Page 67 of She’s Worth the Risk

I nudge his shoulder, and he falls onto the sofa, looking up at me. Fire lights his eyes as I straddle him, my robe fluttering open around us.

“Do you know how badly I wanted you on this sofa during the blackout?” I ask, rocking against the erection I can feel growing in his jeans.

He gives me a look. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted you every single time we’ve been in this room?”

Oh, God.

“Nick,” I whisper urgently, hands straying to his belt buckle. “I need you.”

His brows climb his forehead. “Now?”

“Yes.”

It occurs to me that maybe being spontaneous will help him let go, and I tug his belt free, but his hands come to mine, stopping me. He kisses me softly, his expression pained.

“I want to, honey. God, I want to.” He hesitates, as if imagining how hot it would be, then clenches his jaw. “But not here.”

My breath trickles out, and I try to quell the disappointment rising inside me. After seeing him come alive in that class, it’s so frustrating that he’s still holding back with me. I can tell he wants to give in to this, but I think he’s scared. Scared of how good it feels.

How much it feels.

Reluctantly, I slide off his lap, but as I rise, he straightens, taking my hand.

“Have you been to the Museum of Modern Art?”

I smile, thinking of when I last went with Gran. “Not for years.”

“Would you like to go this weekend? I figure we’ve done the Met, so…” He shrugs, then adds, “What I’d really like to do is take you to dinner, but we probably shouldn’t do that together in public. At least at MoMA we could say we ran into each other if anyone saw us. We can’t hold hands or kiss or anything, but…”

“But we could be there together,” I finish, squeezing his hand. “That sounds great. I have plans with my friends in the morning to organize Violet’s baby shower, but I’m free after that.” I bite my lip. “So… it’s a date?”

“Yeah.” He looks at the floor, grinning to himself, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “If you’d like that.”

“I’d love that.” I rise on my toes, pressing my mouth to his.

And as I get dressed, I try not to think about how much this man is getting under my skin.

27

NICK

Zinnia and I agree to meet at MoMA at 3 p.m. on Saturday in front of Pollock’s One: Number 31. I figure it’s as good a place as any to “run into” a former student of mine, and while I wish I could walk through the front door proudly holding her hand, I know this is all I can have.

And in two weeks, I won’t even have that.

I spend the morning working on my syllabus for class next semester, but when I can no longer focus, I pull my sketchbook out again, looking at the drawing of Zinnia. This time, I can’t stop myself from picking up a pencil and sketching her from memory. The curve of her waist and hips, the way her hair fell across her bare shoulders in bed, her full lips. The more time I spend drawing her, the more restless I feel, and eventually I take myself to the gym. And as I think about the raw lust in Zinnia’s eyes when I pulled my shirt off on Wednesday night, my workout takes on an entirely different meaning.

At two, I shower and dress in dark jeans and a button-down, then take the subway uptown to avoid walking in the heat. My pulse thrums in anticipation as I flash my membership card at the front desk and take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. Zinnia is already there, standing in front of Pollock’s massive, messy canvas, head tilted in thought. The room is surprisingly quiet, and I hang back in the doorway just looking at her.

God, she’s beautiful. Her hair swept up in a bun high on her head, highlighting the gentle slope of her neck, a floral dress clinging to her generous curves. My hands tingle with the need to touch her, and all I can think about is how she wanted to have sex with me on the sofa in June’s studio, and I said no.

What the hell is wrong with me? She was ready and eager—and if the way she squirmed on my lap was any indication, wet—and I said no?

I grimace. I’d wanted nothing more than to bury myself inside her, but that nagging sense of unease had kept me in check. It’s hovered around me the past few days, reminding me how easy it is to make a fool of myself in front of Zinnia if I’m not careful. That’s why I suggested meeting here, knowing I couldn’t do something stupid.

That, and my apartment is awfully close to campus. I’m terrified someone I know will see her on my doorstep.

But as I gaze at her now, part of me wishes I’d just invited her there.