Page 12 of She’s Worth the Risk

The timer sounds, and I drop the pose, rolling my shoulders. Nick announces that we’re taking a break before the final pose of the evening, and I sigh, pulling on my robe. I grab a glass of wine from the refreshments table, taking a sip, as a couple of people approach. Ruth, the woman who was so supportive of me in the first class, and a guy whose name tag says Gary. He’s in his sixties, with a bristly mustache, a thick midsection, and I’m pretty sure I pick up a gay vibe.

“How are you getting on?” Gary asks, taking a plastic cup from the table. “Can’t be easy holding those poses for so long.”

I shrug. “It’s not so bad.” I glance between them, wondering if they’ve picked up on the tension radiating from Nick. As if reading my thoughts, Ruth leans closer.

“Our instructor seems a little… irritated this evening,” she observes.

Gary snorts into his wine. “He was like that last time, too. The guy needs to loosen up and relax.”

I smother a smile, glancing at Nick again. He’s standing at the bay window, arms folded as he looks at the street below, his shoulders up by his ears. What would relaxed Nick be like? At the coffee shop earlier, he wasn’t relaxed. Far from it. And that’s when I had my clothes on. God, imagine if I’d removed my panties?

Gradually, everyone settles back into their seats, and I wait in the center of the room, wearing the robe. Nick hovers for a moment, as if considering something, then fetches a folding chair and places it on the pedestal.

“Sit here,” he tells me gruffly. He seems to catch himself, realizing he’s edging from blunt into straight-up rude, and drags his eyes to mine. “Please.”

“Of course.” I hold his gaze as I let the robe slide down my shoulders and settle on the floor. His nostrils flare, and his chest rises and falls as I sink onto the chair and gaze up at him, awaiting my next instruction.

“Cross your right leg. Elbow on the back of the chair.”

I do as I’m told, waiting for him to look away, but he doesn’t. A thrill zaps through me, especially when he realizes he’s staring, pulling his brow low and wrenching his gaze away.

But I can’t take my eyes off him as he paces the perimeter like a caged animal. There’s a room full of people looking at me in the nude, and all I can see is him. I’ve never been more aware of a man’s gaze, where it lands, how hard he’s trying to stop it from straying to me. How long can he pretend he’s unaffected?

Ruth waves him over, motioning to her sketch with a low murmur, and Nick blows out a breath, lowering himself to his knees beside her. As she talks, I watch him fumble with the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them absently to his elbows. He rakes a hand through the rumpled waves of his hair, as if he’s exhausted and wrung out. At last, he has no choice but to bring his gaze back to me, and I strain my ears to make out what he’s saying.

“See how… this part… extends and curves here?”

Ruth frowns. “Which part?”

Nick presses his eyes shut. “Her bust,” he grates out, like he can’t bring himself to say breasts. Or, God forbid, tits. Would Nick ever call them tits? I bet he doesn’t even think the word tits. I try to imagine him in the throes of passion, saying something dirty like, Put your tits in my face, but the image won’t form in my head. Honestly, I can’t even imagine him in the throes of passion.

He rises from beside Ruth to stalk the room again, pausing as he examines someone’s sketch. His gaze lifts to me, but instead of raking over me with unbridled lust like I want it to, he seems to be focused on my hand, draped across the back of the chair.

His brow pinches in agitation as he steps forward. “Soften your wrist.”

“My wrist?” I glance down, confused. “I thought I was?”

“No, you’re…” He sighs, hand hovering above mine. “May I?”

It takes a second to realize what he’s asking, and my heart skitters. “Of course.”

His fingers brush my skin, the briefest touch easing the tension from my wrist, but it sends awareness racing through me. He’s close enough that I get a hint of his scent, some kind of cologne that’s clean and fresh and masculine. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and he notices, eyes locking with mine. The black of his pupils eclipses the soft denim blue of his irises, and in response, my breathing accelerates. I run my tongue across my bottom lip, watching as his gaze falls to it, before he straightens quickly, yanking off his glasses to rub his eye with the back of his wrist, as if to rub away my image.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he grits out, shoving his glasses back on. A few murmurs break out among the class about finishing early, but Nick strides to the window, jamming his hands into his pockets, and people reluctantly pack up their belongings.

Shit.

I tug on my robe, feeling bad as I wave goodbye to Ruth and Gary, and a few other members of the class. Is this my fault? Nick was uncomfortable last class, sure, but today was even worse. Maybe if I hadn’t removed my bra, today’s session would have gone better? He did say figure studies usually involve nudity. But that’s not what motivated me today. Did I push him too far?

I begin folding the easels and stacking them on the wall, wanting to help. June never asked me to pack up, but I don’t have anywhere else to be. Besides, I’m desperate to speak to Nick.

Nick, however, seems desperate to do anything but speak to me. He keeps his back turned as he drags the pedestal away. I can’t explain why, but panic zips through me at the thought of him leaving like this, and I grasp for something to say.

“I looked up the painting you mentioned.”

He freezes.

“It’s breathtaking.”