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“I don’t know,” I mutter.
He turns to me, an intense stare pinning me in place, shaking his head slowly. “Yes, you do,” he says. “Look at this work. Look at the care you’ve taken. I’m no art expert, but it’s brilliant, Lia.”
His words shouldn’t be able to send soft tingles dancing through my body, but they do anyway. I try to remember what he said last time: I’m too good for him, too pure like he’s some terrible man or something. Does he already have a girlfriend, maybe?
“Thank you.”
“So?” he prompts.
I sigh, then tell him the truth, though I know it could upset him. What if he freaks, and it costs me my job? “I’m not sure,” I mutter. “It’s not a conscious thing… I don’t think through it step by step. I just follow…”
“Your muse?” he says, smirking.
“You’re making fun of me.”
He reaches out and takes both my hands. In my mind, a painting flairs to life of us standing like this under an altar. What thehell? I force that away but don’t let go of his hands. I squeeze them tighter, feeling his strength, his warmth. After three days, it ignites something hot and urgent in me.
“I’m not,” he says seriously. “I’m impressed. I’ve watched you walk over here every day with that determined, cute look on your face.”
I turn away from him, hating the blush that rises in my cheeks. “I’m notcute.”
When he touches my face, everything gets ten times warmer. There’s this throbbing in my core, deep down. “You are,” he says. “Even if you don’t want to be.”
Just like last time, I put my hand on his chest. But this time, I’m just about able to push him away before he can lean in for a kiss. It takes so much effort. My sex gets hot and demanding, just like it has every night, telling me to touch him, kiss him, be with him, let him make me his.
“You can’t just show up and kiss me anytime you want,” I say, but my hand is still on his chest. I can still feel the pounding of his heart and the heat of his hard muscles.
“What if I can tell you want it?” he says fiercely, wrapping his hand around mine, pushing it firmer against his chest like he doesn’t want any space between us.
“Just because I want it,” I tell him, “doesn’t make it okay. I think with myhead, Dimitri, not with… anything else.”
Not with my sex. My lust. My wetness. My nipples send even more pleasure coursing through me every time they brush against my bra.
“Let’s grab a bite, then,” he says, dropping my hand and stepping back.
I ignore the disappointment—I still want the kiss, even if it’s probably a bad idea—and then shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He chuckles. “Are you kidding me, Lia? I was watching you paint for at least five minutes.”
Self-consciously, I move my hand over my belly. “Did I make that much noise?”
“Don’t do that,” he says, nodding at my hand. “You don’t need to be embarrassed with me.”
“Those sounds are hardly attractive.”
His smirks come easily for a man who recently attended his father’s funeral. Maybe that’s because of our special connection. “So you want me to find you attractive, do you?”
I fold my arms. “Nope.”
He laughs. “That just makes you even sexier.”
“What does?”
“You folding your arms like that…” He moves closer again, his whole body trembling slightly. I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. Sure, I’ve never felt wanted, full stop, but I never desired that. I never dreamed of anybody looking at me like this until I felt it, and Dimitri noticed I existed. “It highlights your perfect, curvy body.”
I try not to let him see how much this compliment means to me. The fact that he not only notices my curviness but thinks it’s agoodthing is so hot to me. It’s wild.
He reaches out and touches my hips. “We both know we’re not leaving here until you kiss me.”
