That’s how she wanted to paint him. The James Dyson the country knew little about.
Her James.
She sucked in a swift breath. My James? Really?
“Don’t go anywhere.” She pushed herself up from the table, her stomach a fluttering mess. So much for getting a grip on things.
Without looking at James or Zach, she hurried to her studio, gathered up what she wanted—sketch pad, graphic pencils, sharpener, and eraser—and then made her way back to the dining table.
The low rumble of James and Zach’s voices sent a flurry of warmth through her. She liked they were getting on. Liked it a lot.
Both looked at her with expectant faces when she plonked back down in her seat. She grinned at them, settling into a comfortable position, open sketchbook on her lap. “Eat up.”
“Ahh, she’s going to start drawing naked people soon.” Zach rolled his eyes, a smile in his voice.
“Not unless James plans to strip.” She arched her eyebrow at him, and then at James. “Given he’s the subject.”
Zach smirked at James across the table. “In that case, I’m outta here.” He plucked another croissant from the plate, shoved the end of it into his mouth, and grabbed his food-stacked plate. “I’m going to go sit in the sun and eat this,” he said around the pastry, “and then head around to Ricco’s, if that’s okay?”
Her father’s warning about never letting Zach walk the streets alone whispered through her head. She frowned, a cool ribbon of unease unfurling through her happiness. “Can Ricco pick you up?”
“Sure.” Zach removed the croissant from his mouth, dropped it onto the pile of food on his plate, and stuck out his hand to James. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dyson.”
James straightened to his feet and shook his hand. “How about we go with James from now on?”
“Sure, James.”
James laughed. “Thanks for the breakfast, Zachary.”
Zach flashed a grin at him. “Let’s go with Zach. And you’re welcome. Thanks for cleaning it up.”
And with that, he left.
James turned back to her. “I like him.”
“Me, too.” She looked at the hanging curtain behind which Zach had disappeared. “This sounds stupid, but I think you’re good for him.”
“I’ve had experience with younger brothers.”
The calm statement sent another ribbon of disquiet through her. Her throat tightened. “I…” She stopped, not sure what to say.
She could never tell James what his brother had tried to do to her. He wouldn’t want to hear it, just as much as she didn’t want to ruin what they had now with the truth.
Expression unreadable, gaze steady, he waited for her to continue.
“James.” Damn, when had her mouth become so dry? “We need to talk about Clinton.”
A muscle bunched in his jaw and his shook his head. “No. We don’t. Not yet. Later. For now, we need to enjoy each other’s company. For now, I need to be the perfect model while you work your art magic.” He smiled. All hint of tension evaporated from his face. “That’s what we need to do. Okay?”
“Okay.” Oh God, could she fall any harder for him?
His lips stretched into a playful grin. “Now, where shall I put my clothes?”
She laughed.
Yes, apparently, she could.
God help her.
…
They talked as she sketched him—drawing after drawing.
James found himself completely at ease. She didn’t ask him to stay still or to affect a pose. In fact, when she noticed him trying to retain the same position, she scolded him gently.
“Just relax,” she instructed, moving her pencil over the page with a fluid grace both hypnotic and delightful. “I’m not drawing stuffed-shirt James Dyson. I’m drawing you.”
He chuckled, taking a sip of the strong black coffee Zach had made before heading off with his friend. For a moment, as Sienna’s brother had said good-bye to her, James wanted to mention Ricco was the only son of the country’s Federal Opposition Leader. Did Sienna know? Even poor, her family moved in circles beyond the average person. Was it in their blood? To draw those of power and significance?
“Are you sure the me you’re drawing doesn’t have his clothes off?” he asked.
“Zip it, Dyson.” Her lips twitched. “I’m drawing your mouth now.”
“So you’re focused on my lips?”
The thought of her studying his mouth so closely sent a hot pulse of hunger to his groin.
“Uh-hmm,” she said, giving him an absentminded nod as she focused on her drawing.
He sat silently, waiting for her to look up at him.
She did. Finally.
He poked his tongue out at her.
She snorted and poked hers back.
He laughed and gave up any pretense of being the perfect model.
Rising to his feet, he closed the small distance between them, threaded his fingers in the cool tumble of her hair at her nape, and lowered his head to hers.
“Very hard for me to draw you like this,” she whispered, her gaze meeting his.
“Very hard is the operative word,” he murmured a heartbeat before brushing her lip with his in a teasing kiss. “Or words, to be more accurate.”
“It’s important to be accurate.” She placed her sketchbook and pencil on the table without breaking eye contact with him. Her breath fanned his lips, a soft, warm kiss of air that ignited a fire inside him.
“It is.” He exerted just enough pressure on the back of her head to let her know he wanted her to stand. She did so, smoothing her hands up his chest until their bellies, their hips, touched. The heat from her body seeped into his. The curve of her sex brushed the bulge of his groin.
“For instance,” she continued, combing her fingers through his hair, “if I was to say I’d like to make love to you now, it wouldn’t be entirely an accurate statement.”
