Chapter 24
PIPER
“Hey.”
Brody’s voice startles me, and I glance up to see his head poking around the bedroom door.
I’ve been so focused on the drawing I was making of him that now, seeing the real thing, my brain short-circuits and words fail me.
“Earth to Piper Locke?”
“Oh, um, sorry!” I gesture at the tablet on my lap. “I was …”
He closes the door behind him. “Can I see?”
Nervous excitement whooshes from my belly to my cheeks. “It’s not finished,” I hedge, then show it to him.
“Holy shit! That’s incredible!”
His genuine delight and astonishment fill me with champagne bubbles of pride. “You like it?”
“I love it. Wow, this is fucking hot.”
I’ve drawn him as a smoldering elf lord, one hand braced on a stone arch as he leans down to gaze at an elf princess who might, perhaps, look a little like me. His other hand rests on my, I mean, her back, the flowing dress bunched up as if he’s about to pull it off completely.
“You should post it to your art account.”
“Do you think it would help get you the job?”
“No idea, but that’s not the point. You should post it for yourself. I mean, look at this. It’s awesome.”
“I wanted to use my charcoal pencils, but I didn’t bring any of my art supplies with me.”
Brody looks from the tablet back to me. “You’re so talented. You’ve got a gift. I mean, I’d do elf me and I’m as straight as they come.”
I laugh.
“Actually, I’m Pi-sexual,” he continues.
“What?”
He places the tablet on the bed, crouches in front of me, and takes my hands. “I’m Piper-sexual. I’m only attracted to you.”
“Does that make me ‘Bro-sexual’?”
He grins. “Hope so.”
We smile at each other, the air seeming to hum with happiness. Then Brody breaks away and digs into one of his bags.
“I know it’s early,” he says, pulling several wrapped packages from the bottom and handing them to me. “But I do like giving you what you want.”
I turn them over in my hands. “You got me Christmas presents. A lot of them.”
“I didn’t know what to get, so I guessed. And Cara helped me.”
“But I haven’t gotten you anything yet,” I say, my stomach tightening. “I didn’t know what you would like. I thought I might find something in town.”
He takes my hand again, rubbing his thumb over the back. “You don’t need to give me anything. You’ve already given me the greatest gift of my life. You.”
His gaze is so sincere, so pure, so full of love, I blink as my eyes prick with emotion.
“Now go on, open up.”
I rip the paper, squealing when I reveal pencils, pens, a watercolor block, brushes, pads, pastels, and artist erasers. “Brody! These brands are the best!”
His smile lights up his face. “They’re okay then?”
“Yes! They’re amazing!” I give him a pointed look. “Did you go into the shop and ask for a selection of the most expensive things they sell?”
Spots of color appear on his cheekbones. “I asked for their advice.”
I stroke the boxes and tins. “Well, they steered you right. I can’t wait to use them. Thank you.”
My brain buzzes. I’m like a child on Christmas morning, given everything I asked for and more. I’m torn between ripping Brody’s clothes off or tearing the cellophane off the art supplies on my lap.
“Do you want to draw a picture now?” he asks. “Maybe I could model for you?”
“Would you? Really?”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“Eek! Okay, I’ve had this idea …” I leap out of the chair, sit him down, then pull the sheepskin rug over and place it under his feet.
“I want to draw you as the Emberking of Draventhorne on his throne. It’s at the coronation after the Battle of Ashmyre, and he’s at the peak of his powers.”
Pulling open my closet doors, I find a blanket on the top shelf and drape it over Brody’s shoulders, arranging the fabric so it billows to the ground like a cloak.
“You can talk, to begin with,” I continue. “Just try to stay still.”
At the back of my closet is my old field hockey stick. I pass it to him. “Hold that in your left hand like it’s a sword. And …”
I pull a tub of moisturizer from my wash bag. “Hold this in your other hand like it’s the orb of Veyruyne.”
“How did you draw all the other pictures when you didn’t have a model?”
“I had to use my imagination, so it took much longer. This will be a breeze by comparison.”
I can’t hide my excitement as I settle on the corner of the bed and rip the plastic wrap off a large pad of cardstock.
“Why did you choose that one?”
“It’s got a very fine grain, and even though I’m going to be drawing partly in charcoal, which is a bit messy, I want the edges of the lines to be relatively clean. You’ll see what I mean when I’m done.”
“So. I’m in the right pose now?”
“Yep, perfect. I’m going to sketch very lightly first.”
