The lamps in the loft studio cast a warm glow on the floorboards, lighting my path toward the staircase where Odin starts climbing, eager to greet his owner.
“Hi,” I murmur, toeing off my shoes and feeling humbled for showing up here after I put up such a fight earlier.
“Hey.” The dry scrape of his palette knife carries from the loft as he mixes paint to the shade of his liking, blending with the aroma of linseed oil and just a hint of turpentine.
I take the stairs quietly, feeling the need to whisper, the way people do in places that feel holy. Logan isn’t religious, but there’s something sacred about the space where he creates. This is his sanctuary. A violin instrumental drifts from speakers above, it’s slowed down, giving it an edginess that’s dark and seductive—very apropos.
At the top, his open-air bedroom sits to the left, while his small studio for painting is to the right. He stands behind the canvas, barefoot and shirtless. The faded blue jeans slung low around his waist are well-worn with a hole in the right knee and splattered with paint from previous masterpieces. This is the hottest version of him, when he’s in his element, creating and consumed in his work—but the thing that always gets me are those fucking glasses and the focused eyes behind them. Sexy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, landing on the top step.
“Come here.”
I step closer, peeking around the easel to see what he’s accomplished thus far. He has his backdrop completed; dark, moody navy blues fill every corner of the oil painting. A loose human silhouette has begun to take shape.
He quirks a half smile and wraps his arms around me in a hug. “I can’t guarantee my bed will be much better.”
When he release me, I glance down at the small table beside him, littered with tools, paint, a glass of what I assume is Foxx Bourbon, and photographs of me, the ones from our photoshoot. It seems so long ago that he took them, so much has changed since then, so much changed that night.
“Wow.” This is the first time I’m seeing the photos from our shoot. “These are kinda . . .”
“Hot?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice a little breathless. This is a side of myself I’ve never seen captured on film—until now. I remember the arousal I felt that night from his words but didn’t realize it was reflected in my eyes and worn on my face so brazenly.
“This is what you’re painting?” I ask, peering up at him, still holding the images in my hands.
I flip through a couple more. Jesus Christ.Is this how he sees me?My confidence skyrockets when I see myself through his lens. I drop the stack of photos back on the table. “You’re painting a nude, right?” I ask, peeling off my socks and sweatshirt.
“Yes.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, watching me.
With each article of clothing that falls, I’m left feeling more powerful. The craving for him returns, the same one I felt the night the photos were taken—it licks at my core. I know how good it is, I’ve had a taste, and I want more. I strip out of my leggings and underwear, standing naked before him—skin flushed, thighs aching, and a mind full of dirty thoughts.
He’s mine just as much as I am his, and I don’t want him painting some random woman’s body on my modeled form.Fuck that.He won’t paint anyone butme.
I reach for the stool behind him, but his palm lands heavy on the seat, keeping it in place.
“I told you I would sit on my hands and watch.”
“And I said you would sit where I tell you,” he says with a low voice. “You can’t see the canvas if you’re beside it.”
He takes his seat and motions for me to climb onto his lap. I straddle one of his thighs, balancing my weight as he shifts to the side so he can reach the canvas. However, the warmth of his bare chest on my back is enough to keep me from squirming.
“I don’t want you to paint anyone but me,” I explain, jealousy coursing through me over a painting that isn’t even complete. I’m well aware his artistic expression isn’t indicative of his feelings toward me, but I still don’t like it. Jealousy is rarely logical.
“Oh, Chaos,” he says, pressing the lowball glass into my palm, encouraging me to take a sip. “You think I’d have your face permanently inked on my arm just to paint someone else? Don’t insult me.”
He takes back his drink, bringing it to his lips while keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Heat washes over my chest.
“It’s healed really well,” I comment, tracing my finger over the ink, feeling a bit foolish for being so territorial of paint.
He hums in agreement, setting down the bourbon. Sweeping my hair behind my shoulder, he leans in. “You gonna hold still for me?” he asks, his breath ghosting over my ear.
A smile eases onto my lips. “Depends on if you distract me,” I state.
