Page 37 of She’s Worth the Risk

A laugh rumbles in my chest as we rise from our tables, and I’m reminded of what Ruth said a couple of weeks ago—maybe he’s human after all. It makes me think of Marcus, the man I viewed as the epitome of composure and discipline, kissing his fiancée as if there was no one else around. Losing himself in the moment.

Maybe I’m more like him than I thought.

And as we head out the door laughing, I realize that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

16

ZINNIA

Life-drawing class is better than ever. I’ve never seen Nick so loose, so at ease. I mean, he’s still Nick, so it’s not like he’s drinking wine and cracking jokes or anything, but he’s still got his shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing those deliciously corded forearms, his hair rumpled and carefree as he wanders the room, leisurely chatting to students.

He’s so relaxed that Ruth pulls me aside on our break, lips twitching as she sips red wine from a plastic cup. “What do you think the story is there?” she asks, gesturing to Nick, chuckling at something Bernice says across the room.

I bite back a smile, adjusting the tie on my robe. “No idea.”

But I like to think I have some idea. That maybe, just maybe, he’s loosened up a little because of me.

Our conversation from Joe’s is still fresh in my mind. The way a curse slipped out when he realized we were running late. The way he laughed, sheepishly admitting to it.

The way he told me not to call him Professor.

I’m hot and bothered just thinking about it. The look in his eye when I asked him what he saw when he looked at me on that pedestal. He did his best to hide it, but I saw.

And God, it makes me want him.

By the time life-drawing class wraps up, I’m restless. I’m sure Nick feels the tension between us. I’m sure he knows that I want him, that he could have me in a heartbeat if he asked.

And I’m sure he won’t.

Why did I have to agree to summer school? If I’d only met Nick through life drawing, I might have had a shot. But now that I’m his student at NYU, it’s never going to happen.

Still, I can’t bring myself to regret attending his class. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have remembered all the things I love about art. I’ve been thinking about what Iris said, about how I do have a passion—for art. For the first time, I wonder if she could be right.

If only I could have the man who inspired it, too.

I help Nick pack up the easels at the end of the night, somehow feeling both full and hollow. Talking with him this afternoon—really talking—has me on a high better than anything I smoked in high school. But knowing that’s all I’ll ever get from him? That sucks. Because there’s so much more to this man beneath the surface. So much he tries to keep safely hidden away.

And I ache to touch it.

Instead, I walk briskly home, lock myself in my room at Gran’s, and touch myself.

Falling onto the bed, I tug my skirt up and slip my hand into my panties, picturing him. I should work on my assignment because it’s due tomorrow, but I can’t get Nick out of my head. I think of the adorable way his face reddened when I asked him if it was strange to be around a nude model, the way he pulled off his glasses as if he himself didn’t want to be seen.

What would it be like to kiss him? My fingers slide through my slickness, imagining it. He’d be tentative at first, not sure where to put his hands, glasses askew. But I’d show him what I wanted, how I like to be touched. I’d show him he doesn’t have to hold back with me.

Heat builds in my core as I imagine him tossing his glasses aside and kissing me hard, finally taking what he wants. That mouth of his, so used to talking about beauty and art and love, would feel it too.

A whimper escapes me as I imagine him climbing above me, the heat of his skin on mine. I work my fingers across my throbbing clit, picturing the silky steel of him in my hand, knowing how he’d like to be stroked, what would make that gorgeous mouth of his curse again.

“Fuck, Zinnia,” he’d choke out. “Yes, like that. Don’t stop.”

And then, when I’d gotten him worked up, he’d beg to be inside me. He’d beg for the thing he knows he’s not allowed to want.

“I need you,” he’d say breathlessly. “Please, baby. I need to feel that pussy wrapped around my cock.”

Fuck.

Thinking of straight-laced, ultra-composed Nick saying something so filthy is too much. My orgasm rips through me in a flash of sensation, and I writhe on the bed, legs kicking against the comforter, pleasure momentarily eclipsing the pain of knowing I’ll never be with him for real.