His attention dropped to her leg. “They’ll fade nicely in time. This is the worst one, isn’t it?”
He indicated the puckered scar on her calf with a wave of his hand and goosebumps rose on her skin, as if he’d come into contact with it. But he hadn’t, and she wanted him to. In the worst way. These days Vashti was always honest with herself. She longed for him as she hadn’t longed for a man for over a year. In her mind’s eye she could see him, his muscles bunching as he drove his cock into her.
No! Distraction!
Every time interest turned to her injury, she diverted herself, other people’s minds. Time to face it dead-on.
“Did you enjoy the other work?” he asked her.
She meant to lie to him, but something in his eyes told her he would know. That clear green said he’d understand if she lied, but he wouldn’t invite any more conversation. And she was so enjoying this, being treated like a human being. She didn’t want it to stop. So she spoke the truth.
“Not in the last four years. Up until then, it was exciting. I was climbing the career ladder and making lots of money, but when I turned twenty, I wanted something else. My mother persuaded me to give it another five years. No doubt after that, she’d have asked me for another five. And I’d have probably done it.”
“I read about the accident. You couldn’t get out.”
It had taken her therapist six months to get her to remember. It had taken him half an hour. “Yes. My leg was trapped under my seat. The collision crushed the front of our car in, and compressed us against the dashboard. The airbag didn’t stop the rib that broke and punctured my mother’s lung.” The tears that came every time she thought of that day sprang to her eyes and she let them fall.
Her tears usually stopped most people, and led to sympathy, but it didn’t stop him.
“And you feel guilty, don’t you?”
“What about?” She’d faced the truth a few months ago, but that remained between her and her therapist.
“You feel guilty that you can’t be sorry for your mother’s death.”
Indignation swept through her in a hot tide, that he’d seen the truth…that he knew and he still sat next to her. How had he seen it, when the press, the photographers, even her friends had not? How did he know?
She took a moment, then responded in the expected way. She couldn’t think of any other method to counter him. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
“A hurting one. An honest one.” He paused, watching her closely.
Vashti met his scrutiny. To look away would be cowardly and she wasn’t about to start that now.
“So I’ll be honest in return. I want you as my model for this sculpture for more than your looks.” He stopped, waited.
His admission intrigued her. She sat still, not daring to reveal her feelings by moving, shifting away.
She lifted her chin. “I know my looks are unique. That’s what my whole career is based on. So what else is there?”
His eyes snared hers, trapped her. “Before the accident, you were strikingly beautiful. The perfect clothes-horse, with flawless golden skin and those amazing eyes. Gorgeous, but like the Titian rather than the Manet. All surface, giving away nothing. I don’t want that. When I saw pictures of you when you were leaving the hospital, most were you stoically facing the press, your mask firmly in place. But once, just once, you let go.”
He put his finger in the book and flipped the pages to show her two pictures. One image was of her facing the press after leaving the hospital, printed in the centre of a large piece of photographic paper. The top picture was in colour, and she remembered how carefully she’d prepared for it, choosing her dress and make-up herself, without that constant voice behind her. She could still hear it. Do you think that liner is quite right? I’m not sure that shade of blusher suits you. If anything about her mother haunted her, it was that voice.
The lower picture was a candid snap. Used to the paparazzi, Vashti kept her public face on while she knew they were about, but this one was taken by a camera phone, when she’d been leaving the hospital on a less publicized visit. She wore a simple T-shirt and no make-up and the photographer had captured the haunting loss in her eyes.
He stared at the picture rather than her. “I recognised that look. I felt that way when my father died. He was a hard man, constantly critical. He died when I was fifteen, and I felt nothing but relief when we lost him. I couldn’t tell anyone because they were all officially devastated by his death. My mother never recovered, but he’d never showed me anything other than criticism. I was the son. I had to do what sons did. Not become an artist, nothing like that. He equated artists with gays and he equated gays with effeminacy. Neither of which is true.”
Inspired by his brutal honesty, she decided to ask her own question. And get him away from her. “Are you gay?” Sure, she’d seen him with women, but only in public and she knew how well people could hide secrets.
But his laughter held no shadows. “No. When I look at you, gay is the last thing I am. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Chapter Two
She followed his gaze down to his lap. When he moved the book and laid it to one side, she saw what he meant. His well-worn, soft jeans did nothing to hide his hard-on.
Despite her good intentions, she couldn’t help smiling, loving that she’d had that effect on him. Warmth flooded her when she realised that someone would see her scars and still want her, but she knew that for the superficial affirmation she needed. Her scars weren’t too bad, wouldn’t deter the average male, only the picky perfectionists she used to work for. Except that she still limped when she didn’t concentrate.
“I’ve noticed now. Don’t you know anything about model-artist etiquette?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re my first live model since art college. I decided to move over to representative art this year. I’ve worked in abstracts until now.”
He slanted her a glance full of mischief, and like his smile, it transformed him. He enchanted her. That was it. He cast a spell that caught her completely. When he was solemn, he was completely solemn, but his smile had no boundaries to it. Volatile, concentrated and entirely his own person. She wanted it. She wanted whatever he had that made him so alive, so vital. And so honest.
