Masterpiece (The Masters of The Order Book 1)

by Verne, Jillian

Hearing Julianne laugh like that made his jaded spirit feel somehow lighter and the fact that he hadn’t heard it often enough struck him as tragic. Julianne should be happy like this. Always. He vaguely wondered why she wasn’t and added making her smile to his list of priorities.

  “Model them for me, Julianne. I want to see you dance.”

  Nicolai expected his oh-so-proper apprentice to bristle at the challenge. Instead, she flashed a dazzling grin over her shoulder and began to dance around the gallery.

  He stared, beguiled at the ease of her sexual display. It was shocking. Try hell-had-just-frozen-over shocking. At first glance, zut, at the thousandth glance, Julianne appeared so reserved, but when you looked deeper. Dieu m'aider. Her hair was a waterfall of mahogany, cascading around her. Her body flowed with its own sensual, silent rhythm. And her lips. Those perfect lips. He would have to spend a few decades discovering how they would feel dancing over every part of his body.

  Why does Julianne hide this side of her nature? Did something as simple as my command afford her the freedom to express it?

  He didn't know and part of him didn't care. Most women were so obvious. Julianne's mystique made her even more alluring, if that was even possible. Greedy eyes devoured the sight of her throwing her head back and twirling in front of him with joyful abandon. To distract himself from the mounting urge to spin her against the nearest wall and ravage her, he suggested they go downstairs to work.

  She practically stamped her foot in protest.

  He raised a curious eyebrow and said in a playful tone, “Please tell me that’s not a pout on your pretty face.”

  Lowering her gaze, she bent her ankle in like a little girl asking for candy and said in a sappy sweet voice, “My shoes aren’t white, sir. I don’t want to go downstairs because I don’t want to take them off.” Raising imploring eyes, she bit her bottom lip.

  Ça alors! A perfect role play.

  The vision of the innocent seductress standing in front of him threatened to snap the very thin hold he had on his control. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to grab his ingénue and teach her a lesson on the consequences of such a look.

  Beginning with my teeth sinking into that perfect lip.

  But Julianne wasn’t ready for that and there were more subtle ways to regain the upper hand. He bit his own lip and to his wicked delight, an apprehensive look instantly replaced her playful attempt at flirtation.

  Oh, no. I'm not wrong about her. Not at all.

  Julianne's emotions were so strong, he could feel them. She was afraid. And aroused. He would never harm her, but he wanted a little fear. Knowing her trust was not easily given would make her submission all the sweeter. All pretense of teasing gone, he let the hunger show in his eyes and dropped his gaze. Slowly. Over every inch.

  “You will not remove those shoes until I tell you to remove them,” he growled in a voice low and possessive. “You, my Beauty, are the work of art to be displayed for my eyes in that white studio.”

  Primal satisfaction swamped him as he watched her skin flush and her nipples pearl beneath her blouse in reaction to his words. He prowled toward her like a lion about to strike its prey and she practically ran to the stairs.

  Nicolai laughed out loud as he followed Julianne down.

  *****

  Julianne was confused.

  She lay on the bed in her room, feet raised in the air, admiring the sophisticated shoes Nicolai had given her.

  They are perfect, just like he said.

  She couldn’t claim to be an expert on men, but a gift like this seemed so intimate. The kind a man gives to his lover, not his student. She felt silly even thinking that Nicolai wanted her in that way.

  But what if he does?

  He revealed a side she had yet to see and it excited her. He called her “my Beauty” and the pet name made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Is he trying to seduce me?

  She giggled at the ludicrous thought as soon as she had it. Still, just because it wasn’t reality, didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge a guilty pleasure in fantasy.

  She bent her knees and slid her palms along the back of her calves, trying to recreate the feel of Nicolai there. In her mind, his hands replaced hers. A gentle drag up over her knees. Down the back of her thighs. Along the curve of her bottom. She imagined Nicolai’s talented hands following the same trail and the simple stroke made her skin tingle with sensitivity. Her lips opened in a silent gasp as a delicious ache sprouted deep within her body.

