“Daphne.” My voice comes out in a strained whisper.
“Stop,” she says, and my terror is so strong I’d give anything to disappear.
She must feel it. She must know I’m hard right now. Hard forher?—
“Don’t move an inch,” she says, a smile curving her lips. “That’s it. That’s the look. Hold still.”
She darts out of my arms and scampers to her easel so fast, I’m left frozen in place. The sound of graphite moving over her canvas mingles with my still-raging pulse.
“Damn you, Monty,” she says, her tone light despite her chastisement. “You lost it. Don’t worry, I can still picture it. There was an intensity in your eyes that was perfect. Don’t move though. The rest of your face is just right.”
My breaths come out erratic as I try to calm my nerves and convince my cock to stop straining the front of my trousers. And pretend that Daphne isn’t standing there, drawing me from a mere few feet away in that tiny lacy bralette. Pretend I’ve forgotten the feel of my hand on hers, stilling her as she was about to lift the hem.
Pretend I don’t wish—at least a little—that I hadn’t stopped her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAPHNE
When I bring my canvas to work on Monday, it’s with a light heart and a skip in my step. Not even the sight of it perched beside the other illustrators’ work in the studio can break my confidence. This time I know it’s ready. I am, however, surprised at how quickly I get my supervisor’s approval. The art director barely glances at it before she deems it ready for the painting stage, which makes me wonder if she’d have approved weasel-man after all. But just before she’s about to leave the studio, she casts a thoughtful look at my sketch and adds that she’s particularly impressed with the hero’s lustful expression.
That of course reminds me of what happened to encourage said expression on Monty’s face.
My cheeks flush at the memory as I make my way from the studio to the editorial floor. I was so wrapped up in the excitement of my art, the comfort of working in my own home, that I didn’t register the weight of our interaction until after he left my apartment Saturday afternoon. Only then did I realize I’d finished my sketch and bid him farewell in nothing but my bralette. No wonder he struggled to fully look at me.
Aside from that one time, that is.
When his hand stilled mine, his chest heaving, eyes heavy.
I’d told him to pretend I was someone else. That my breasts belonged to someone he liked.
He was merely obeying my directive, wasn’t he?
I reach my desk and slap my hands to my burning cheeks to distract myself from the strange flutter in my stomach. One that might be embarrassment or…who really knows? Whatever the case, my arrangement with Monty is already proving fruitful.
Though, as I settle into my seat, I can’t help wishing Araminta were here. Which is ludicrous because why would I want her verbally tearing apart my perfect sketch? I suppose the challenge of earning even the slightest hint of her praise would feel more fulfilling than my supervisor’s too-fast approval.
A flicker of worry settles in my gut. I haven’t seen Araminta since the boxing match when she left with that man named David. If he hurt her in any way?—
I bite back a yelp as I open my desk drawer to find a small body lying motionless on my stationery. My heart climbs into my throat until I note the slightest flutter of paper wings, the steady rise and fall of the creature’s chest.
“There you are,” I say, nudging Araminta in the leg with my forefinger. The rhythmic noise of my coworkers going about their own duties keeps my voice from carrying too far. Not that it matters. With the paper pixie infestation growing so rapidly, chatter has increased in tandem. Still, I’d rather not draw much attention to myself, so I keep my voice low. “Get off my stationery. I have several letters to pen this morning.”
Araminta raises her arms in a sleepy stretch and blinks her parchment lashes. “Morning already? I wanted to sleep in longer. I’ve never been so tired in my life.”
An echo of the worry I felt earlier returns. She’s normally bright-eyed and ready to annoy me first thing every workday. “Why are you so fatigued? What did you do all weekend?”
She smirks up at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Let’s just say David is a very patient lover with the stamina of a kelpie.”
“Ew. I don’t need to know that.”
“Perhaps if youdidknow—from personal experience—you wouldn’t struggle with your sexy art so much.”
I lift my chin. “I’ll have you know I finished my sketch to perfection.”
Her eyes go wide as she sits up straighter. “You did? How? Did you find a husband or murder birds, or whatever it is you were planning on doing?”
“I’ll tell you all about it if you get off my damn stationery.”
