.
I sit back in my chair, Marama takes her place by her easel, and she begins to paint.
I’m nicely full, and the hot coffee grounds me with its earthy smell, providing me with a pleasant blend of being rooted in the real world that’s touched by magic.
There’s something magical about watching Marama work.
Although she does talk while she’s painting, I can see she’s lost in the canvas, in the colors and the shapes she’s producing with her brush.
She works fast, using mostly long, free strokes—she told me she’s concentrating on getting the first draft done tonight, the undercoat or base colors, and she’ll work on the finer details later.
She glances at me from time to time, and her lips curve up when she sees me watching her.
I don’t look away though, not ashamed to be caught admiring her.
She’s so beautiful. I love a confident woman, and she looks completely at home here, with paint on her hands and her hair all messy, happy and content to be at her easel.
“You’re supposed to be looking ahead.” She stops to wash her brush.
“The view is much more interesting in this direction.”
“My view would have been more interesting if you’d taken off your clothes.”
“Well, so would mine, if we’re being candid.”
Her gaze trails down me lazily. “I’d love to sketch you naked.” Her eyes return to mine. “I’ll strip if you strip.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
She puts down her paintbrush, then gets to her feet. She walks over to the windows, takes the curtain hanging on the right, and pulls it across the window, then does the same with the left one, so we’re cut off from the outside world.
She returns to stand in front of her easel. Then she starts to unbutton the straps that hold up the bib of her dungarees.
My pulse rate immediately doubles. Holy shit, I didn’t think she’d go through with it. “Marama…” I say in a warning tone.
She undoes one button. Then moves to the other one. She meets my gaze as she peels the bib down. Her expression is calm, with a touch of hope and maybe a smidgeon of fear that I won’t respond.
I have a choice now. I should ask her what the hell she’s doing, but that will make her feel foolish and embarrassed, and will bring this magical evening to an end. It’s the right thing to do, the proper thing. So why does it feel so wrong?
Playing along doesn’t guarantee that we’ll end up in bed together. But it’s the first step on a path I was adamant I wasn’t going to set foot on. I’ll be showing her that I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I’ll be admitting I want her.
But I do want her. More than anything in the world. Fuck everyone else. See, want, take, right? Why shouldn’t I?
Slowly, I get to my feet. Then I begin to unbutton my shirt.
Her whole face lights up with unbridled joy and excitement, warming me to the core.
I push the buttons of my shirt through the holes, while she undoes the buttons of her dungarees on her hips. I reach the bottom as she finishes, and, together, I let my shirt fall off my shoulders while she pushes her dungarees down and steps out of them.
She’s wearing a tiny pair of cream lace panties. She’s not overly tall, but her bare light-brown legs look long and incredibly smooth.
Her gaze roams across my shoulders and down over my chest. “I’m so glad you don’t shave,” she murmurs, looking at the scatter of brown hairs interspersed with lots of silver across my ribs. “You’re in amazing shape.”
“Thank you. You have amazing legs.”
She meets my gaze. Then, lips twitching, she crosses her arms and takes hold of the hem of her T-shirt.
I lift my hands to my trousers, then stop. “Ahhh… I feel the need to apologize… but it’s impossible not to react when a beautiful young woman is stripping in front of you.”
Her gaze drops to my trousers, and her lips curve up. In one smooth move she lifts the tee up over her head and tosses it away. Now she’s standing there in just her underwear—the lacy panties and a matching cream bra with demi cups that prop up her generous breasts as if preparing them for my gaze.
I look down at my trousers. Well, there’s no point in being coy about it. I undo the button and slide the zipper over my erection, then let the trousers drop and step out of them. Hands on hips, I stand there in my tight black boxer briefs and let her ogle me.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my,” she says. “The rumors were true.”
“Rumors?” I know I’m not a small man, but I wasn’t aware my size was a matter of gossip.
She just presses her lips togethers, eyes gleaming.
We study each other. Then, eyes filled with amusement, she lifts her hands behind her back and unclips her bra. Slowly, she draws the straps down each arm and lets it fall to the ground.
“Fuck.” I brush my hand over my face. I lower my hand again, and we observe one another, trying not to laugh. Jesus, her breasts are amazing, high and round and with perfect medium-brown nipples.
I glance down at myself, then give her a rueful look. “Are you sure about this?”
“Get ’em off, Cavendish,” she says. She hooks her fingers in her panties, pulls them down her legs, and steps out of them. Then she lifts her hands to her head and holds them there as she does a 360 degree turn for me.
I stifle a groan at the sight of her amazing butt, and the mound between her legs with its tiny, neat strip of hair. The rest of her is obviously going to be bare and silky smooth.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
She sits on her stool and picks up her paintbrush, then arches a brow at me.
I blow out a breath, lift the elastic of my underwear over my erection, push the boxer-briefs down and step out of them, then toss them away.
As casually as I can, I sit back in my seat and face her, hands resting on the arms of the chair.
It takes a lot of willpower not to cover myself up, but I fight the urge and instead sit back and let her drink her fill.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Spencer! Wow.”
“I guess that’s a better reaction than ‘is that it?’”
“Oh, you’re as far from ‘is that it’ as it’s possible to be. You’re magnificent.”
It’s extremely shallow of me, but I glow at her compliment. What man doesn’t like to be complimented on his family jewels?
She looks at the canvas, then lifts it off the easel and places it to one side. Quickly, she replaces it with a new, clean one. Picking up her pencil, she rakes me with her gaze, which makes my cock twitch. She notices, and she presses her lips together, her eyes dancing. Then she begins to sketch.
I sit there, aware that this is probably the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
Just the nature of posing like this, naked and exposed to her gaze, is more arousing than I would have expected, but being able to watch her as she works, to feast my gaze on her exquisite breasts, the curve of her waist, and the swell of her hips, is such a turn-on that my erection refuses to go down.
She sketches, but every time she looks at me her stare lasts for longer. Eventually, she moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, and when I look down I see that the tip of my erection is glistening. I lift my gaze back to hers, and our eyes lock.
My heart bangs, and realization dawns on me.
What the hell am I doing? This woman is extremely dangerous for me.
And I don’t just mean because of her age and the fact that she’s Rangi’s daughter.
I mean because she’s chaotic—she’s emotional, artistic, and hard to predict.
I react to her in a way I never have before, and I don’t just mean my hard-on.
I can feel my control slipping away, and that scares me.
I tear my gaze away, stand, and bend to pick up my clothes. “I should go.”
She doesn’t respond. I straighten and look at her. She’s watching me, and as I look, she gets to her feet. “If you want to,” she says calmly. “I’m not going to stop you.”
Our earlier conversation jumps into my head.
Marama: Kiss me.
Me: No.
Marama: You’re going to.
Me: I won’t.
Marama: You will.
My confident denial seems incredibly stupid now.
She stands there, not a stitch on, all soft and alluring, her breasts begging to be touched, her lips begging to be kissed, and the urge to kiss her blooms in my mind like some gigantic Alice-in-Wonderland flower until it’s all I can think about.
I won’t.
You will.
I look at her mouth, despair engulfing me.
Fucking hell, man, you’re naked, and she’s naked, and she’s so incredibly beautiful—what the hell did you think was going to happen?