The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction) (21 page)

“Take your pants off,” she said. Today, he wasn’t the man she’d loved who had broken her heart. Today he was the model, her canvas. That was it. “Okay, I’m ready…”

Damn
.

Her breath echoed in her head like a roaring wave, and sweat prickled her skin, her palms. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen him naked. But God, it’d been ten long days since she’d laid eyes on him, and he was simply…beautiful. Standing there in the middle of a gallery showroom in boxer briefs, he was a work of art. He didn’t need her paints to bring him to life. Wide shoulders, a hard, muscled chest, ridged abdomen, and thighs that seemed to ripple with strength even though he stood still. Even his feet were masculine perfection. As an artist, she’d seen men naked before, had drawn them. But as much as she tried to convince herself, he wasn’t a simple model, a blank sheet she would create on. He was Aiden.

And for the next few hours, he was hers. To touch. To shape into something that was created and made for her, by her. To control.

If only for a little while.

“I need you to stand over here.” She pointed to a drop cloth in front of the wall. Once he complied, she picked up her sketch pad and flipped to the page, although she knew the image by heart. She shifted her gaze to Aiden and was once again struck by his strength and power. And as he stood there, silent, ready for her instructions, with that emerald gaze watching every move she made, it struck her that he was submitting all of that strength and power to her.

Hope—that wily bitch—had her throat tightening. Because for a man who helmed a Fortune 500 company, control was important. Even more so, for a man who came from the background they did, it was vital. And he was giving it to her. Getting bare for her. What did it mean?

Stop playing armchair psychologist and get to work
.

Right. Clearing her throat, she pulled up her stool, selected a brush with a thin tip and got to work. Minutes, then an hour, passed. Then another hour. She got lost in him—in them. Every stroke of her brush was like a caress, every line drawn a kiss. And though he remained absolutely still, she caught Aiden’s harsh inhales, the flexing of his muscles as the thin, soft bristles swept over his skin. The thick column of his cock, hardly camouflaged by his boxer briefs, lengthened, hardened. And yet, he remained motionless just as she’d ordered him to.

Teasing. Foreplay. Though her concentration was on her job, she couldn’t stop her breasts from aching, her nipples from tightening…her sex from moistening. Preparing itself for him. Only for him.

She leaned back, inserting distance between them on the pretext of stretching her back and rolling her shoulders. Narrowing her eyes on the image emerging over Aiden’s chest and abdomen, she almost shook her head. She’d planned on painting the Serengeti at sunset. But somewhere between the first stroke and her last, the drawing shifted. As if of its own accord, her hand had started creating something different, off plan.

A white, brown, and black muzzle. Hazel eyes. A proud, majestic face. The lion she’d pictured and sketched for him.

“It’s gorgeous, Noelle,” Aiden murmured, the first words he’d spoken since she’d started painting.

She flicked a glance up at him. “Thank you.” Strange how her soul knew what she would paint before her brain did. This lion wasn’t what she’d planned, but it was perfect.

“I miss you.”

She jerked her head up at the soft admission, her brush hovering over his pec. Closing her eyes, she exhaled, willing her pulse to slow. Willing her heart to get a grip. She forced her gaze back to his chest and dipped her brush into the paint again.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he rasped.

“No. I’m not doing this,” she said, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone before she iced it out. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to think—”

“Then tell me how to do it, too,” he insisted, his voice hushed, rough. “Tell me how not to think of you, smell you on my sheets, my skin, feel you against me. Because I can’t stop wanting you there beside me, keeping me warm. Reminding me that I’m human, alive. That I’m capable of feeling, of trusting. Of loving.”

“Why?” she whispered, after finding her voice, confused and more than a little rocked. What did he mean? What was his agenda? “It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen or heard from you. Why now?”

“Because I love you.”

The stark, bald statement seemed to echo in the room. It resonated in her ears, her heart, her chest. She shook her head.

“I love you,” he repeated.

“Really?” She huffed out a hard, bitter chuckle. “When did you figure that out? Day two? Day seven? An hour ago? I told you I loved you, and you said nothing.
Nothing
.” The hurt poured out of her as she set her paintbrush down on the table with a trembling hand. Days, hours, minutes of replaying that last conversation over and over in her head. Of her humbling herself, and him saying he was sorry.
Sorry
.

“You were right,” he said, his tone quiet. Solemn. “I was a coward. I was so afraid of letting another woman close again. Of being hurt. Lied to. Of feeling that I wasn’t good enough. But you aren’t another woman. You’re the self-sacrificing woman who cared for her ailing father, putting aside her own goals to take care of someone she loved. You’re the bold, heroic person who braved the lion’s den to fight for her future. You’re the woman with an amazing artist’s soul who sees beauty and kindness in a world that can be so ugly and mean. You’re a loving, courageous woman who was fearless enough to tell a man so unworthy of her love that she wanted his heart. And he was a scared, stubborn, blind asshole who was too wrapped up in unforgiveness and guilt to accept her gift.”

He edged closer and lifted a hand to her cheek. It hovered there for a moment, and when she didn’t flinch, he cupped her face. Brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.

“Let me in your world. Let me in. That’s why I’m here, Noelle. Why I’m letting you use me for whatever you need. Take however much or little you want to give me. And if it’s only a little, I’m going to earn more. I’m not going anywhere until I have your heart and your trust. Sweetheart”—he brought his other hand to her face—“you want to know when I figured out I loved you? A couple of days ago, I admitted to myself that it started when you walked in that ballroom, stubborn chin lifted, defiant, so fucking beautiful. It continued when you let me care for you, protect you when you were ill. It continued when you trusted me with your body and pleasure for the first time. It deepened when I saw the awe-inspiring beauty you have in your soul that pours out into the most stunning drawings. And it was final when you dared to be more honest with me than anyone in my life and challenged me to have the same honesty with myself.”

