falling asleep, then take a big thirsty gulp of wine. It’s not as cold as it was, but it tastes just as good. He unplugs the fan and brings it over, aiming it at the floor.
“I don’t want to disturb your hair or the roses too much,” he explains. “But it is damn hot.”
“When can I see?” I ask him, nodding at the clay.
“Not yet,” he says. “Not until I have the basics. It is still a very rough draft.”
That I get.
I sit back down, adjusting the roses.
He frowns and stops in front of me. Reaches out to touch my shoulder. He slides a clay-dried finger under the strap and lets it fall down my arm.
“Mmmhmm,” he muses.
He takes his hand and then places it at my neck. Slowly trails his rough, textured fingers down to my collarbone, leaving a trail of clay in its wake.
His palm then slides down over my shoulder, over my arm, down to my hand, investigating each finger.
He takes the glass of wine from me and has a quenching sip himself before he places it behind him on the table. Then he takes my hand, holds it for a brief moment, fingers intertwined, before he places it on my lap by the rose stems, posing me.
“Do you know,” he says slowly, the words spoken with deliberation, “that I didn’t sleep at all last night?”
His hand goes to my waist, settling against the curve. He holds it there for a moment.
I’m almost too afraid to speak, like if I do, some magic will dissolve. “No?” I remember him going to his studio, right after he kissed my palm. “Too busy working?”
He shakes his head, eyes following his hand as it goes up my side. “Working? No. I didn’t go into the studio to work. I went into the studio to take my mind off of you. But I could not.” He wets his lips again, his hand now at my breast.
I instinctively hold my breath, my heart thundering in my head. Woosh woosh woosh.
His eyes skirt up to my mouth.
“I could not sleep because all I could think about were these lips. I wondered when I’d get the chance to taste them again. I wondered, perhaps, if I’d ever know what they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.”
Holy.
He didn’t.
My eyes go so wide that they hurt.
“My boldness makes you nervous?” he says, his thumb now brushing over my nipple, causing me to bite my lip, holding back a groan. My body betrays me, squirming, as my legs try to quell the building pressure.
“No,” I say breathlessly.
“Does it turn you on?” he asks, his thumb circling, causing my nipple to tighten through the fabric, an arc of pleasure that radiates down the rest of my body.
I can barely swallow, barely talk. “Yes,” I hiss.
“Just checking,” he says, a hint of a wicked smile on his lips.
His fingers wrap around the neckline of my dress. With one fluid motion, he yanks it down, my breasts bobbing free.
He stands back, staring at me, at my chest, bare and flushed, nipples in tiny pink peaks, his gaze alternating between inspired and desire. Perhaps there’s never been that much of a difference between the two.
“So fucking perfect,” he says, holding out his hands as if to frame me, while I sit there, breathing hard.
I swear to god, if he tries to go back to sculpting…
But instead he bends down, placing his mouth over my nipple, and I almost fall off the stool. He sucks on one while he plays with the other, the other hand at the small of my back to keep me in place. It’s like a jolt straight between my legs, making me buzz with electricity, causing my thighs to part.
Then his mouth comes up to mine, stealing the breath from me. He tastes like my skin, mixed with a hint of salty clay, and his lips engulf mine with the kind of passion that makes me ache. It’s a wet, rough kiss, a little unrestrained, a little messy. The fevered intensity starts to rise inside me, intermingling with butterflies in my chest.
I want this man like I’ve never wanted anything before.
His hands disappear into my hair, holding me firmly at the back of my head, while I submit myself to him, to this kiss, to wherever this man is going to take me.
He pulls back, placing hot, wet kisses beside my lips. “La mia musa,” he whispers hoarsely. “You are better than art.”