  She rose up, stripping off her camisole, and cupped her breasts. Warm palms moved over the bare skin. From the downy underside. Over the nipples. Back down again. When they hardened, she pinched herself. Gently at first, then hard and harder, until the throb in the puckered peaks slipped along that invisible path that connected them to her clit. It twitched with need. She arched her back, continuing to pluck and pull with one hand while the other travelled lower.

  Her legs parted as her fingers caressed the silky inside of her thigh and flowed up toward the juncture of her hip. She brought the image of Nicolai kneeling at her feet to her mind’s eye as she slid her fingers under the elastic waistline of her panties and brushed a hand over the mound of her sex. He was so graceful, so utterly assured as he knelt before her.

  She imagined being displayed for him now.

  Parting the moist lips, she dragged one finger over her swelling clit and began to stroke herself. Her hips lifted against her own touch, intensifying the pleasure. Eyes closed, she added another finger to the sensual glide and trailed lazy circles over the slippery nub, spreading her legs wider for her imaginary voyeur.

  As the slow rotation gained speed, the image in her mind flashed to Nicolai wielding wood against her palms and the arousal kicked into overdrive. Her fingers moved faster, sweat broke out over her skin and her weeping sex throbbed with the memory. The pleasure between her legs converged, so hard and fast, it was almost painful. The sensations mounted, mounted...and suddenly became too keen. Their intensity rocketed through her with an uncontrollable force.

  She ripped her hand away and bolted upright on the bed. Dazed and panting, she stared at her wet fingers, stunned by her body’s irrepressible reaction.

  What the hell am I doing? This man is forbidden. Absolutely forbidden.

  Her heart raced, threatening to skip from her chest, as panic overcame her senses.

  He would not approve.

  The ugly thing her father planted deep inside the pit of her being cast a tendril into her mind to remind her of his power. Like a choking vine, it wrapped around her spirit and pulled her down.

  Her eyes bounced around the empty room trying to lock onto something, anything, to anchor her mind. It was no use. Her breath sawed in and out of her mouth, but she couldn’t get enough air. The room began to spin. Faster and faster. Until everything around her was lost in an unfocused swirl of color.

  Terror swept over her when she heard his voice. “You have failed me, daughter. You know what happens when you tempt men. I don’t want to punish you, but you leave me no other choice.”

  No. Not again.

  Frantic, she scrambled off the bed into the whirlpool. The world tilted under her feet as she kicked off her beautiful shoes. Her gut clenched with dry heaves. She was going to be sick.

  Trembling hands fumbled with the knob until the door swung wide with a loud crack against the wall. She lurched into the hallway and stumbled to the bathroom on loose legs. Both faucets of the shower thrust to full on, she knelt on the floor beneath the pounding stream. She wretched and gagged, but nothing came up.

  Bent with arms wrapped around her twisting stomach, Julianne babbled to no one, “Please, no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  *****

  “Answer the phone, damn it.”

  Julianne’s light was on, so she was obviously there.

  Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

  Zachary helped him find the courage to be honest, but now that h
e was finally here, he couldn’t reach her.

  He had to tell her the truth.

  He had to explain what he’d become for her.

  And he had to do it right now. Something told him tomorrow would be too late.

  Jerard paced the sidewalk outside of Julianne’s house as the phone rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  *****

  Julianne was wet. A killer headache clouded her thoughts.

  Where am I?

  Her eyes shot around the tiled room, straining to see clearly through a blur of water.

  Running. She remembered running away. Did he follow?

  She waited, afraid to move, shaking so hard her teeth chattered even in the steam. Minutes passed before the cruel memories released their hold and reality reemerged.

  It was your imagination. He doesn’t know. He won’t hurt you.

