by Jinsey Reese
There was nothing to be nervous about.
And yet there was everything to be nervous about. This felt like one of those pivotal moments in my life when everything was on the line. If I screwed it up, my life would go off track, be colorless again.
I had no idea why I felt this way, why this seemed so huge, but it did.
I glanced at a little table right next to the mattress—there was a hot, fresh cup of tea sitting on it. Oh, my god. He’d made me tea. That was just so—
“You ready?” he asked quietly.
I turned away from the tea, and nodded. Maybe everything was going to be okay.
“Yeah,” I said, and waved my hand at the platform. “How do you want me?”
Dare didn’t answer right away, so I looked up to find him staring at me with a quiet storm brewing behind his gaze. He swallowed hard before speaking. “A simple reclining pose. However you’re comfortable.”
Turning away from him, I stepped up onto the platform, pulled the ends of the tie at my waist, and let the robe slip to the floor. Then I took out the elastic from my hair and shook out the long strands, letting them cascade all the way down my back.
I lay down on my side, my back to him. “Is this okay?” I asked, my voice coming out too breathy. I felt more naked than I ever had in my whole life.
He didn’t answer, so I glanced over my shoulder.
Sinfully dark, turbulent eyes were fastened on me as Dare’s chest rose and fell in quick succession. My skin was awash with electricity at his look—I felt more alive, more aware, than I had in weeks. He seemed to be fighting the urge to pounce on me, and I hoped to god his resolve would shatter. Mine had.
Finding closure could go fuck itself. I wanted Dare.
Right now. And always.
That was not going to change.
eleven
When Dare noticed me looking, he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. Picking up his palette, he took a sip of coffee then set his cup down. His shoulders stiffened and he shifted in place, as if unsure about his next move. Almost like he wanted to go one way, but knew he should run the other.
“Dare?” I said again, luring him back to me. “Are you okay with this pose?”
He hesitated, opened his mouth, then snapped his jaw shut. Then he took a step toward me, but changed his mind and stayed firmly put.
“Face the wall.” The instruction was brief, quiet, and terse.
My chest tightened. He wanted me looking away from him. My smile had been his favorite, but now he couldn’t even stand to glimpse it.
Nodding, I pulled a pillow under my head and closed my eyes, listening to him get to work. The soft hiss of a brush touching the canvas was occasionally punctuated by the scraping sounds of a palette knife. There was a unique music to Dare’s work, and as he found his rhythm I could hear him fully relax into it.
And so did I.
God, I remembered this so well. The sounds of him working, the air laced with paint and turpentine. The way his brow would furrow and his lips would tighten as he focused on his work. Time had no meaning or importance in his studio. He’d work for hours without taking a break.
I hoped tonight was no exception.
I’d stay for as long as he’d let me.
I woke to find Dare leaning over me, his hand warm on my hip.
“You fell asleep,” he whispered, “and changed your position.”
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry.” I blinked my hazy vision into focus. “I’m—”
He gave me a gentle nudge. “It’s okay.” His voice was low, his eyes soft. He was looking at me like he used to, and all I could do was stare back at him, completely entranced by his hypnotic gaze, wildly drawn to his sculpted mouth.
He was so close…if I lifted my head just a little I could touch his lips.
I licked my own just thinking about it.
“Can I…?” he asked, indicating he wanted to guide me back into position. His eyes raked over my body, making me feel even more naked and exposed than I already was.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. So I just nodded.
Yes, you can touch me. Please, please touch me, Dare.
One hand on my shoulder, the other pressed into my back, he directed me up on my side again. The feel of his fingers against my bare skin sent sparks through my body. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with him as he moved over me, carefully arranging my body to his liking. His nearness made me dizzy with want, desperate with need. I pressed my thighs together in a feeble attempt to subdue the arousal pulsing between them.
I ached for more of his touch. More of him. Everywhere.
When his grip wrapped around my calf, I bit down on my lip to keep from moaning. He shifted my leg so it was resting over the other one, then slid his hand to my knee to lock it in place. He stilled for a moment and turned his head to look at me.
Chocolate-colored eyes pierced me, flooding my insides with liquid heat. I gasped, unable to hold back the tremor that rocked through me. My whole body was on fire, my most sensitive places throbbing with unbridled desire.
Dare continued to hold my gaze captive, the violent storm in his eyes betraying that he was well aware of his effect on me. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his grasp on my knee tightened. My pulse kicked up as I imagined him on me, kissing me, parting my legs so he could slip between them…
Oh, god. The tremors flared anew.
But not even a second later, his face turned to stone and he released me. Straightening to his full height, he moved back to his easel, leaving me cold and alone. I was glad my back was to him so he couldn’t see my face—couldn’t see the disappointment reflected in my eyes.
Dare stayed still for what felt like an eternity. I had to fight every urge to turn and look back at him. Finally, he started painting again, so I shut my eyes and relaxed into the rhythm of his strokes. There was no way in hell I’d be falling asleep again, my mind and body were buzzing with equal parts desire and despair. I lay there thinking about all that had happened three years ago, everything I’d put him through.
