42. Chapter 42
I have an idea.
A stupid one, but an idea. One that is born out of sheer boredom and desperation to shake anything out of this silence that has settled between us.
“I want to paint you.”
I blurt into the quiet of the evening, Alex’s brow arching as he looks up to me.
“Yeah?”
I bite down onto my cheek and nod. “I swear if you say like ‘one of your French girls’…”
He laughs softly and shakes his head, tossing his book aside. “Then paint me, little fox.”
I enter the sunroom a step behind him as he talks to me over his shoulder. “If we are doing this, we’ll do it properly.”
“What does properly—”
My words die as I watch him peel from his clothes. My brows raising as I watch each layer of fabric shed from his beautifully made body. Gaze sharpening on the lean pull of his muscles beneath his skin and the physique a man who sits often shouldn’t possess.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he says. A smile playing at his mouth when he catches my eyes snapping up from all the shit artists usually don’t stray from when painting.
“Right,” I choke and attempt to look like a professional. Even if my mouth goes a little dry, because he’s all clean lines. Long limbs that tether into broad shoulders which taper perfectly down to narrow hips. And somehow—despite being stark naked—he looks comfortable.
“Sit,” I croak, hurriedly dragging a chair into position near the far window. Careful to give him plenty of space to get past me as I move back to the safety behind the canvas. Taking my time to set up my palette so that I can figure out what the hell I was possibly thinking asking to paint him.
Well, I know what I was thinking. And I can honestly say I didn’t think he would agree to it by a long shot. Getting naked? I think a pig somewhere gained its wings, because nothing in this room makes fucking sense.
Worse, I’m acutely aware of everything he is doing. Every shift of his weight and every breath.
I shake my head and decide to start somewhere safe—shoulders. I block in the shape without any real detail, broad and solid. I don’t let myself rush, instead I trace the lines of him. Committing every inch of him to memory before translating it to canvas.
“You’re unusually quiet,” he observes. Obviously amused.
“I’m concentrating.”
“On the painting?”
I level my gaze at him, brush hovering midair. “Really?”
“Really,” he grins.
Fuck, he is so pretty when he smiles.
Shaking my head, I attempt to focus on the painting once more. I really fucking do, but he adjusts his posture again and I know he’s doing it on purpose. There’s just not a way in hell he doesn’t think this is provocative in some way.
“Hold still,” I grumble.
“Yes, ma’am,” he purrs and my eyes snap up to him.
“You’re enjoying this too much. It’s meant to strip you down.” I snipe.
“I am stripped down.”
“Figuratively,” I sigh.
“That too.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I try once again to place my focus on the movement of my hand and the creation instead of the actual man in front of me.
“Just so you’re aware,” he sighs and drapes himself languidly against the edge of the chair. Entirely too comfortable having his dick swinging in the wind—room. Chair? Fuck, I don’t know. Just don’t look at it.
“I do enjoy being observed by you.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter.
He blessedly lets me go back to painting without further commentary, but I can feel his gaze as it gores into me. As if he’s not the only one in this room naked and on display.
I can handle it for a solid two hours before the tension grows too much.
“Alright, I think that’s enough for today.”
He rises and my eyes traitorously follow the movement.
“Will you finish it?” He asks without bothering to reach for his clothes.
“Yes,” I mutter looking anywhere but down. “Eventually.”
I still when he closes the distance between us, half expecting to reach out. He doesn’t, but turns to look at the canvas instead. A small sigh of relief breaking from me despite the buffer he obliterated with his movement.
“It looks good,” he hums.
“That’s the goal.”
He purses his lips and studies me before sliding past, far closer than is necessary. Leaving me to stand awkwardly in this tension that has seen fit to become a stalemate. We really need to get out of this fucking cabin before I do something stupid.
Like sleep with him.