Temptation’s Edge (30 page)

“All done,” she told him.

Can’t even think those words.

“Ah, good. Let’s go look in the mirror.”

She followed him into the bathroom and handed him the hand mirror she kept in her kit, which he held up so he could see the reflection of his back in the enormous pewter-framed mirror over the sink. She looked with him, over his shoulder—or rather, around it. Enjoyed the heavy muscles there, the way they flexed as he shifted position, as much as the tattoo she’d done.

“This is amazing.” There was real awe in his tone. “Better
than I could have imagined. Odd how it all seems to come together in a new way, now that it’s completed. Except that I see the same thing in my own work, at times. No matter how you imagine it, how the lines flow together while you’re working on it, the final product has some magic all its own.”

“I feel that way about my work a lot. It’s never really complete until it’s finished. Not even the image in my head.”

“Yes, exactly.” He put the mirror down on the edge of the sink, leaned in and pressed a kiss on her forehead, which was achingly sweet to her. “Thank you. It’s beyond beautiful.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leaned back against the counter, staring down at her. His expression was dark. Unreadable. “I like that we understand each other. That we’re both artists, of a sort. Not that what I do equals your work in any way.”

“Of course it does. I don’t understand when you say that.”

“Contracted work is not art.”

“But it is. And that’s what I do most of the time, anyway. My clients give me specifics that I have to follow. It’s still art because it’s our interpretation of the image. It’s our artistic voice that goes into it every time.”

“Hmm, I suppose you’re right. I don’t usually think of it that way. I guess…that I feel there’s some value taken away because I get paid to do it.”

“Sounds like some latent guilt to me,” she teased, their easy banter helping her to relax.

“Well, I was raised in the Catholic church, so the guilt goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

“So I’ve heard.”

His expression had shifted as they talked, and now his eyes were sparkling a lovely deep green, the golden highlights gleaming.

“Mischa. Let me draw you,” he asked suddenly.

“Okay.”

“Now.”

She laughed. “Now?”

He pulled her into him, kissed her hard, his mouth sweet and firm. He pulled back. “Come on. The light is perfect at sunrise. And there are all these windows…”

She laughed again. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

It made her heart soar a little that he’d asked to draw her. She remembered the first time he’d brought it up. She’d been excited about the prospect then, too. And now her body was heating up at the idea of stripping down for him, sitting perfectly still in exactly the way he wanted her to. There was something submissive in the act, she thought. But it was also just very simply sexy as hell.

They went back into the living room and she lent him one of her drawing pads, some charcoal pencils.

“Take off your clothes,” he said with a small nod of his chin. “I turned up the heat; I don’t want you to chill.”

She stripped down, tilting her head as he stared at her. She loved the way he was looking at her, his gaze appraising, but in a way it never had been before. She imagined he was taking in the lines of her body, her face, his eyes catching where the light and shadow hit. And was acutely aware when his gaze lingered on her bare breasts, the naked vee between her thighs. She grew wet again just having him look at her this way. Being naked. Feeling more naked than she did when they were about to have sex. When he was going to spank her. This was more like it had been when she was naked at the Pleasure Dome, that same sort of thrill of exhibitionism, even though he had, of course, looked at her naked before. It didn’t quite make sense, even in her own head. All she knew was that this felt different. That it felt amazing.

“Beautiful,” he said. “We’ll do one of you standing first, just like that, by the windows. That’s perfect, with the morning light coming in from behind you. A quick sketch. I won’t leave you on your feet for too long. I want you to take a deep breath, relax. Yes, with one knee bent, so that your weight is resting on the other leg. Let your arms hang at your sides and tilt your chin a bit. Perfect. Hold it right there.”

The pencil was already moving as he spoke. He drew in quick bursts, looking at her carefully then glancing down at the pad of paper. And she stood there, motionless as a statue, something surging in her at the effort it took to hold still. At the yielding in her body, her mind. In doing what he wanted of her.

He was true to his word; he sketched for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes before he told her to sit down on the sofa.