“Well, shit,” she whispered, the tears that had been stinging her eyes and choking her welling over.

He laughed, stroking away her tears. “You said that about my home, and that was good.”

She chuckled, grabbing his wrists and holding on for all she was worth. “I love you, Aiden. I love you.”

Standing, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. But he was already meeting her halfway, careful not to smudge her work. Her lips parted under his, and his tongue swept in, reacquainting, reclaiming.

Promising.

Joy surged through her like a powerful geyser. She belonged to this man. And he belonged to her.

“Come home with me, Noelle,” he breathed on the end of their kiss.

“You’re here, so I am home.”

His eyes closed, and a spasm of emotion passed over his face. “You can’t say things like that to me in the middle of all these people. And when I’m about to be your best piece of work yet.”

She pressed her mouth to the strong line of his jaw. “You already are.”

Epilogue

Three years later

Boston, MA

“Is all this secrecy really necessary?” Noelle asked, tugging at the blindfold covering her eyes.

A light tap landed on her fingers. “Move ’em. And, yes,” Aiden said from beside her. He’d placed the scarf over her eyes as soon as they’d slid into the backseat of his town car after dinner. She grinned. Three years together, and he still surprised her.

Just one of the things she loved about him. One of so many.

To tease him, she touched the edge of the scarf again, and he didn’t disappoint her by grabbing her hand. This time, he held on to it, placing a quick, openmouthed kiss to the center of her palm. She shivered, pleasure zinging on a direct conduit from her hand to between her legs. The man could still make her hot with one touch or a look from his emerald eyes. If possible, she wanted him even more now that she had his love.

She snuggled against him. “How much farther?”

“We’re here, actually.”

The car rolled to a stop, and moments later, he guided her from the backseat, a hand on her elbow and one on her hip. He led her several steps and then paused.

“Ready?” he murmured in her ear.

“Yes.” She did a little shimmy, and his chuckle tickled her skin.

“One. Two…”

“Three,” she growled.

Another low laugh, and he removed the blindfold. She blinked for a second, not really certain what she was looking at. A busy sidewalk with shops lining it. South End maybe. She glanced over her shoulder at the street sign. Harrison Avenue. Definitely the South End.

“Sweetheart.” Aiden pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her head toward the front. “This is your surprise.”

“Oh my God.” She gasped. Pressed her hands to her chest, directly over her pounding heart. “Oh my God, Aiden.”

“At least it’s not holy shit,” he drawled.

Sudden tears made her laugh sound waterlogged. “I can’t… It’s mine? This can’t be mine…”

But the gold, elegant scroll across the front of the huge, storefront window proclaimed this store—this gallery—hers.
Rana Art Unlimited
.

As did the photograph that was propped on an easel and illuminated by halogen lights.

A lion covered a wide chest and ridged abdomen. Strong shoulders formed the ears, and the mane melted over taut arms as well as the wall behind him. The paint, the man, and the wall were one in the photograph, a beautiful work of art.

The photo represented the most magical night of her life. Not only had the show been an absolute success and the onset of a successful career that continued to grow even three years later. But it had been the night she’d started her new life with the man of her dreams. Her prince from the fairy tales she’d long given up on.

Aiden had given her love, joy, security, peace, and acceptance. And now he’d bought this gallery for her. He’d made her dream come true.

Well, actually he’d done that the day he’d shown up at her first show and told her he loved her.

God, I love this man
.

“Actually,” she rasped, “I’m not a Rana any longer. I’m a Kent.”

Aiden picked up her left hand and pressed his lips to the four-karat diamond ring cut in the shape of a blossom. “I love everything about you, Noelle. Including who you were and who you are.”

“I love you, too, Aiden. So much.” She turned and threw herself into his arms, amazed at the healing power of love and forgiveness. That prince she’d read about so long ago had nothing on her man. Her husband.

Her heart.

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Acknowledgments

To my heavenly Father, without whom none of this would be possible. Thank you for Your grace, Your love, and Your faithfulness. Each word is a gift from You.

To Gary. I love you more than words can say, and I thank you for your never-ending support. And the stuffed mushrooms, aka the perfect motivation. :)

To Debra Glass. Never has there been a time when you told me you couldn’t read or critique for me. Your generosity and heart are boundless, and I love you dearly for it.

To Jessica Lee and Dahlia Rose. This book wouldn’t have been finished without our challenges. Thanks to you two, I kicked word-count booty! LOL! I’m looking forward to writing more books with you.

To Loretta King Hicks. Thank you for lending me your name for such a lovely character. And for being my inspiration.

To the Saints and Sinners. You are such a wonderful street team, and I love hanging with you! You keep me laughing, and your support keeps me in a state of awe. Thank you!

To Tracy Montoya. The other day I sat back and counted how many books we’ve worked on together, and daaaang! We’re in double digits! I am honored to know you, work with you, and learn from you. Oh, and I have the hubby working on a logo for your Super Editor leotard and cape… I’m still trying to hunt down Loki’s staff that would go great with it…

About the Author

Naima Simone’s
love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown, and Linda Howard many years ago. Well, not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading, and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights—creating stories of unique men and women who experience the first bites of desire, the dizzying heights of passion, and the tender, healing heat of love.

She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bulletproof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically challenged bliss in the southern United States.

Come visit Naima at
www.naimasimone.com
.