Unforgettable Heroes Boxed Set

by James, Maddie

  A couple of the women he’d wanted to paint wearing only a smile had mistaken his interest in getting their clothes off, and after he’d clarified his purpose in having them in his studio, both had treated his “cute little hobby” with amused disdain.

  He’d finally lost all desire to do a female body study on canvas months before when his last attempt had told him to stop being a spoiled baby and do what his father wanted him to do. She, of course, made noises that she would be happy to help him set his life up as it should be. He’d taken her home immediately and that was the end of that.

  It was his own fault for inviting the daughters of his parent’s friends to sit for him. No doubt they’d all hoped an invitation to “see his etchings” meant a chance to bed him, and hopefully either trap him into marriage, or ingrain themselves so deeply in his heart he’d ask for their hand in marriage with or without a baby on the way.

  He wasn’t stupid. Not a one of them respected his art, and if they didn’t get his craft, they didn’t, and wouldn’t, get him. No-siree. The conclusion he’d finally come to was that he’d have to wait until he’d made a reputation for himself as an artist before any woman took his need to get her naked beyond the physical. With his family name and fortune hanging around his neck, he’d figured he’d be old and gray before women looked at him as anything other than a meal ticket to the good life.

  Even if his father ever allowed him to lead his own life rather than trying to dictate it.

  “Hey. If you’d rather not do a nude, that’s okay. I could just sit for a portrait if you’d like.”

  Phillip shook his head, not wanting his musings to be misconstrued. “No. I’d love to do a nude. I haven’t done one yet.” He didn’t add that she would have been his first and only pick to do such a painting had he always known of her. There was something almost magical about her beauty. Ethereal. Mystical, even. At least that was the only explanation he could come up with for this instant feeling of connection to her. He’d never felt it before. It was as if he’d once known her. Which was ridiculous. Hers was a face one would never forget.

  “It would have to be some place very private. And you would have to promise to let me buy it when it’s done. I don’t want it sold to a stranger.”

  Phillip was silent a moment. Could he give it up once he got her on canvas? Only if he made more than one painting, which he knew he would have to do anyway. “It’s yours.” He felt a moment’s twinge and knew it was guilt, but he pushed it away. He had to paint her. Several, maybe even a whole show’s worth of paintings. She was what he’d been missing. She was what he needed to be able to put together a show.

  No matter what, he had to have her. Even if it meant lying to her.

  “You don’t have to worry about privacy. I have a studio.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Your very own?”

  Damn, he didn’t want to mess this up by letting her know he was rich. “It actually belongs to a friend of mine, but his parents took him overseas for a year so I’m house-sitting for them and get full use of the place.”

  “Wow. That is so cool. I need to move away from my family. I live with my aunts. I love them, but they completely cramp my style.” She laughed. “They cramp it so much I’m not even sure I have a style.”

  Phillip laughed, completely captivated with her, wanting to tell her she had all kinds of style. But he didn’t want to screw up the opportunity she was handing him so he forced himself to chill. “When do you want to get started?”

  She glanced at the tiny watch on her left wrist. “How long will it take?”

  Phillip knew he could paint her from memory and imagination, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “I’ll need to make several preliminary sketches to get the feel of your proportions. That alone could take several sessions. Then I’ll need to study you in different lighting situations. And positions.” Phillip had to take a deep breath, afraid he’d hyperventilate if he didn’t stop thinking about all the possible positions he could place her in.

  “This is so exciting! Can we start tomorrow night? I think I can slip out around seven. The aunts go to bed early.”

  Phillip wanted to tell her to come home with him now but he didn’t want to spook her. He couldn’t believe such a beautiful woman would consider stripping naked for a perfect stranger, but he wasn’t going to question his luck. “That’s perfect.” He pulled a pen from inside his blazer and scribbled an address on one of a stack of small napkins lying on the table. “Just come to this address tomorrow night and I’ll have everything set up.”

  She smiled at him, her excitement more childlike than he expected. He smiled back, more intrigued with her than he’d been with a woman for as long as he could remember.

  She bit her bottom lip, suddenly looking as if she was having second thoughts. “You are a nice guy, right?”

  Phillip felt relief, though why he should, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it that her latent survival instincts more than anything else reassured him that she really didn’t know him, and that she was too nice a girl to allow a perfect stranger lure her to his apartment without giving it any thought.

  He nodded. “I’m a real nice guy.”

  Her pearly-whites reappeared in the form of a soft smile. “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night, then. Night.”

  “Night, yourself,” Phillip responded, and admired her slightly swaying hips as she reentered the apartment’s patio doors. “A very good night, in fact,” he said, taking a moment to look to the stars. Yes, a very good night.

  Chapter Two

  Aurora made it out the kitchen door before the aunts were up, which rarely happened, but she’d set her alarm clock for four with leaving the house at dawn in mind. The women were tenacious when it came to knowing every detail about every minute of her life and for the first time she really didn’t want to share. Her meeting with Phillip Preston was, without question, the most exciting thing that had happened to her outside of her craft and she wanted to hold it to herself for as long as possible.

