Benji didn’t worry about those assholes touching him. He worried about peopleseeinghim. About some jackass in the bushes catching a shot of Benji staring up at Noah, stupid and lovesick. Baring his soul for who knew how many strangers to see on the next slow news day. Somehow, that was even worse than them thinking he was a money-hungry manipulator dangling a poor, sweet billionaire from his evil claws.
The truth was worse. Benji was fuckinggoneover him.
“Benjamin,” Noah said. “What’s going on?”
Benji dropped the Thai pamphlet on the kitchen counter, a puff of dust clouding up. According to Noah, it had spent the better part of three years on top of Noah’s giant fridge.
“Could I paint you?”
Noah blinked. “As a sex thing, or as an art thing?”
Benji snorted. He opened his mouth to say it was an art thing. Then he imagined dragging a paint-covered finger down Noah’s hairy chest and hesitated as lust curled through his gut.
“Art thing for now,” he said. “But can we revisit that?”
“Of course.” Noah took his hand, leading him into the main living room where Benji had set up his painting supplies. “Where do you want me?”
Benji knew the answer immediately, but it still took him a moment to say it.
“On the bed,” he said.
Noah’s mouth quirked. But he didn’t say anything, just picked up Benji’s easel and tarp and walked obediently toward the bedroom.
“You didn’t tell me how class was,” Noah pointed out as Benji slotted the canvas into place on the easel.
Benji grunted. He didn’t want to talk about Dillion. Hedefinitelydidn’t want to talk about Mr. Jervais’s advice, which was the only reason he was doing this in the first place. His stomach was already squirming nervously as he set up his palette.
Calm down, he told himself. He painted in front of people all the time. Granted, it was always in a classroom or with Daphne in her bedroom. Everyone else was focused on their own canvas. It was never just Benji painting, his subject watching him with soft caramel eyes and making Benji’s hand shake around his paintbrush.
Benji shifted from foot to foot on the tarp Noah had laid underneath him. “Can you take your shirt off and put your arms over your head?”
Noah did. He even flexed, because he was a bastard who liked to make Benji forget what he was doing.
“Want me to take my pants off too?”
“Not yet,” Benji said, starting to mix paints together.
Noah settled against the bed. It felt… strange, ordering him around. Even if Noah was smiling and doing everything he asked. Watching him with that hot, intense gaze. Noah hadn’t looked away since he lay down.
“What kind of painting is this?” Noah asked.
“Not sure yet,” Benji replied. He dragged the first stroke down the paper, heart in his throat. He felt exposed, like he wasthe one lying half naked on the bed, and he hadn’t even shown Noah the painting yet.
“This isn’t going to be a piece,” Benji assured him. “I’m just practicing.”
“Practice all you want. I’m here anytime you need a model.”
Benji was sweating before he even had Noah’s outline finished. Usually, when he painted someone, he started by looking at them as an art subject rather than a person: analyzing the width of their chin and the angle of their shoulders, trying to translate it onto the canvas. But Noah stayed Noah. Benji couldn’t stop getting stuck on his thick thighs, the soft down on his chest, those goddamn eyes making his breath hitch every time he looked up.
He swallowed. “What were you saying about a sex thing?”
Noah’s shoulders twitched like he’d been about to shrug. “You wanted to paint me.”
“Right,” Benji said, mind whirling with a hundred different ideas. He wanted Noah to tell him what to do next. It was surprisingly stressful being the one in charge.
“What were you thinking?” Benji asked.
Noah grinned like he knew exactly what Benji was trying to lead him into. “I was thinking I could get on the tarp so I don’t fuck up the mattress.”
