Page 48 of Ruthless Enforcer

Probably.

Maybe.

The subtle shift of air behind me tells me I may be about to find out.

40

GABRIEL

Clara stands in front of the easel with her back to me, wearing nothing but one of my dress shirts.

My shirt. When the fuck did she take that?

The white cotton falls to mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare and her feet pale against the dark floor. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot held in place by a paintbrush, and there's a streak of burnt umber across her left cheekbone like war paint.

She bends over, and I stop breathing. The hem of the shirt rides up, and I strain to catch a glimpse of her pussy.

I’m not that lucky.

She doesn't notice me. She's completely absorbed in the canvas, her right hand moving in quick, decisive strokes while her left braces against the edge of the easel. There's paint on her wrist. On the inside of her forearm. A smudge of red on her bare thigh that I want to smear all over her skin like it’s my private canvas.

I want my wife.

That part isn't complicated. I've wanted women before—wanted them badly enough to lose sleep, cancel plans, make decisions that seemed questionable in daylight.

This isn't that.

I want Clara with an ache that has settled somewhere deeper than my dick. I want her laugh drifting through this house. Her paintbrushes cluttering my counters. Her bare feet on my floors. I want to know what she's thinking when she gets that little crease between her eyebrows and what makes her smile when nobody's watching.

I want to walk into a room and find her there.

Every fucking time.

Which is a considerably bigger problem than wanting to get her naked.

I know what to do with lust. I have no fucking idea what to do with longing.

41

CLARA

He’s behind me. I can always feel him. I think he likes to watch me paint.

I understand that. I look down at the sketchbook again. I like watching him too. Only, I want to look at him without pretending I’m not looking.

With no preamble, before common sense can intervene, I turn around and awkwardly blurt out, "I want you to sit for me."

"Sit," he repeats flatly.

"Yes."

"For a painting."

I shake my head. "For the painting. The last piece of What We Hold."

Something in him closes.

It's subtle. A slight tightening through his shoulders, the sudden stillness of his face. But I've spent my life studying people closely enough to paint what they don't say.