I’m also smiling, which draws a sharp censure from Blaine. “Dammit, Nik. Get rid of the grin.”
“My face doesn’t even show in the painting.”
“I can tell,” Blaine says. “So stop it.”
He’s teasing me now. “Yes, sir,” I say, and then almost laugh when Damien coughs, obviously hiding a chuckle of his own. The “sir” is our secret, our game that we play. A game that will officially end tonight, now that Blaine is putting the final touches on the painting that Damien has commissioned. The thought is a melancholy one.
True, I’ll be happy not to have to stand stock-still anymore. Even the thrill of flipping the imaginary bird to my mother’s overbearing sense of propriety pales in comparison to the way my legs cramp at the end of these sessions. But I will miss the rest of it, especially the feel of Damien’s eyes on me. His slow, heated inspections that make me damp between my thighs and force me to concentrate so hard on remaining still that it becomes sweetly painful.
And, yes, I will miss our game. But I want more than a game with Damien, and I can’t help the eagerness with which I face tomorrow and the knowledge that it will simply be Damien and Nikki with nothing between us. And as for any lingering secrets … well, with time, those will be brushed away, too.
Hard now to believe that I’d originally been shocked by Damien’s offer: one million dollars in exchange for my body. For my image, permanently on display on a larger-than-life canvas; and for the rest of me at his command, whenever and however he wanted.
My shock had been replaced by blatant pragmatism laced with equal parts of ardor and outrage. I’d wanted Damien as much as he’d wanted me, but at the same time I’d wanted to punish him. Because I was certain that he saw only the beauty queen, and that when he got a peek at the damaged woman beneath the polished veneer he’d reel from the affront to his expectations as much as from the lightening of his wallet.
I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.
Our deal had been for a week, but that week turned into two as Blaine buzzed around his canvas, the wooden tip of his brush tapping against his chin as he squinted and frowned and mumbled to himself about wanting just a little more time. About wanting to get everything—that word again—perfect.
Damien had agreed easily—after all, he’d hired Blaine because of his growing reputation as a local artist, and his skill in handling erotically charged nudes was undeniable. If Blaine wanted more time, Damien was happy to accommodate him.
I didn’t complain for less pragmatic reasons. I simply wanted these days and nights with Damien to last. Like my image on the painting, I was coming alive.
I’d moved to Los Angeles only a few weeks ago, intent on conquering the business world at the ripe old age of twenty-four. The thought that a man like Damien Stark would want me, much less my portrait, was the furthest thing from my mind. But there’d been no denying the heat that had burned between us from the moment I saw him at one of Blaine’s art shows. He’d pursued me relentlessly, and I’d tried my damnedest to resist, because I knew that what he wanted was something that I wasn’t willing to give.
I wasn’t a virgin, but neither was I widely experienced. Sex is not something that someone with my history—with my scars—rushes into. I’d been burned by a boy I’d trusted, and my emotions were still as ragged as the scars that marred my flesh.
Damien, however, doesn’t see those scars. Or, more accurately, he sees them for what they are—a part of me. Battle scars from what I have overcome and what I continue to fight. Where I thought my scars reflected a weakness, he sees an indication of strength. And it is that ability—to see me so fully and clearly—that has drawn me so irrevocably and completely to this man.