  He’d been the last thing on her mind before giving in to sleep the night before, which probably explained his appearance in her dream. It had been as innocent as their meeting, but in it she had gotten a better chance to relax and study the man. And, as an artist herself, she had found him an incredible work of art.

  He’d been tall, at least six or more inches taller than her own statuesque five-eleven, and he’d had a head full of light-reflecting mahogany close-cropped curls that suited the strong angular jaw and eyes so deeply brown that in shadow they looked black.

  Not the least bit lanky, he’d filled out that incredibly sewn blazer like a man with a man’s body. Broad of shoulder, lean of hip, and, long, long legs encased in designer jeans that ended in what she was sure were size eleven snakeskin boots. That she hadn’t noticed the details of the clothing he’d worn the previous evening, until sleep had opened her mind, said something about the appeal of the man himself. For the first time since finding her passion in the wonderful world of fashion there was something else that occupied her mind.

  She grinned to herself as she made her way to the small ancient car she kept for driving back and forth to school. Some days it took as much as an hour each way for her to drive into the City but attending the DeLaCourt Institute of Art had made the drive worthwhile over the last few years.

  Getting to attend had been surprisingly easy, considering the aunts hadn’t allowed her out of their collective sights for all the years preceding her acceptance to what was undoubtedly the most prestigious school for artists in a city where art was king. She loved the campus, with its old world feel, richly manicured lawns, and she had been secretly fascinated her whole life by the tragic story of the founders.

  It was so romantic. Almost a fairytale gone wrong. And like all children’s stories, the characters involved had been larger than life. Just like the grounds upon which the college stood. It was almost out of place, like an oasis of peace surrounded by hustle and bustle of everyday l
ife passing by at the speed of light.

  New York was a greedy bitch in many ways. But once you entered the mother of pearl golden-accented gates, and stepped foot onto the campus lawns surrounded by twenty foot high hedges, scents instantly sweetened, the sun shone brighter, and the strategically placed fountains throughout the campus grounds diffused street sounds so that all that was left was the sound of water falling, rushing, or tinkling.

  Every inch of the campus was a work of art, and showcased the always rotating works of those who had come and gone in years past. Exterior pieces included statuary derived from metal, or stone, even marble. Forms of human figures both realistic and abstract graced the grounds with student-designed and -built benches and tables. Sometimes artists combined their crafts, like the large white marble tablets chiseled with poetry. These collaborative efforts gave DeLaCourt students reason to pause along flower-bordered paths, designed by student landscape artists, as they went from class to class and building to building. And finally, strategically placed speakers piped the tunes coming from the music rooms to white marble gazebos located at each of the six corners of the campus. These gazebos, like each of the Grecian style buildings, were the anchors to an otherwise ever-changing vista.

  Interior works were just as breathtaking, and just as ever-changing. From wall sized, to an inch square, paintings of every imaginable type hung from ornately decorated walls in rooms decorated by previous years design students. Tapestries, woven rugs, and more statues graced richly paneled entryways with extensively carved curving stairwells that led to other ornately designed rooms. Classrooms were, like the rest of the campus, continually changing as each student whose work had been deemed extraordinary replaced an object or even an entire space with a new and exciting design. Music majors contributed new and original works as a backdrop to the art made by the hands, bodies, and souls of the other students.

  There wasn’t an inch of the campus Aurora had visited that she didn’t love. In many ways, it felt more like home than the little house she shared with the aunts. But maybe, she thought, it felt that way because when she was there, she was free.

  She left the house and headed to a little coffee and doughnut shop she knew would already be opened. With the sun only a promise on the horizon, the campus gates would still be locked and she wanted time to reflect, to prepare, and to dream.

  About Phillip.

  Aurora smiled to herself. One simple meeting and her whole focus had changed. Normally she reflected, prepared, and dreamed about fashion. Not about a cute guy who had an artistic passion of his own. Not about stripping naked for the cute guy and having him paint her and not about sex. Which was something she’d rarely had a chance to think about before. And she was, after all, only human.

  What healthy twenty-year-old woman wouldn’t look at Phillip and think about sex? She glanced at her watch and quickly calculated. Fourteen more hours, and counting.

  ****

  Phillip lay staring up at his ceiling as he had all night. There was nothing he could do about not being able to sleep. Not getting the shut-eye wasn’t really that big of a deal since he often lost a night here or there when he needed to get what was inside of him on canvas. With dawn quickly approaching, he had no choice but to lay his insomnia at the feet of one incredibly beautiful woman. A mystery woman whose name he still didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to get her off his mind. Not even a detailed fantasy with her playing the starring role and the subsequent ejaculation that resulted had helped to ease his need to see her.

  He’d never been so affected by a woman. He’d never been so obsessed with anything outside of his art. In a way it was scary to realize he could obsess over a person. That he was even now swelling with the thought of seeing her, touching her, painting her.

