Page 18 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

He laughed, low and startled, the sound warming the air between them. “A sensible rabbit, then. Be easy, Red. You are here to work, and no one in this house will force you to do what you do not wish.”

She found herself believing him. “I am glad to hear it.”

A pair of servants entered with quiet efficiency, carrying an easel, a stool, palettes, brushes, and small stoppered bottles of oil. They set everything by a tall screen where the light fell most kindly, adjusted a lamp, and withdrew. Rebecca reappeared just long enough to approve the arrangement with a glance, then inclined her head.

“You have the room,” Rebecca said. “Raine, when she is finished, send for me.”

He gave a lazy salute. “As you command.”

They left, the latch settling with a soft click that seemed louder than it was. Darcy was acutely aware of the hush, of the faint music thrumming through the walls, of the heat in her own cheeks.

He took up a glass for himself and crossed the carpet with unhurried grace, stopping at a respectful distance. “You may position me where you like, Red.”

She moved to the easel, tested its legs for stability, and adjusted the angle. “By the chaise, if you please. The light falls well there.” Her voice sounded almost calm.

“As my artist commands.” He went to the velvet chaise and settled with practiced indolence, one arm along the back, shirt open at the throat. His gaze held hers, steady, faintly amused. “Better?”

She nodded, dipped her brush in oil, and primed the bristles. “Look at me as you did before,” Darcy said, surprising herself. “As if you intend to do something… wicked.”

He obliged, the corner of his mouth tilting, the rake’s mask sliding easily into place.

She set the first lines with care, blocking the shapes, mapping shadow and light. Her breath evened with the work. The act of seeing steadied her. He watched her watch him, and it felt like stepping onto a narrow bridge above a dizzying drop, thrilling and frightening her in equal measure.

“When I ask you to shift, please do so. When I ask you to hold still, do not move.”

“I am a model of obedience,” he said, his smile sharpening, beautiful and dangerous. “Then you will begin by painting my cock.”

She swallowed. “Your… cock?”

The earl looked as though he were fighting back deep amusement. He loosened the fall of his trousers and drew his manhood free. Darcy’s breath caught. She had never seen a man this way.

“Red, this is my cock.”

She parted her lips to claim she already knew, but thought better of offering a lie. Her breath caught instead, heat rushing to her cheeks as her gaze flicked downward before darting back. A hundred questions sparked in her mind, none of which she dared ask aloud. Curiosity tangled with a flustered thrill, but she held her ground, refusing to look away. When his hand closed around himself and slid once, slow and assured, something pulsed low in her belly in answer.

“I shall stroke my cock until I am sufficiently aroused for you to paint me.”

Darcy nodded, for truly, words had quite deserted her. Nevertheless, she endeavored to assume the composure of a woman perfectly accustomed to witnessing a gentleman in so intimate a state, rather than one whose thoughts had scattered in every conceivable direction.

Lord Raine settled deeper into the chaise, letting the shadows kiss his torso while the lamplight gilded the length in his palm. His thighs eased wider. His cock was thick and long, the skin flushed and satiny, the head sleek. He looked, in that quiet arrogance, like some pagan god at his ease.

As the heat faded from her cheeks, the artist in her stepped forward. She thought of marble, of the antique torsos in engravings she had studied by candlelight, and of the way light loved muscle and hollow. Only those sculptures had never told the whole truth. This did.

He watched her with narrowed eyes, pleasure and curiosity mingling. “Are you still steady, Red?”

“Quite steady,” she said, and was astonished to find it true. “You are, in fact, exquisite to paint.”

His grip tightened along the thick length of his cock. He tipped his head, so the lamp caught the upper half of his face, throwing his cheekbones into a fierce, elegant plane and leaving his mouth—curved in that sensual, knowing smirk—fully revealed. He looked devastatingly carnal, his beauty honed to a weapon, all indolent power and dark promise. This was how she wanted him on the canvas, how she needed him: wickedly at ease, shadow and light conspiring over skin, a pagan god reclining and entirely aware of his own allure.

She adjusted the easel a fraction of an inch and began to work. The first lines came quickly, confident strokes placing the geometry of him: the clean bracket of shoulder and arm, the strong angle of hip, the long column of thigh. She marked the fall of shadow where his ribs met his belly, the way the lamplight slid along the vein at his temple and found the ridge of his collarbone. She took the measure of his hand upon himself, the tension in the tendons of his wrist, the indulgent set of his mouth. He had the look of a man who knew every language of pleasure and when to speak each.

The earl did not fidget. His breath fell slow and even, though his fist tightened now and then on his cock, a small, provocative action in the stillness. She mixed a warmer tone and deepened the planes, her brush learning him as her eyes did. The room contracted to canvas and man, to pigment and skin. Music from the salon throbbed distantly like a human pulse; within the walls, there was only the soft drag of brush on ground and the whisper of his thumb moving.

“You are a rake,” Darcy said, almost startled that her thoughts had escaped aloud. “One of those wicked men mothers warn their daughters about.”

“Am I?” His voice was quiet.

She did not look up. “Yes. My canvas does not flatter, and it does not lie. You are indolent and dangerous. You have spent years perfecting this illusion of effortlessness, and you are beautiful enough to know precisely what it does to others. The sort of man who would ruin a woman and make her thank him for the lesson.”