I flush, studying the art on my skin again as an excuse to avoid eye contact. Surely he must hear compliments like that all the time; I didn’t expect mine to have such an effect on him. But I suppose it’s been a long while since he’s created something new.
“It seems almost a shame that we’re the only ones who get to see it,” I murmur. “You could take a picture.”
“Mm, no.” He steps closer, one hand brushing against my lower back as he gazes at me in the mirror. “It was created to be private. We’ll let it remain private.”
There is something fitting about it. Flowers on my skin, as temporary and beautiful as in life. We’re both quiet for a while as we look at his work.
Eventually, I clear my throat. “I hate to ruin the moment, but it’s starting to itch…”
Part of me expects him to argue, or to fall into one of his melancholy moods at the thought of losing his newest artwork so quickly, but Claude throws back his head and laughs. “We should get you cleaned up, then.”
“We?” I ask, flustered.
“It seems a pain to wash yourself, no?” he asks. He tilts his head to one side, a mischievous glint in his eye belying his innocent expression. “It will be easier if you let me help.”
I think of him kneeling in front of me. His fingers gripping me as the paintbrush whispered over my skin.Dangerous.
“Fine,” I say, before I can think better of it.
His eyes widen, but he quickly covers the look of surprise as he bows and offers his arm like a gentleman at the ball. “Allow me to show you to my bathroom, mademoiselle. The biggest and best the house has to offer.”
My lips quirk. “Ridiculous,” I huff, but I take his arm anyway, and let him lead me toward the bathroom.
Chapter Nineteen
There’s a new lightness to Claude as we move through the house together. He smiles more easily, chatters about the different flowers he used to decorate my skin.
“How did you decide what to paint?” I ask, remembering my earlier curiosity.
He pauses. “It was just whatever flowers came to mind, I suppose.” Before I can pry, we enter his bedroom, and the mood shifts.
I swallow as I remember the last time we were in here, the feeling of silk sheets beneath me and his weight on top, his mouth on my wrist. But Claude doesn’t pause, leading me to the attached bathroom. It’s huge, all pale marble with gold accents, and a glass-walled rainfall shower that seems big enough for five people. Claude turns on the shower while I’m taking it all in.
I’ve been refusing to imagine precisely how this is going to happen. He said he was going to help, but that could mean a number of things. But I should’ve known better to think even for a second that Claude would do something as practical as getting a washcloth. Instead he steps into the shower’s stream, fully clothed, and gestures for me to follow.
I bite my lip. “This is your plan?”
He smiles at me as the water slowly plasters his shirt to his body. “Why not?”
Why not? There are a thousand answers on the tip of my tongue. This is too much. Too intimate. Exactly the kind of situation I was hoping to avoid when we began this arrangement.
Now, I am torn. I want this but if one of us breaks the contract, I’ll lose him.
There’s no reason I should be getting into the shower with him, but I step forward as though pulled by some unseen force.
The water is like warm rain as it patters over my skin, drenching my white dress. I tilt my head back, letting it soak into my hair.
“This shower is even nicer than the one in my room,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome to use it whenever you wish.” Claude takes my arm and begins to scrub at the paint, his fingers working in slow circles. The colors bleed under his fingers, dripping a kaleidoscope into the drain at our feet.
It’s easier to scrub off than I expected. I definitely could have done this on my own. But Claude’s fingers feel dangerously good as they massage my forearm, his thumbs providing perfect pressure as they work my muscles. I sigh, head lolling back, as his hand moves up over my bicep and to my shoulder.
His fingers ghost over my collarbone before making their slow way down my other arm. Then he turns me around—I’m putty in his hands at this point—and massages my shoulders.
“Mmm.” I shut my eyes. “Do I have paint there?”
“Oh, yes,” he murmurs, his voice low and soft. “It’s everywhere, I’m afraid.”