He came to stand over her, and she noticed the smear of the charcoal on the fingertips of his right hand.

“Let’s lay you back a bit. Yes, lean on your elbows. And one knee up.” He used his hands to position her leg exactly where he wanted it, and his touch was like a small frisson of flame on her skin. “How long can you hold your head back? I want you in a pose of ecstasy, your head thrown back, if you can. I want your hair sweeping the surface of the sofa.”

“I can hold it,” she told him, feeling a sense of pride. She
would
do it.

“Excellent.”

He was drawing again, crouching on the floor, then standing, looking at her from different positions. And to her amazement he paused now and then to touch her, running his hand down her calf, or over the shape of her foot, her hip, her belly. And finally he touched his fingertips to her jaw, her lips.

She was shaking. Not with fatigue, although she felt that, too. But with a simmering need for him. She was a little out of her
head from not sleeping. But it was also that this time together was dreamlike, with the misty morning light casting a pale white and golden glow everywhere in the room. Over her body, tipping the rise of her breasts and belly. She thought of the way the ocean around San Francisco looked in the morning, at times, the crest of the waves tipped in fog-shrouded light. How soft this sort of light was. And she felt soft all over—her body. Her
self.

She wasn’t even quite sure what she meant. Maybe that the hard shell she’d created for herself as protection was…melting away. And because she knew that even now, while Connor was drawing her rather than spanking her, being in those active roles, she was just as much
in his hands
. And it was where she wanted to be.

“Mischa, let’s have your head back up, now.”

He placed one hand on the back of her neck, smoothed it upward, beneath her hair, making her shiver, helping her to raise her head. “Are you cold, darlin’?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. It was all she could do.

“All right, then.” He took a step back, then another. “Look at me. Tilt your chin down, but let’s have your gaze on me. Ah, so sleepy,” he murmured. “Sexy as hell, the look in your eyes.”

He moved back in, swept her hair away from her face, paused with his hand on her cheek. She closed her eyes, absorbing the heat of his hand. His hand was replaced with his lips, and he trailed small, fiery kisses over her jaw, down the side of her neck. Her nipples came up hard, her clit pulsing.

“Oh, you are too tempting,” he said, his voice husky, his accent a heavy rolling on his tongue.

He brushed his fingers over her breasts, circling the nipples for a moment, making them ache. Then he lowered his hand between
her thighs and pressed on her clitoris. Her eyes flew open and she caught his gaze on her face as he stroked her wet cleft.

“Love that you’re always so ready. So wet.” Keeping his gaze on hers, he drew his fingers to his lips, slipped them briefly into his mouth. “Love the taste of you. Pure honey, it is.”

She moaned, her lashes fluttering. He was killing her.

“Connor…”

“Shh. You’re going to lie perfectly still and let me draw you before I fuck you again. Oh yes. Don’t question it, my girl. If you had a free hand I’d have you feel how rock hard I am for you. But I will wait until I’m done with this. Until I’ve captured you on paper. Tell me, do you want me to fuck you, Mischa?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Connor,” she said quietly. “I want you to fuck me. Hard, the way you do.”

He laughed, a raw, sensual sound. “I will. Don’t doubt it, darlin’.”

When he got up and moved back she watched him, his big body graceful, the hard ridge of his erection straining against his jeans.

She was soaking wet. Her body, her mind, buzzing.

Love you.

She couldn’t say it aloud. But she could think it. And at this moment, there was nothing in her that was able to fight it.

He kept moving around the room, turning over pages on the tablet, starting a new sketch, then very quickly going to another page once more. After a while she came to see there was a rhythm to his movements, to the way he changed positions, drew from different angles. And she sank into that rhythm, very much in the same way she did when he was spanking or flogging her.

Eventually he said to her, “Turn over, Mischa.”

“What?”

“A little spaced, are you? It happens. And I like to see you this way. In fact, it’s perfect for what I have in mind.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

But before she got an answer he’d flipped her over onto her stomach as if she weighed nothing in his big hands, and started to spank her.

