When I drag my eyes up from my plate, Claude is staring at me across the table, his brow furrowed.
“That’s a wicked look,” he says. “What are you scheming up over there?”
I smile, take another bite of food, and shrug oh-so-innocently. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Claude is so focused on his paints that he doesn’t even glance at me when I walk into the room. I excused myself to freshen up and change after our usual breakfast together—both mine and his, from my wrist—but I know he won’t be expecting what I’ve changed into.
I walk slowly to my usual seat on the alcove and arrange myself carefully, tugging down the hem of my silk robe so it isn’ttooscandalous. Even so, it still reveals a generous amount of thigh… and dips low between my small breasts. Beneath it, I’m bare, and every time my thighs rub together it feels deliciously naughty.
The longer it takes for Claude to notice me, the more my self-consciousness grows. But there’s no use in being shy now. I wore this for him to look at me.
When he finally does glance up, he stops short, his brush frozen in hand, his lips forming a small “o” of surprise.
“I thought I might try to inspire you today,” I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes.
“Oh,” he whispers. He can’t seem to look away from my thighs. “Consider me… thoroughly inspired.”
I resist the urge to cross them. Instead I part them slightly, emboldened by his gaze upon me, so heavy I feel it like a physical touch.
“Claude,” I whisper.
“Yes?” He sounds pained.
“You’re going to break your paintbrush.”
He glances down, and seems surprised to notice that the wood is bending in his fingers. He readjusts his grip, clears his throat, spins the paintbrush between his fingers. “Right.” He lifts it to his canvas, but it just hovers there. His eyes keep drifting back to me, again and again, even as he seems to be making a concerted effort to look away.
I bite my lip. I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so affected. I also wasn’t expecting him to actually try to paint me like this, and now that it’s happening, I’m strangely nervous.
“We talked about, um, making paintings only for yourself,” I say, after a moment. “This would have to be another one. Just for you. Not public.”
His smile is strained. “As if I would ever share this sight with anyone else,” he says softly, his eyes still raking over me, as if he can’t get enough.
The intensity in his gaze sends a pleasant shiver through me. “In that case…” I take a deep breath and reach for the belt on my robe.
Before I can undo it, Claude is suddenly there, his hand over mine, the other still holding his paintbrush. I startle back, shocked by how quickly he moved.
“Don’t,” he says. He’s staring down at me with something like agony, his pupils blown wide and his fangs out.
“Why not?”
He hesitates a moment, and steps back, his fingers brushing against mine before he lets go.
“We can’t,” he says. “The contract.”
“I know. But…” I shake my head. “Look, it’s clear there’s… something between us.” Claude raises a brow, spinning hispaintbrush in his fingers again. “I think it’ll be easier if we get it out of our systems.”
“Get it out of our systems,” he repeats, each word slower than before, making it sound thoroughly ridiculous.
I clear my throat and try to ignore the color rising to my face. “Yes.”
“Be plain,mon chou. What exactly are you proposing?”
“I am proposing that we have sex,” I say. “One time.”
“Hm.” He looks me over, from eyes to feet, his gaze moving as slow as a drip of honey. “Once isn’t going to be enough for me, Nora. I’m going to want more. And so will you.”
