"Here I am," he says, and his voice has dropped lower. Rougher.
"Put your shirt back on."
"Why?" He moves close. "You prefer the fantasy?"
"This is inappropriate."
"This is art." He sits on the couch and sprawls back like a Renaissance painting come to life. All arrogance and deliberate display. "Draw me."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because looking at him is one thing. Studying him, committing every detail to memory, spending hours translating his body onto paper—that's something else entirely. That's intimate in a way that terrifies me. That's crossing a line I can't uncross.
"What do I get out of it?" I ask instead, buying time.
"What do you want?"
"My freedom."
"Besides that."
"A phone call. To someone. Anyone. Just to prove I'm still alive."
He considers it for half a beat, head tilted. "No."
"Then no drawing."
"You'll draw me anyway." He shifts position, and the movement makes muscles flex in ways that should be illegal. "You can't help yourself. You've been desperate for this since the moment you saw me in that diner."
"You're unbelievable."
His smile is pure sin. "Stop the games, Lila. We both know what you want."
"Okay, fuck. You're lucky I'm practicing anatomy," I mutter, reaching for a fresh page with shaking hands.
"Sure." His smile widens. "Whatever excuse works."
He glances at the couch, then at the hallway leading to the bedroom. "You know what? If we're doing this properly, we should use the bedroom. Better light. And if I get lucky—" his grin turns wicked, "—the bed's right there."
My face burns hotter. "That's not?—"
"Come on." He's already moving toward the guest room. "Bring your sketchbook."
I follow on trembling legs, sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. This is insane. This is crossing every line. But my feet carry me forward anyway.
The bedroom feels smaller with him in it. The bed dominates the space, and I'm hyperaware of it. Of what it means to be here instead of the living room.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the bed.
I perch on the edge, cross-legged, trying to create as much professional distance as possible. "Okay. Ready."
"Are you?" His voice is low. Knowing.
My face burns as I pick up the pencil, preparing to draw him while he watches me struggle with a desire I can't admit to.
11