His honesty made her long for more. All her adult life—no, make that all her life—she’d assumed that lying, dissimulation and game-playing was the norm. Now, this man told her the truth and seemed to assume that she would tell him the truth in return.
“So why are you changing your style?”
He took her hand and stared at the palm. “Because I want to. I have two big shows coming up, at the Hayward here in London, and at the Guggenheim. Huge kudos, great boost to my career, or so my agent tells me. But they’re retrospectives. At my age, retrospectives!” He gave her a glance she would have almost called shy, his gaze flicking away from hers as if he were ashamed to admit it. “I’m twenty-eight. It’s ludicrous.”
She was twenty-four and her career could well be over. She didn’t see it as ludicrous in the least. But she didn’t say so.
“I thought I’d use the shows to indicate a new direction. I saw you and I had thoughts, ideas. Got excited.”
“Me? Why?”
He glanced at the book. “That photograph. It intrigued me. Then I looked into your life and that intrigued me more.”
Vashti wondered if she should reach for the robe lying on a stool at the side of the chaise and decided against it. Being naked was almost a natural state for her. Wearing a flimsy robe could, she knew from experience, be more titillating, draw more attention to her body, not less. So she sat still and listened. At least this studio was pleasantly warm.
“You’ve worked as a model since you were small. The public has known your face since you were five years old. You’ve sold washing powder, cars, dolls, chocolate, and most recently high fashion and cosmetics. And yet you still have a core of integrity. I wanted to know if it was you, o
r your remarkable looks.”
Honest, yes. Flattering, no. But she held on, revelled in this new exchange. “My looks I inherited from my grandmothers. One was Indian, one was Chinese. That makes for an interesting combination. But it’s nothing to do with me. I was brought up American. New York to be precise. Perhaps having a heritage that has nothing to do with the way I looked, helped. Or maybe being independent from an early age.” She could trust him with this. Anyone reading about her could guess this much. “My father died when I was young. So it was just mom and me. We weren’t rich, but we did okay, well enough not to have to worry about where the next penny was coming from. When I did my first ad, it was because my mother had taken me around to the agencies. But it’s hard work, so I learnt early to be self-reliant. And to look on my appearance as an asset, not connected with me except accidentally.”
He watched her with a strange, fascinated look on his face. “Exactly. You and your body are two separate things. Have you ever felt at one with it?”
She frowned. “I’m comfortable in my skin, sure.”
“But have you ever done something and not worried about how you look?”
She almost said yes, but then she had to think again. She frowned and forced herself to be open and honest. “I don’t know.” Even when on her own she habitually checked herself in mirrors, dressed well, wore make-up. Not because of any vanity, she didn’t know a single model who had any illusions about her looks, but because, ever since the age of five, she’d been in the public eye, trained to look and behave in a certain way.
Her gaze flew to his, and she found concern there. She hadn’t expected that. Honesty, curiosity, yes, but not concern.
He murmured something, she didn’t know what, then he leant in to touch his lips to hers. Could it have been, ‘Poor baby’?
Soft, warm caresses, initiating a contact she’d never undergone before. She’d known this man less than a day and he’d driven right through to her soul, teaching her things about herself she’d never known. Helping her to move on with her life.
Right now, her life could go into total stasis and she wouldn’t care. His arm went around her shoulders, but she didn’t draw back. Usually she hated to be caged, but this felt less like captivity, more like freedom.
It could have been a gentle kiss of friendship, but it felt like more. No, that was wrong. She wanted more. Longed for it. If he wanted to give it.
Maybe he did, because when she parted her lips, he took advantage and pushed his tongue into her mouth. Not forcefully, but with a glad acceptance of what she offered, tasting her, the first taste of a deeper flavour. She wanted him to take. Just take, give her tired mind a rest. He’d opened new avenues of thought for her. Now she wanted to stop thinking until she’d assimilated what he’d taught her.
He caressed her shoulder while his other arm slid around her waist, his hand spreading over the curve and encroaching on the swell of her hip.
He stroked her tongue. She responded with a muffled moan, then she reached for him. She felt heat, smooth skin contoured with hard, male muscle and spread her hand to savour as much as she could. Oh yes.
He drew back and stared at her, eyes hooded under heavy lids. “This is not what I imagined would happen the first time I employed a model.” He smiled with lips moist from her mouth, and just like that, she fell deeper under his spell. “You should say no.”
“How about pretending that this is out of working hours?”
He smoothed his hand up her rib cage, coming to rest just below her breast. “I still want you to model for me. If what we do next will affect that, tell me now.”
Did he want her looks more than he wanted her body? Of course he did. Everybody did. But she wanted him, and that made a difference. “No, I’ll still model for you.”
He needed no other assurances, and dipped his head again to take another kiss.
This time she held him as he kissed her, felt the hair on his chest abrade her nipples, inciting them to peak for him. He cupped her breast in his hand, stroked his thumb across the tip and she sighed into his mouth, wanting more.