  Empty and spent, she pushed herself off the shower floor and turned off the water. Her head throbbed and her legs felt like limp noodles, but she managed to creep out of the bathroom. Touching the wall for support, she made her way down the empty hallway, scared and unsettled. Stripping off her wet underwear, she flopped onto the bed and stared into the crystals dangling from the light overhead.

  So I have a little crush and I slipped. She threw her hands over her face. A crush? Try again, Julianne.

  Yesterday, she didn't simply cross the line between teacher and student. She obliterated it. And in her folly, disregarded the Colonel. She’d never done that before.

  I try to be good, but with Nicolai it just isn't fair.

  The man was like Belgian chocolate and her craving for a taste was becoming insatiable. She indulged her fantasies and let Nicolai become the ever-present Master of her dreams, but the woman lurking in the shadowy depths of her soul wanted more.

  Always more.

  She was trapped, suspended between desire and expectation, but the fact remained that this infatuation was one-sided, with all the attraction being on her side. While Nicolai's recent behavior was confusing, his kindness surely meant something else.

  And it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t, she reminded herself. At the very least, you managed not to throw yourself at him like some shameless animal in heat. You want to be an artist. From now on, keep the focus on art.

  Despite her resolve, she was badly shaken. Hiding her head under the pillow, she gripped the down as if that would squelch the irreconcilable conflict raging in her mind. Her father may have won this fight for her loyalty, but she wondered for the first time how long that would continue to be true.

  Julianne closed her eyes as if she could fall asleep in the midst of her mental battlefield.

  *****

  Julianne slipped into the gallery.

  Nicolai was angry and she knew it. She’d stayed away too long. Jerard was angry too, but for the opposite reason. He didn’t trust Nicolai and wanted her to stay away. But it wasn’t Nicolai who couldn’t be trusted. It was her.

  Her mind was resolved to resist this ridiculous and inappropriate infatuation with her sexy teacher; her body, not so much.

  This is about art. Not him, she told herself, but deep in her heart, she knew the truth.

  Nicolai was nowhere to be seen. She sighed at the reprieve and hurried down the steps. Only to stop dead at what greeted her at the bottom.

  The frosted doors to Nicolai’s studio stood wide open. The haze of the glass no longer obstructed her view. Nicolai crouched, arms outstretched, in front of a huge block of clay. Every exquisite detail displayed clearly for her starving eyes.

  He was, in a word, divine. Like an angel floating in a sea of white.

  His chest and feet were bare. Silken skin flowed over every inch of him. A loose pair of white pants that tied daringly low hung off his trim waist. The delicate fabric teased with hints of what lay beneath. The strength of his thighs. The statuesque curve of his backside. Even his feet were beautiful, reminiscent of his hands, long and elegant.

  Without turning to look at her, he said, “Welcome back, Julianne. I have a special surprise in honor of your return. You’ve learned discipline, but I feel you still don’t trust me.”

  “I trust you, sir,” she lied.

  Nicolai cast a doubtful glance as if he knew she was lying.

  I do…to an extent. But she never revealed anything personal. Never talked about her life outside the gallery. Nor did she plan to.

  “No painting for you today,” he said, gliding like a cat across the white floor toward her, his movements fluid, effortless. Without a shirt, she could see why.

  Ça alors! Nicolai works out.

  He flashed a Cheshire grin as he took both of her hands and led her through the open doors. “Today, we will work together.”

  Settling a hand on each shoulder, Nicolai coaxed her to her knees. She dropped, dumbfounded, her mind scrambling to catch up to the situation. She’d longed for him to open those doors and invite her in. Now that he did, she felt paralyzed.

  The change is so abrupt. The safety of his distance, gone!

  “I’ve been commissioned to create a modern day David. I've been staring at this dead block of mud for hours and can’t find the inspiration for him. Perhaps you can help me conjure Michelangelo.”

  “I’ve never worked with clay, sir. I’m not sure I’ll be any good at this,” she stammered.

  Another lie. She had taken a sculpting class and wanted to take more, but her father decided that sculpting was a distraction from her painting and disallowed it.