James stilled. He pulled his head away from hers a little, searching her eyes. “It wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “No. The more accurate statement would be I want you to make love to me right now more than I want to breathe.”
A raw growl tore at his throat, and he crushed her lips with his.
She met his hunger with equal passion, pressing her body to his. He raked his hands down her back, a part of his brain telling him how incredible she felt, how exquisite her curves and dips and planes were, the rest of him surrendering to the concentrated pleasure of kissing and holding her.
The toned muscles of her arse filled his hand, firm and soft in the most perfect, feminine way. Moving his mouth to her throat, he sought out the fly of the loose jeans she wore low on her hips.
Way too many fumbles later, he shoved her jeans down her thighs, dropped to his knees before her, and touched his tongue to the center of her heat.
“Oh God, James.” She buried her fingers in his hair, rolling her hips toward him.
He loved the sound of his name falling from her in a ragged breath. Parting her folds gently with his thumbs, he slid his tongue over the tiny nub of flesh he’d revealed.
She whimpered, her knees trembling enough he needed to support her with his hands.
“You…you make me feel…amazing,” she said, each word little more than a husky rasp.
“You make me feel like I truly have a heart.” He gazed up at her as he caressed her sensitive flesh with his thumb.
She moaned, meeting his eyes. “You have a heart.” She touched his jaw, his cheek, his lips. “You have mine.”
With a low groan, he straightened to his feet, hauled her up into his arms, and carried her to her studio.
“The drawing can wait,” he stated, reaching the throw rug and cushion-covered sofa. “I can’t.”
She studied him, her pupils dilated, her breath shallow. “That’s okay. I think my muse is a tad distracted.”
“Fucking better be,” he growled before lowering her to the sofa.
; He took possession of her lips again, worshipping them, exploring them with infinite desire and attention.
She arched beneath him, snaring his wrist with a firm hand to smooth his fingers beneath the hem of her tank top, directing his palm up her rib cage until he cupped her left breast. He kneaded its heavy swell, pinching and plucking at her nipple, making love to her mouth as he did so.
And then he was feasting on her breast, her shirt a crumple of cotton on the floor, her legs wrapped around his hips as he suckled on first one nipple and then the other. She moaned and begged him to suck harder, to use his teeth.
His body responded to the wild, uninhibited requests. His groin flooded with liquid steel, his erection protesting at being confined by boxers and chinos.
Lifting his head from her breast, he looked down into her pleasure-fogged eyes. “I need to be inside you, Si.”
“Do you see me arguing against that?”
He chuckled, dipping his hand between their bodies, his fingers into her slick heat. “This is all in the name of getting your creative juices flowing.”
She let out a hitching whimper.
“Christ,” he moaned against the side of her neck, scissoring his fingers together. “You are so tight and wet and perfect.”
She fisted her hand in his hair, her breath growing rapid. “I want you inside me.”
He lifted his head and nipped her bottom lip with a playful kiss. “I am.”
She punished his flippant tease with a tight squeeze of his hips with her thighs. “Don’t make me beg.”
His heart skipped a beat. “What if I want you to?”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, pleasure etching her face as he stroked the sweetest spot within her walls. “I’m begging you, James Dyson. Please. Make love to—”
He didn’t let her finish. Capturing her plea with his mouth, he kissed her, lowering the zipper of his fly as he did so. His engorged length sprang free of his chinos, straining against his boxers. Before he could lower them, she did, hooking her toes beneath their waistband and dragging them down over his hips and butt and thighs.
The room’s air kissed his bare legs and balls a heartbeat before Sienna took his erection in her hand.
He tore away from the kiss, looking down at her. “I don’t know what I was doing with my life until I met you, Si.”
“Me, either,” she answered with a soft throaty laugh that almost undid him.
Closing his fingers around hers, he held her stare, aligning the tip of his flesh to her entry. “You are nothing like I thought you were.”
And with that, he sank into her with one fluid thrust.
They moved together, their rhythm a beautiful harmony, their bodies fitting together with sublime perfection.
He stroked into her over and over, gazing into her eyes, reveling in the pleasure he saw burning in them.
Pleasure he gave her. Him. James Dyson. A man who made it his mission in life to take pleasure, not give it.
They came together, silent except for their breathing, their stares locked, their fingers threaded, their bodies moving as one.
As her walls contracted around his embedded length in fading pulses, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I like who I am when I’m with you,” he confessed. “Thank you.”
She smoothed her fingers up his back. “You don’t like who you are when you’re not?”
He raised his head, finding her frowning at him. “I can be a bit of an arrogant bastard.”
She laughed. “A bit?”
He pouted.
She laughed again, trialing her fingertips up his back. “Leave the arrogant bastard at the office, and we’ll get along just fine.”
His heart thumped up into his throat. He had to tell her. He wanted to get along fine with her, not just here in her studio, but everywhere. He wanted to be with her completely. He couldn’t do that without being truthful with her.
“Si?”
She frowned. “Yes?”
Someone knocked on the door. “Sienna Roberts?” a muffled and distant male voice came from outside.
James sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t need to hear the shout any clearer to know who it was.
“This is Thomas St. Clair,” Thomas continued, laughter dancing in his thick New York accent. “And I’m here to seduce you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sienna blinked. Did she hear that correctly?
James studied her, his expression unreadable.
She frowned. What did she do?
“Open up, Sienna Roberts,” the American author yelled outside her home, thumping on the door again. “So I can seduce you away from Dyson.”
“Okay,” James grumbled, shoving himself off her. “I need to bring this to an end.”
She shifted into a sitting position, acutely aware of the loss of body-to-body contact with him. “I don’t think he means it.”
He snatched his chinos up from the floor and tugged them on, flicking her a grin. “I know. And if he did, he’d fail.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure?”
He swooped down and crushed her lips in a searing, hungry kiss. “Yes.”
The single-word answer hung on the air—ripe with smug conceit—as he strode out of her studio space.
“You probably should get dressed,” he threw over his shoulder as he approached the door. “If St. Clair sees you naked, I’ll be forced to beat the shit out of him.”
Cheeks warm, she scrambled for her clothes, a chuckle tickling her throat.
“Go away, St. Clair,” James’s greeting floated back to her, accompanied by the faint noises of the world beyond her home. “Your timing sucks.”
Thomas laughed. “Figured you might be here, dude. Didn’t expect the semi-naked look, though. Y’know, this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without a shirt. Goddamn, your chest has got some hair on it. Have you considered waxing?”
James laughed in return. “My chest has nothing on your arse, mate. I’ve seen it, remember?”
Sienna pressed her palm to her mouth, hoping to smother her giggle. She failed. Both men turned to look at her.
“There she is.” Thomas strode past James, his grin locked on her. “The goddess I intend to make mine. Forget this loser and run away with me. I’ll write a book about you and make you famous.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t you write horror novels?”
He stopped directly in front of her, snagged her fingers with his to tug her closer, and dropped a kiss first on her right cheek and then the left, before smiling wide. “What? You’ve never heard of a sex demon?”
“Yeah, yeah.” James appeared at his side, extracting Sienna’s hands to pull her into his side. “Sienna’s not suckered in by your charms.”
Mischief danced in Thomas’s gaze as he regarded them both. “A shame. I would have given her the world. Or at least a penthouse in New York.”
She laughed. “I thank you for the offer, Mr. St. Clair. But I’m a converted-warehouse kind of girl.”
He nodded and turned his devilish grin on James. “You win again, M—”
“Coffee?” James burst out, stepping away from her to clap a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Want some?”
Thomas flinched at his abrupt offer. A frown of confusion wrinkled his forehead. “Err…sure.”
“Good, good.” James slapped him on the back, directing him away from where they stood. “Still black with ten sugars?”
“Dude,” Thomas protested. “Don’t exaggerate. It’s only eight.”
She watched them go, a small flutter of uncertainty stirring in her tummy. Why did James’s behavior suddenly seem out of sorts? Was he really jealous? Surely not? After last night and this morning, didn’t he realize she wasn’t in any way interested in another man?
But then, when he first arrived here demanding she paint his portrait, he considered her a gold digger who used sex to get what she wanted.
A cold finger traced up her spin
e. When had he changed his mind about that? She’d told him outright she wasn’t, but had that been enough? He still didn’t know the full story of her and Clint, and yet their relationship had shifted somewhere. Had gone from one of antagonistic contempt and carnal sexual attraction to a relaxed and wonderful sense of companionship and desire. How had that happened? And why?
Maybe because James felt the same way she did? That they had a connection beyond sex? Maybe, in the time they’d been together, he’d realized she was not the person he thought she was?
And maybe Dad will get paroled today and all the money he embezzled will suddenly reappear where it’s meant to be?
She chewed on her bottom lip. Why did she suddenly feel so…so…
James turned and looked at her from the kitchen, a mug of what she assumed was hot coffee in his hands. Their eyes met. His lips curled into a smile.
The knot in her stomach tightened. She’d fallen in love with him. Just like that. But they still both had so much baggage, so many things that needed to be said. Oh God, why hadn’t she put the brakes on this when he’d first made her smile? Why hadn’t she—
“I want to buy your drawing, goddess.”
Sienna swung her stare to Thomas, who once again was back in her studio. How had she not noticed that?
He stood in front of her drawing table, studying the artwork Zach had told her he’d offered to buy the previous night. Like James, he held a mug of coffee. She couldn’t help but wince. Of course, it would be a chipped mug. What else would the world’s most successful author drink from when at her place but an old, chipped mug she’d bought for fifty cents at a thrift shop?
“You do?” She cast his profile a curious look.
“I do. The dude over there’s sister tried to outbid me last night, but I want it more than her. So here I am.” He nodded, as if pleased with himself.
A small smile played with her lips. She gave James a glance, a rush of happiness flowing through her when their eyes met again. He winked. This time it wasn’t just happiness rushing through her, but something far more hot and physical.
The Stubborn Billionaire (a Muse novel) Page 16