  Phillip slid his hand beneath his sheet, privately embarrassed that he was stroking himself again. He had no problem with self-satisfaction, as it was clearly the safest sex he could have, but he’d already jacked-off twice over her in the last eight hours, and the relief had been short-lived, and not very satisfying. The only benefit had been he hadn’t been hard for a while immediately afterwards. Until she forced her way back into his mind. Then the cycle started all over again.

  Realistically he knew he should be proud that he hadn’t masturbated every hour on the hour that she’d cost him sleep. That really would have been sick. For most of the night he’d just suffered until finally, he’d convinced himself the relief would get her out of his mind. It hadn’t. Which meant he needed to contact her and tell her he couldn’t paint her.

  Satisfied he was doing the right thing, Phillip pushed off his top-sheet, closed his eyes and increased the pressure of his strokes, imagining it was her hand tight-fisting his penis’s head, tugging it harder, allowing the pressure to build and build before she eased up and long-stoked him. He threw his head back into his pillow, seeing her smiling eyes, wanting to taste her luscious lips, wanting to dip his fingers into her moist heat as she resumed the squeezing, stroking, squeezing.

  He envisioned her devilish smile before she lowering her head, aiming her lips where he imagined her hand. She stroked, squeezed, squeezed, squeezed as she drew closer to the engorged head until he knew her mouth was only a hairsbreadth away. Her feminine tongue appeared, long, pink, and wet.

  The eruption took him off the bed, spraying sperm up over his head where it splashed and spatter over his face and chest before hitting the headboard. He lay there motionless for several minutes until his breathing slowed and his laughing stopped as he waited for his mind to begin functioning again. There was no way he could let her out of his life without seeing one more time.

  Ethics be damned. He was only a man.

  Chapter Three

  It’s him!

  Aurora bit her bottom lip and tried not to stare, but it was impossible after she’d spent not only a night dreaming about him, but all day thinking about him as well. Every part of her tingled with excitement, making her feel giddy.

  Giddiness was new, something she’d never experienced before. She slowly made her way across the tundra of the Golden Building, dodging other students ready to call it a day. She’d just finished her last class and was filled with both nerves and excitement over the upcoming evening. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on the formal gown she’d designed and ending up pulling the hem out twice before her instructor had asked if she was feeling all right.

  As soon as she’d escaped from class she called the aunts to tell them she was staying at school to study for a major exam the next day. She hated to lie to them but she knew, in this case, the truth would not set her free. If the aunts had any idea of what she was really doing they’d call in the National Guard and have her caged for the rest of her life. She approached Phillip, hanging back when he spotted her, then frowned.

  Unsure what his frown meant, Aurora took a tentative step forward as a very well dressed girl practically pushed her out of the way to walk straight into Phillip’s arms.

  “Phillip, darling! I am so happy to see you! What are you doing here? Miss the old place?”

  Phillip tore his gaze from his mystery woman and turned to Heather Vandenbalm, the daughter of his father’s head finance officer. He’d been coupled with Heather many times in all their years at his parent’s social functions where the Vandenbalms were treated as valuable employees of the Princeton Enterprise family. He and Heather were thrown together twice yearly at their birthday parties growing up, until finally in their late teens and as recently as a year ago they’d hooked up as on again, off again lovers.

  It hadn’t meant any more to her than it had him, but they’d enjoyed scratching each other’s itch when the opportunity arose. Though now, he felt cheapened in the eyes of a woman he barely knew. It didn’t matter that it shouldn’t have mattered what she thought of him. The surprise, then disappointment in her eyes should have meant nothing to him at all, but he’d fantasized about those eyes all night and pretty much all day as well.


  “Hey! Not even a hello peck on the lips?”

  Heather, like him, was a child of wealth and privilege, due in large part because of her father’s connection to his father, but unlike him, she wouldn’t have it any other way. “Heather.”

  She squirmed in his arms, pressing the lower half of her body against his. “Is that all you have to say, lover?”

  Embarrassment washed over him as the woman he’d daydreamed about turned and walked away. He hadn’t expected to see her here. He’d just stopped by to talk to one of his old professors, a well-respected artist that had become as much mentor and friend as teacher when Phillip had attended DeLaCourt College. He’d needed some guidance, some perspective, and the subject of that discussion was the woman who was quickly making her way out of the building, and he suspected, out of his life.

  He’d planned to tell her he couldn’t paint her when she showed up at his condo in a few hours, following his conscience, and his mentor’s suggestion that he let her go. But, after seeing her from across the domed, circular room, he’d wanted nothing more than to beg her to let him paint her. The light had made a halo of her golden curls and sapphires of her incredible eyes.

  Her lips had tilted in a half-smile that spoke of innocence, yet there had been just a hint of something more. Maybe welcome, maybe happiness to see him. It hit him squarely in the gut, and lower, in the groin. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her as she crossed the room to him, then he’d seen Heather barreling her way towards him, and the spell was broken.

  He turned to his long-time friend and forced himself to smile in welcome. It wasn’t her fault he felt such a deep sense of disappointment. Maybe it was all for the best. This way he didn’t have to send his mystery woman packing. She was already gone.