25. Nick
NICK
M y brain short circuits as Zinnia’s dress falls to the floor. I’ve seen her nude many times, but this is different. It’s not in the public forum of June’s studio, surrounded by the class. It’s in my living room, just for me.
That, and she’s not wearing any panties.
My breath rushes out as I gaze at her. Acres of smooth alabaster skin, dark waves tumbling over her shoulders, every curve utter perfection. My hands tingle at my sides, and I’m not sure if it’s with the urge to pick up my pencil or touch her.
Maybe I should be putting up more of a fight, reminding her I was her professor less than twenty-four hours ago, arguing more about how young she is—or rather, how old I am—but the words won’t come. Not when class has finished. Not when she’s right, that I do view her as an equal.
Not when she’s here, naked and so willing for me.
She lowers herself onto my sofa, reclining against the leather. “Draw me, Nick.”
I swallow, nerves rippling through me as I glance at my sketchbook. Fuck, I want to. But even now, just me and her, hesitation tugs at me.
Zinnia seems to sense it, because a wry smile slides onto her lips. “Draw me like one of your French girls,” she says in a dramatic voice.
I pause. French girls ?
“What?” I ask, scratching my jaw, and she laughs.
“From Titanic , you know? That scene…”
“Oh.” A laugh escapes me. I remember the scene; young me had more than one fantasy involving a naked, voluptuous Kate Winslet.
My nerves ease as I gaze at Zinnia, bared on my sofa, grinning up at me.
She knows me well enough to sense when I’m too in my head, when I need her to break the ice.
I love that about her—that she never takes herself too seriously.
That she’s always so comfortable with who she is, comfortable enough to laugh at herself.
She’s perfection in every way possible, and as much as this terrifies me, there’s no way I can refuse.
“Okay,” I say at last, reaching for my sketchbook with unsteady hands. I want another slug of whiskey, but that will only impair my drawing skills, assuming I still have any. It’s been so long since I put pencil to paper, I’m not even sure if I still know how to do it.
I settle on the edge of the coffee table in front of Zinnia, selecting a pencil from the pack she bought me, opening the sketchbook.
The familiar smell of lead and fresh paper takes me back to my teens, and I pause, wondering what teenage me would say to myself right now.
What he’d think of this beautiful goddess offering herself up like a gift.
He’d lose his fucking mind.
In spite of myself, the thought makes me smile as I smooth my hand over the paper, looking at Zinnia.
She’s posed exactly like Venus of Urbino , resting on one elbow, her other hand draped at the meeting of her thighs, but like Venus, there’s nothing modest about it.
Zinnia wants me to look there. She wants my attention focused on the one place I’ve never seen, the place I ache to bury myself to the hilt.
I drag in a ragged breath, adjusting my glasses. That’s not what this is about , I remind myself. She wants you to draw her .
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping she wanted more.
The first few strokes of my pencil are clumsy and awkward, the proportions incorrect, the shapes wrong.
It makes me want to tear the page out, to ball up the paper and shove the sketchbook away.
I rake a hand through my hair in frustration, forcing myself to continue.
I don’t know if I’m doing it for her or me, but I don’t look away as she gazes at me, as she lets me carefully study every dip and rise, every hill and valley.
It’s not long until muscle memory takes over, and my pencil moves quicker, more confidently, transcribing her beauty onto the page.
My heart pounds as I capture the delicious roundness of her breasts, the softness of her stomach, the long line of her legs.
She doesn’t move, gazing at me patiently as I take my time perfecting the delicate bend in her wrist, the hollow in her throat, each one of her fingers.
As her figure takes shape on the page, I try to make sense of the emotions swirling through me. There’s relief at having a pencil in my hand after so long. Grief for all the years I lost, not doing this. Desire for the stunning woman I’m drawing.
And gratitude. So much fucking gratitude that Zinnia showed up here tonight, that she didn’t let me turn her away, that she pushed me to do this.
For the first time in years, I feel… I don’t know how to describe it.
Whole, almost, like I’ve come home to myself.
A crack opens in my chest at this realization, and emotion floods in.
My throat tightens as I fill in the final details, wanting the woman in front of me more than I even knew was possible.
How did she know? How did she know how much I needed this? And if she knows that, does she know how much I need her ?