I had no idea if I could make up for it, if my actions could ever be forgiven. Dare had been the one who had come after me even with the threat of my father looming. His life had been at stake, his family had been endangered, yet he’d wanted to fight for me, fight for us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, breaking the silence between us.
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “For what?”
For everything.
“For what I said in the hospital.”
The painting sounds halted and I heard him inhale sharply.
“Don’t, Reagan. Don’t go there.” His voice was low, dangerous. I’d heard that tone before and knew better than to push him. But how were we supposed to move beyond that if we couldn’t even talk about it? If he wouldn’t even accept my apology?
I stayed silent and he started painting again.
After a little while he said, “So what happened to make you…like you were in the metro and the other night when the power went out?”
“I…” Cold rigidity settled in my muscles and a lump rose in my throat.
There was one way to make Dare understand just how dangerous and controlling my father really could be—tell him what had happened seven years ago.
But at the mere thought of sharing that part of my past with him—with anyone—my hands began to tremble. I shook my head, begging my heart to calm the fuck down.
I would not think about it. I would not think about it. I squeezed my eyes shut to force the images away. Paris. I was in Paris. I was far away from it all. Years and thousands of miles away.
“You don’t want to know.” My voice came out tight, strained. “Trust me on this.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I—”
“No, Dare,” I said. “Just…no. You don’t get to shut me down when I apologize, and then pretend like you’re concerned about me the next moment. Either you’re in or you’re out. And you obviously don’t want
to be in right now.” I took a slow, shaky breath. “I deserve that, I know. But you can’t have it both ways.”
If I told him about what happened, he’d probably forgive me for everything. Right here and now. Maybe he’d even want me back. But I wanted him to want me for me—JUST me—not out of pity.
The room turned so eerily still I could hear the soft sounds of traffic from the street below. Night had fallen, and I realized I had no idea what time it was. I heard Dare put down his brushes and palette, so I turned to look at him over my shoulder.
His shoulders were stiff and his eyes unfocused. He seemed…distant. I immediately regretted my angry words. I opened my mouth to say as much, but he beat me to it.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” he said. Before I could respond there was a knock on his front door and I could hear it opening.
“Dare?” a husky female voice called out. “Où êtes-vous?” Where are you?
His head snapped up and he glanced at the doorway to the studio then back to me. Cursing under his breath, he started putting his brushes away as quickly as he could.
“Ici, Giselle,” he called out. In here.
Shit. Giselle? I was about to make a grab for the robe, but she was already standing in the doorway—tall, lithe, and very French. Every hair was perfectly in place, her designer clothes sleek and subdued, she was nothing like…well, me. Her chocolate brown locks were twisted up tight on her head, and her makeup was dramatic and so exact it had to have been put on by an expert. Her green eyes—the only color to her besides the red of her lips—swept over me in distaste.
And I could only imagine what she saw—a naked model with messy hair tumbling around her, looking ridiculously uncomfortable.
Dare finished putting his stuff away, stood up and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She grasped his hand and started pulling him out of the room, moaning something about being late.
He glanced at me from the doorway, his face void of expression as he said, “You can let yourself out.”
I sat up slowly, watching him. “So…tomorrow?” I said, finally getting hold of the robe and pulling it over me. “Afternoon so I can work in the morning?”
Dare nodded once, and then he was gone.
I heard him say something to Giselle that made her laugh as they walked out the door. I whipped the robe around me and raced to the windows in his living room—the ones that faced the street. As the two of them came out of the building a moment later and walked down the steps, Dare draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her to him. She slipped an arm around his waist and they walked down the street, disappearing out of sight.
I stood at the window, looking out at the brightly lit street, feeling lonelier than I ever had. That used to be me—the girl in Dare’s embrace—but not anymore. I sighed, hugged my arms around myself, and glanced down at the robe. Ugh. Giselle had probably worn this, too. And suddenly I couldn’t stand the feel of it. I hurried toward the bathroom, peeling it away as I went—unable to get it off my skin fast enough.
I dressed and went back to my place to shower. I needed to wash her away.
Giselle. She wasn’t his type AT ALL. She was too…artificial. I didn’t know how he could stand her. But then again maybe it was her gorgeous body and the way she draped herself over him. Or the way she said his name with that lilt in her voice—like she was caressing it with her French tongue.
Fucking hell. How many times did I have to be hit in the face with how stupid I’d been to let him go?
twelve
“So…have you painted her?” I stood in Dare’s studio the next day, my own robe cinched at my waist, the sun’s warm rays flooding the futon.
He looked up from his preparations—a new canvas and another pose while we waited for the late afternoon light so we could get back to the painting he’d started yesterday. Dare had a cup of coffee next to him, and I glanced over to find a cup of tea waiting for me again. Its presence warmed me, but then I realized he probably did that for all of his models. It was, after all, just common courtesy. I needed to stop reading into things that weren’t actually meaningful.