  “Indulge me, Julianne. You are good at everything you do. That much I’ve learned over the past months. What makes you think this will not be the same?”

  Without really thinking, she blurted, “My father wants me to be a painter."

  Merde. She hadn’t meant to focus Nicolai’s attention on the Colonel, but the words slipped.

  Nicolai lifted her chin so he could read her eyes as he asked, “And you always do what your father tells you to do?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He gave her a confused look. “You’ve never tried other mediums? Never taken a risk and tried anything just for yourself?”

  The surprise in his voice shamed her and she could only shake her head in reply.

  “Well, it’s time you did,” he declared.

  The stern tone made her wonder whether he was angry for more than her extended absence.

  “You’re stunted by the brush. Technically proficient, yes, but I’ve yet to see the inspiration in your work.” He brushed his fingers along her cheek and his tone became almost wistful. “I cannot find you behind the paint.”

  Nicolai’s words stung, but as much as she wanted to deny them, he was right. There was no “inspiration” in her work. She did feel stunted by the brush. She knew she could never hope to create something uniquely her own if she didn’t explore her talent, but she’d never been offered that type of freedom and although she desperately wanted to break free, she was afraid.

  Nicolai crouched down and looked her level in the eye as if to underscore the finality of his next words. “If you will not do this for yourself, you will do it for me. Together, we will see what happens when you work directly with those beautiful hands of yours.”

  She opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a quick tilt of his head. “I insist, Julianne. I will discover the artist locked inside of you. You will inspire me.”

  When Nicolai gave her his 'I’m waiting, but not for long' look, her palms twitched and a door unlocked in her mind. Her bossy teacher could never be dissuaded from something he wanted. And he wanted this. The implacable position gave her the freedom to explore something new. She was suddenly excited, eager for the new challenge. Grinning in anticipation, she laid her hands against the cold clay.

  “Much better.”

  The approval in that low, smooth voice only enhanced the thrill.

  Over the next hour or so, they knelt side by side, working in companionable silence. She tried to
adjust to the feel of the clay, but it felt so foreign. She was unsure; her movements, awkward and harsh. She pinched too hard, leaving the impression of fingertips instead of molding a desirable shape.

  "I'm sorry, sir, I can't…"

  Nicolai moved to kneel behind her, spreading his knees to allow her legs to lie between them and whispered against her ear, “You can. Free your imagination, Julianne. This is a man. Don’t feel the clay. Feel his skin.”

  He leaned in to lay his hands over hers and a sweep of silky hair brushed her cheek. Her awareness of him kneeling at her back was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. His heat soaked though the thin cotton sheath she wore. His warm breath fell over the skin at her nape. She inhaled the subtle combination of fine milled soap, expensive cologne and mint, and lost herself in the fresh scent of him.

  He began to guide her hands over the clay, moving them with flowing, even strokes. She felt safe and cherished.

  And bold.

  “Sir, why didn’t you tell me what you thought about my painting before?”

  He continued the lazy glide of hands over clay before answering in an equally lazy voice. “You weren’t ready to hear it.”

  She twisted to look at him. “Are you implying that I painted that damn fruit over and over by my own choice?”

  He shrugged and leaned his shoulder into her back to turn her around. “Not exactly. I told you to obey me and you did,” chuckling slightly, he added, “for much longer than I expected.”

  She stiffened in his arms and his tone became instantly serious. “Art lives inside the soul, Julianne. A true artist must follow her own path. Until you were strong enough to follow yours, we could not move on.”

  How could I be so stupid?

  The repetitious painting of that cursed fruit was a tool. A crippling restraint meant to force her to believe so strongly in what was inside that she simply had to break free. Nicolai actually wanted her to assert herself. Once she did by painting Le Bois, he could be honest and they could move forward. All this time, he was waiting to begin.

  “I suspect you understand me a bit better now, Julianne,” he said, running his hands over her wrists and up her arms.