Finally, I lift my pencil from the page, exhaling long and slow as I meet her gaze.
Her brows rise hopefully. “Done?”
“I think so,” I whisper, reluctantly setting my pencil down. But I’m not done, not nearly. She’s awoken a hunger in me, and I want to draw her again, and again, in every possible position.
I want to fill entire sketchbooks with her.
Inhaling deeply, I hand her my sketchbook. I’ve never once shown my sketchbooks to anyone, not voluntarily, and the one time someone did see them, it ended in shame and humiliation. That I didn’t even consider not showing her tells me how much I trust her.
It tells me all I need to know.
Her breath catches as she looks at my sketch, lips parting in disbelief. My heart hammers as her gaze traces every line, every mark on the page, and when she finally brings her eyes back to mine, they’re shining with emotion.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “ This is how you see me?”
I swallow, nodding. “It’s how I’ve always seen you.”
She sets the sketchbook on the coffee table, looking up at me with wide, searching eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, voice hoarse. “For making me do this. You’re the only person who knew how much I needed it.”
“Nick…” A tear slides from her eye, and she quickly dashes it away. “Will you please kiss me?”
Oh, honey .
There’s no resistance in me now. It’s become crystal clear that I don’t fucking care about all the reasons I shouldn’t want her. All I can think about are her words— I’ll be gone by Labor Day —and the sudden, urgent knowledge that if I don’t act on this now, I’ll never get the chance again.
I slide off the coffee table, landing on my knees in front of her. My heart kicks hard as I lift my hand to her face, stroking her cheek. Her skin is softer than I could have imagined, and her breath hitches, her eyes falling closed as I run my thumb along her cheekbone.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” I rasp, dipping my head.
My pulse thrums as I brush my lips to hers, as I finally, finally let myself kiss Zinnia. I start slow, not wanting to rush, not wanting the moment to be over. Anticipation and desire hum through me, and she melts under my touch, hands coming to my shirt to pull me closer.
“Yes,” she breathes against my lips. “Yes, Nick.”
Fuck .
I draw away just enough to remove my glasses, tossing them onto the coffee table, and she tugs me back to her.
This time, Zinnia doesn’t want slow. Her lips part, inviting me in, and I’m powerless to resist. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a woman, but I don’t remember it feeling like this.
Intense, steadily building desire. Tight, coiled need, low in my gut.
I slant my mouth over hers, trying to keep myself in check, but when I feel the soft lick of her tongue against mine, the battle’s lost. Heat spirals through me, and I slide my fingers into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.
“Fuck,” she murmurs breathlessly, hands on my cheek, my jaw.
She arches against me, her breasts pressing to my chest, and my cock thickens in my pants. I want to touch her, but I don’t know how she wants to be touched. She’s so confident in her body, so at home in her skin, and if I’m totally honest, it’s intimidating as hell.
I’m terrified I’ll disappoint her.
It’s a relief when her hands land on the buttons of my shirt, tugging. “Take this off,” she breathes. “I need to feel you.”
My heart jumps at the desperate, pleading note in her voice, like she can’t go another second without her hands on me. I fumble with the buttons, trying to get my shirt off, but the rolled cuffs catch on my forearms, and I curse under my breath, face warming.
Fuck, why am I so bad at this?
But Zinnia doesn’t care. She waits patiently as I unroll the sleeves and finally toss my shirt aside, and when I force myself to look at her, her eyes are busy roaming my torso, mouth slack.
“Holy shit, Nick.” Her breath stutters, and she lifts both hands to touch my shoulders, my biceps, my chest, as if she can’t believe I’m real. “ This is what you’ve been hiding under that tweed jacket?”
I huff an awkward laugh, warmth prickling my neck.
“The gym,” I mumble self-consciously. I spend an hour there each day, sometimes more, but not out of vanity.
I’d always thought it was to stay healthy, but as I acknowledge the heavy throbbing in my groin, I wonder if it was an unconscious attempt to keep any… urges … at bay. To stay in control.
Her gaze lifts to mine, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. “You are…”
She shakes her head, fingers brushing my pecs, trailing down my abdomen. Her touch burns like fire on my skin, and molten heat pours through me, my cock straining against my zipper.
“You look like you’re carved from marble.” She gives a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck David , Michelangelo should have made a statue of you .”