“So, you’re telling me that you’ll draw me naked if I pay you to?” My drink trickles down my throat, and I watch her intently over the rim of my glass. There’s a new rouging of her cheeks and chest—based on my experience, it continues under her clothes.
“Well… in that case, it’s a commission. And I can’t turn down a commission.”
“Great. How much?”
The wallet tucked into my coat pocket by the front door is probably sobbing. The thought of spending money on anything that isn’t a necessity sends my stomach roiling, especially after I blew over a hundred dollars on random food and supplies to give her the perfect Christmas. Not to mention, I texted the therapeutic riding facility’s stable manager after convincing Eira to come with me yesterday, to let her know I could only shoe half the number of horses we’d agreed upon. I’ll get to them next week, working a couple extra-long days to make up the lost wages.
But even if I can’t recoup the money I lost yesterday, I don’t care. It’s worth it. I’d bet the farm on her.
“Considering you bought all these incredible desserts”—she flourishes a Nanaimo bar through the air—“and you’re giving me a warm bed to sleep in, I think I can cut you a deal.”
Tossing back two ounces of bourbon, I wish I’d grabbed something higher proof. I know all of this was my idea, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to nervous jitters.
The bedside lamp flickers slightly before fully illuminating the small space, and Eira belly flops onto the bed with a warm laugh. Markers and notepad spread across the deep green comforter, she smiles up at me.
“Socks.”
“Who starts with socks?” I squint at her.
“Who ends with socks?” She rests her chin in her hands, feet kicking behind her. “Anyway, who’s in charge here?”
Rolling my eyes, I bend and pull off my socks, then chuck them in the hamper next to my dresser.
Eira whistles a catcall. “Damn, boy.”
Laughing, I say, “If you have a foot fetish, I amnotyour man.”
She shifts a little, picking up a pencil and drawing something near the top of the page that I can’t quite make out. It better be my head and not the start of a giant foot picture.
“Not a foot girl, but I was a big fan of the forearm flex when you gave the left sock an extra firm tug. Speaking of which, lose the shirt,” she says without looking up from the graceful glide of pencil on paper.
The hem catches on my fingers, and I tug upward slowly, waiting for the moment her eyes flutter to look at me through her thick lashes. I give her a wink before pulling the fabric overhead.
A heavy rise and fall of her chest makes my cock pulse under my jeans. She studies my bare upper body in the shallow light, crinkling her nose as she slowly drags pencil over paper. Theonly sounds in the room are my heartbeat and the gentle scratch of lead in her notebook.
“Pants,” she says the word with the exasperation of somebody running a marathon.
“Shouldn’t belt be its own category?” I grip the buckle, staring her down.
The snap as I unbuckle it makes her bite down on her lower lip. The leather glides through the loops on my jeans. Eira’s eyes widen, pupils blown out with lust, as I loop it between my hands and tug until the leather slaps together. The sound reverberates through the room, and even I have goosebumps on the back of my neck. Then I let the entire thing fall to the wooden floor with a resounding thunk.
Her gaze flits to the belt then back to me. “You were right. Thatdefinitelydeserves to be its own category.”
“Now pants?” I can’t help the love-drunk smile, or the cadence of my heartbeat, slamming into every rib and spreading out through my limbs. I want to drop the pants and go to her, tell her to forget about the drawing idea, and feel the warmth of her words on my skin.
With a heady tone, she says, “Now pants.”
Drawing in a long breath then releasing it slowly, I let the denim slide down my legs. The last time I felt self-conscious was as a middle schooler in the locker room after gym class. A woman seeing me naked hasn’t affected me. But something about this—the slow strip, the scratchy sound of Eira drawing in a frenzy, the warm-toned light bulb, and the slight nip in the air—is making my lungs constrict painfully.
God. I need a way to make me look hot and cool for her.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the dresser.
But not like I’m trying too hard.
Uncrossing my arms, I lick my lips and watch her draw. She hasn’t even looked up at me since I lost the pants, and her hand’s moving around the paper in a frenzy.
“Boxers.”