“Oh!”

He didn’t say a word, just kept up a hard, punishing pace, his palms coming down on her hot flesh until her buttocks were on fire. And need burned just as brightly between her thighs.

He stopped and she swore she heard his panting breath as he slipped a hand between her thighs, swiped at her juices, making her pussy clench.

“Must draw you now, with your ass this beautiful shade of pink.”

She stayed where she was on her stomach on the sofa, holding her upper body up, braced on her elbows. Her breasts brushed the suede surface, the upholstery soft on her engorged nipples. If only he would take a moment to touch them, pinch them…

But soon enough she was falling into that easy pattern of breath and stillness, giving herself over. Her head hummed, her eyes half-lidded in the fog-clouded light coming through the windows, invading her mind like a veil. Time passed, but she’d lost track. It didn’t seem to matter.

“Mischa,” he said finally.

“Hmm?”

“It’s time.”

Suddenly he was behind her, his naked hips pressing against her still-sore buttocks, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her to her knees. Then he was parting her thighs with his knees, sliding the tip of his sheathed cock between her swollen
pussy lips. She loved how he did this, took her by surprise. Started right in on her with no warning. It was too good.

“Connor…”

“Going to fuck you, my girl. Going to drive in hard. Take a breath.”

She obeyed, trembling all over, going wetter, impossibly. He ground home with one thrust.

“Ah, God, Connor.”

He pulled back, slung his hips and arched into her, his heavy cock filling her, hot and pulsing. Pleasure was like an arc of lightning, searing her. Shocking her.

She pushed back against him, taking him deep. His hands came up to cup her breasts, his fingers tugging on her nipples as he fucked her. His cock was a solid shaft of velvety flesh. Desire was like some radiant light, insinuating itself in every fiber. Pleasure came from every direction at once: her pussy, her nipples, even from his hips grinding against her body. It was his scent, his skin.

It built, potent, undeniable. And finally, irresistible as her climax came crashing down on her. The light filled her mind, dazzling her as she came.

“Connor! Oh…”

“Darlin’, yes…yes…come for me. Christ, I’m coming, my girl. Ah…”

He arched into her, driving her orgasm on. And even through the condom she felt the heat, the power, of his climax. Then his big body shaking, the panting heat of his breath in her hair.

“Ah!”

It was a primal sound, an animal sound of exquisite pleasure. She knew it, felt it reverberate deep in her body.

He slipped out of her, dragging her with him until they were lying together on the sofa, Connor behind her, spooning her.
She felt loose all over, relaxed. Trusting that they were on the same page. That she didn’t need to question what was happening between them.

They’d had a strange and amazing night, unlike any experience she’d had with a man. She was exhausted, limp. Too tired to question any of it, as she normally would. And maybe, just once, that was a good thing. For now she would simply enjoy Connor’s big body solid behind hers. The way he’d looped one arm around her waist, his hand splayed across her stomach, his hold possessive.

Yes, for once in her life, she was ready to let go the rein she always held so tightly. On her life. On herself. On her heart. She was ready.

With that thought, that trust, in her mind, she closed her eyes against the pale light of morning, and slept.

Connor opened his eyes, guessed from the angle of the sun coming through the windows that they’d slept no more than an hour or two. Mischa’s breath was a quiet rhythm. She was still asleep. So soft beside him. So perfect in his arms he could barely breathe.

His pulse ratcheted up, his heart beating out a frantic cadence against the cage of his ribs.

He had to get up.

He shook his head, rubbed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t calm himself.

He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb her. But he was desperate to get up, to get some distance between them. Some space to think. To breathe. When he managed to get up from the sofa, she sighed, her eyes still closed, and rolled onto her back. He stood and stared at her. She was that fucking beautiful. She was that good.

Too good for the likes of him.

He shook his head. Ran a hand over the short stubble of his hair.

Fucking idiot, to fall for this girl. To let things go this far.

His heart was a small hammer in his chest, growing larger by the moment.