I select a soft pencil, my gaze flicking between Brody and the pad. Having him here, actually in front of me, is a gift: the difference between climbing a mountain in flip-flops and whizzing up in a cable car.
My hand moves quickly over the paper, outlining the pose.
“How did it go with Ethan?” I ask, picking up a charcoal pencil.
Brody lets out a long breath. “I didn’t realize quite how bad he was.”
“I’m so sorry. We’re used to it. I should have warned you.”
“I nearly had a heart attack when he opened the front door.”
I pull a face. “That photo is … I don’t know. Not how we remember Olivia.”
“No. It’s so severe. Like she’s watching and judging.”
My hand slows. “We call the house the ‘shrine.’”
“Martha told me she overheard Eleanor and Garrett calling it that too.”
“Fuck.” I meet his gaze. “They want Ethan to stop punishing himself more than anyone. It wasn’t his fault Olivia died.”
“I can’t see him changing his mind about that. He’s so … so black and white about it all.”
“It’ll take a miracle to get him out of it.”
“Or a miracle woman?”
I smile. “Hideaway Harbor’s the home of miracles and true love, so let’s cross our fingers.”
“We could go to the spring and make a wish on his behalf?”
“I’d like that.”
My hand returns to drawing, adding detail. I’ve never created a picture this fast, but having Brody model for me makes it easy. I sketch a faded background of Khaldu?n Hall’s throne room behind him, keeping the contrast low so it doesn’t compete with the central figure.
I leave his face until last so we can talk. It’s so easy, chatting with him, like two parts of a puzzle that always fit together, no matter what.
“I’m going to draw the details of your face now,” I say. “So, if you could keep still, that would be great.”
“What kind of expression do you want?”
“You’ve just been victorious at the Battle of Ashmyre and know that no one dares oppose you. I want you to look at me like you know the power you have over me.”
He raises an eyebrow, and my whole face flushes.
“Your wish is my command,” he replies in a British accent, and my pencil immediately slips out of my hand onto the bed.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath as I pick it back up and force myself to concentrate on the drawing.
But when I glance up from the paper to his face, the look in his eyes makes my fingers shake. His expression is so intense, so hot, I feel like I might combust on the spot.
“Is this working for you?” Brody continues in a British accent.
“Oh my god, yes!” I exhale heavily, fanning my face. “But if you keep that up, I won’t be able to finish the drawing.”
“If you’re experiencing a discomforting rise in body temperature,” he says, sounding like the Earl of Fuck-Me-Now Abbey, “then perhaps you should disrobe.”
I tug my sweater off and toss it to the bed.
Fire flashes in Brody’s eyes. “Good girl.”
His words hit my clit like a spark.
“Look,” I say, my voice trembling, “just give me five minutes to finish this before you reduce me to a puddle.”
He nods, still eye-fucking me, and I look down, blinking at the drawing as I try to focus.
Brody stays silent, and I manage to stay detached enough to finish the picture.
It’s the best one I’ve ever done. It has a vitality and energy none of the others possess.
Maybe only I can tell what makes this picture so good, but it doesn’t matter.
All I know is I’ve never been this excited about my art before.
Now, with the best model in the world, anything is possible.
I clear the bed, then pass the drawing to Brody so he can see it.
His eyes widen as he takes it in. “Fucking hell, Piper. This is … wow.”
“Don’t touch it. I need to spray it with fixative first.”
“I didn’t get you any.”
“We can get some in town tomorrow. I’m just going to wash my hands.”
I slip into the corridor before he can grab me and head to the bathroom to clean up.
Staring at my lust-drunk features in the mirror, all I can think about is Brody’s thick cock driving deep inside me. My hands tremble as I dry them on a towel. Taking a steadying breath, I walk calmly back to the bedroom.
The main lights are off, the room illuminated by three candles on the dresser and the colored lights from the neighboring houses that dance across the far wall.
Brody is still seated in the chair, but the blanket, hockey stick, and tub of cream are gone.
His legs are spread, his hands resting on his muscular thighs.
My pulse pounds through my body, from my throat to my pussy. I want him so much.
“My lady,” Brody begins in a cultured rumble, “you’re late.”
His voice has always done something to my insides, but in a British accent? Hoo-ee, I’m done for.
I swallow. “I apologize, my lord. What would you have me do?”
His gaze roams over me possessively, as if he owns every inch of me and I exist solely to satisfy his needs.
“Disrobe,” he says. “Slowly.”
My fingertips feel like fire as I undo the tiny buttons down the front of my top. My breath quickens as I glance at Brody’s hands, the tendons flexing as if it takes all his willpower to keep them still.