When he opened his mouth wider and ate at her lips, she moaned. He took her as if she belonged to him, tasting her deeper with every stroke of his tongue. Her body ached to press against his, all the way down. She wanted him naked, just like her.
He got to his feet, holding out his hand. A strong, capable hand, with small scars decorating the palm, probably from the chisels and hammers he used when he worked marble, or the burns from the hot metals he used to cast his sculptures. “Come to bed. I don’t have anything to protect you with here.”
“You don’t keep condoms in your studio?”
“No.” That devastating grin appeared again. “Usually I have a cube or a sphere to keep me company. I don’t need condoms with those.”
“I daresay I could find a cube or a sphere if you preferred it.”
He laughed and tugged her to her feet. “Maybe later.”
She was still laughing when he drew her out of the studio and across the hall to his bedroom.
After giving her a smouldering look that could have melted bronze all on its own, he left her to visit the bathroom. She heard the click of a cabinet and guessed that was where he kept his supplies. Not even in a bedside table! How much experience did this man have?
She sometimes wished she had less herself, but her sexual life had been the only time she’d been completely free of her mother’s constant nagging. Not even then, because dear old mom had made sure her daughter was on the Pill and supplied with condoms at all times. It didn’t stop Vashti from enjoying the encounters she’d shared with male models and friends. Never with designers. They wanted too much.
So why with this man? Why now, when she’d thought her libido had died of starvation?
He returned with a box in his hand. He perused her with a frank up and down stare, his eyes burning with arousal. “Fuck, I want you so much!”
Zoltan pulled her close, shoving his hand under her hair and spreading his fingers over her scalp. He used the hold to drag her head back, giving him access to her mouth.
Their lips touched, melded, sealed and Vashti gave herself to the experience, to the now, something she’d worked very hard with her therapist to achieve. Zoltan made it easy.
He tilted his head and tasted her deeply, as if he had all day. Which, she realised with a jolt, they had. Her life had been so full, she wasn’t used to stretching out the moment. No timetable, all the time she wanted. Christ.
She whimpered and grabbed his waistband, tugging until the snap fastener gave way. She carried on pulling, needing him open to her. The zipper slid down, snagging on his underwear and she’d have broken the zip if it hadn’t eventually given way. Finally she could shove her hand inside and touch the hard, rounded curve of his buttocks. Deliciously male, his muscles flexed under her palms.
He lifted her and shoved her up against the door. He was taller than she was by around four inches, but what she felt when she shoved his jeans down far enough to get a good grip was a lot more than that. Six, seven, eight, she didn’t care. His cock pulsed in her hand, wonderfully alive, wonderfully male and the musky scent of an aroused man wove its heady spell around her.
He pulled away, his mouth slightly open, and stared at her, wildness invading his gaze. For a second, fear danced along her spine when she saw the feral expression in those otherworldly eyes, but then he dragged her close, kissed her as if he couldn’t help himself.
Her hand, reluctant to let go, pumped him once, twice, before he drew away. He fell to his knees, bracketing her body with his arms, making her feel deliciously small and dainty, although that was far from the case. With a voracious eagerness that made her cream and gasp his name, he sucked her nipple into his mouth. Vashti only dimly felt the hard ridges of the door panels dig into her spine, even when the back of her head hit the surface. Her eyes remained open. She wanted to watch.
He ravaged her nipple, sucking it deep into
his mouth and she felt it crinkle and harden for him, tingling unbearably. She lifted her hand to tease the other nipple into a hard peak. His fingers covered hers and he pulled away, gasping. Cold air struck her.
“I could never sculpt what I can see now,” he murmured, his voice lower than sin.
She shivered in response, but it was no colder in here than in his studio. It didn’t take cold air to make her shiver.
He lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Hold on to me, sweetheart. That’s all you need to do.”
Her laugh came shakily, but it came. This was a day for firsts.
Groaning, he pressed his lips to her stomach and licked gently around her navel before dipping in and teasing the sensitive skin. The vibrations from his groan entered her so deeply that she felt as if they’d remain with her forever.
He continued down to her mound, kissing her skin, barely touching her and making her quiver with desire. He breathed hot air over her labia. “I love that you shave, but I want to know what your pubic hair looks like, too. I want it all.” His low, sexy voice caressed her as much as his breath did.
Her mind screamed, lick it!
“I—I guess I just got used to the feel of it waxed.”
“It means I can do this…” His voice trailed off to a whisper as he touched his tongue to her clit. She melted for him, her juices flowing freely. He could do whatever he wanted now. He gave her a gentle lick, then another, then pushed his face against her and breathed in deeply, noisily. That sound turned her on so much she doubted she could have stood upright without the door against her back.
Then he sucked, as voraciously as he’d sucked her nipple and she came apart, no longer with moans, but with full-throated cries.
Awareness stayed with her when he picked her up and strode to the bed, but lassitude entered her limbs for the few seconds it took him to lay her on the sheets, as he kicked off his jeans and sheathed his straining cock. Then he was on her, hot and hard and long, and she stared up at his face as he pushed into her welcoming wet heat. Her pussy sucked him in.
Unbroken Page 2