“Paint who?” he asked, focusing on his brushes again.
“The girl from last night—Giselle.” It was all I could do to not roll my eyes as I said her name. But I wasn’t a sulky teenager…even if I felt like one at the moment.
“I don’t paint just anyone,” he said quietly, then glanced at me for a brief second before uncovering his palette and nodding toward the futon. “Let’s get started.”
Not quite sure of what to do with that information, I walked over to the futon feeling utterly off-balance, untied the robe, and let it fall to the ground. Was Dare telling me something? I wanted nothing more than to believe that she didn’t mean anything to him, and that I did…but…I had nothing to confirm that. He’d left me and spent the evening—and probably the night—with her.
But he didn’t paint her? He didn’t paint just anyone?
What the fuck did that mean?
“Why don’t you choose a seated position this time?”
I sat down on the mattress, giving him my profile. One leg crossed over the other and my knee up near my chest where I could rest my chin on it. Staring toward the windows, I closed my eyes and soaked in the sunshine.
Dare was quiet, hadn’t started working yet and I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t like the pose. Then I realized that my hair was down, the long honey locks silky against my naked skin and probably blocking too much of my body—the thing about nudes was that you were actually supposed to see the naked form. I reached for my hair to twist it up on my head, but he stopped me.
“Leave it.” His command floated across the room, forcing me to turn to look at him. The expression on his face nearly flattened me. It was…it was the exact look he’d captured in those first nudes of his I’d seen in his Brooklyn loft. The one of Sia and the others. Look at the way they’re gazing, Sabine had said. It’s clearly unrequited love. Sad and bittersweet.
Dare was wearing that very same expression. It blazed a trail of heat to the depth of my soul. I knew without a doubt that my own look mirrored his. But then his face changed. Hardened. Closed down. And he was, once again, the distant, new Dare I was coming to know.
“Leave the hair,” he said again. “I like it down. Wild and free.”
I lowered my arms and turned back toward the window, my heart beating too fast for its own good. I took a deep breath, trying to get it to calm the fuck down.
Once Dare began working, I rested my elbow on my knee and leaned my head against my hand to watch him paint. It was a surreal feeling because I could tell he didn’t see me when he was working. He saw lines, shapes, shadows, light, tones of colors, but not the whole person before him, and I could forget that I was sitting there completely naked. His sharp features softened when he painted, there were no walls, no barriers between us. It was the perfect time to study him.
He glanced up at my face and caught me staring.
And then he smiled just like he used to…and the power of it took my breath away.
That was the look I’d known so well, the one I’d craved ever since I saw him at Montmartre. Warmth flooded my body, bringing with it something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I quickly realized that something was happiness.
Pure bliss.
But when I started to smile back, the look on his face changed, like he’d caught himself, remembered who I was, what I’d done, and his guard came back up. In a single moment, he filled my heart with hope, and in the next, he knocked the breath out of my lungs.
Why did this have to be so fucking hard? How many times and in how many ways would I have to pay for my sins?
There were so many whys and hows when it came to us. Too many. So I just pushed them all out of my mind and studied him. Took him all in. Tried to memorize him.
After all, I didn’t know how much longer I had with him. Once this project wrapped, we’d go back to existing on our two differen
t planes.
C’est la fucking vie, right?
“Dinner?” Dare said, a few hours later as I got up to stretch. Holding a position was not as easy as it looked. I glanced at the clock and was surprised that it was already seven-thirty. I was starving. And I hadn’t even noticed. Around Dare, food seemed of little importance.
“Sure.” I nodded and he left the studio, walked down the hall and into the kitchen. I could hear him getting out pots and placing them on the stove.
I pulled on my robe and gazed around the room for a moment. Although we’d been working together, I hadn’t had much time to look at his newer pieces other than from afar. So I slowly walked around his studio, flipping through the canvases that leaned against the walls. So many street scenes, as I’d noticed in the artists’ market, and a handful of nudes.
The models were exquisite, and it sent a jagged, knife-like pain through my soul to think of him sitting in this room with these naked beauties ripe for his picking. God, they even looked turned on, their faces so full of desire as they gazed at me that I could practically hear them moan.
Oh yeah, he’d fucked them. The evidence was right here in front of me, captured in paint.
Pots clanged in the kitchen, turning my attention away, and a large, dark brown fabric-covered sketchbook lying on top of a wooden cabinet caught my eye.
When I lifted the heavy cover to open it, I couldn’t believe what I saw inside.
Page after page of sketches…of me.
I read over the dates down in the bottom right corner of each drawing. They ranged from a year ago to—oh, god—a month ago. Before I’d run into him on the street.
I looked over toward the doorway, heard him opening cabinets in the kitchen.
There were two more identical sketchbooks underneath it, and I flipped each one open to find more sketches of me. From two and three years ago.
Oh. My. God.
Dare had been thinking about me all this time. A LOT. Just like I’d been thinking about him.