I pick up a different charcoal pencil before filling in more detail. Then I flip over the thick sheet and start a new one. The more pieces I have to choose from for the final portfolio, the better off I’ll be. My fingers move swiftly over the paper, forming the lines of his body before shading in the specifics. Bone structure. Muscles. Ligaments.
“Do you mind if I stretch for a minute?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m getting a little stiff.”
My attention drops to his cock.
“Not there,” he says with a snort.
Color slams into my cheeks that I’ve been caught checking out his package. Normally, I’m able to remove myself from the situation and get into the frame of mind where I can stare at his body and not think of Brayden in a sexual manner. It’s the same way you can stare at a piece of art or sculpture of a naked form and appreciate it solely for its beauty without getting turned on.
He chuckles when I avert my gaze to the sketch pad and pretend to examine the drawing. It’s a low sound that strums something deep inside.
Brayden has the rare ability to make me feel like a stupid schoolgirl, and that’s not who I am.
Like, at all.
I was sixteen years old and a junior in high school when I had sex for the first time. That was five years and many boyfriends ago. He shouldn’t be able to affect me so easily.
Maybe it’s because I’ve always been the aggressor in relationships. I’ve taken control and set the pace, deciding what happened. That, however, isn’t the way my pseudo-relationship with Brayden has unfolded. Since the beginning, he’s the one who’s assumed control and called all the shots.
Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe I need to wrestle a bit of power away from him and then everything else will fall into place. Instead of feeling at a disadvantage, I’ll have leveled the playing field.
The idea churns in my head as my gaze lifts to his, watching as he stretches his arms overhead. The long, lean lines of his muscles lengthen. The image he makes hits me like a punch to the gut before settling like a heavy stone in my core. I’ve never felt this kind of intense physical attraction to someone before.
Making a snap decision, I toss the sketch pad aside. Enough work has been accomplished for the day. With my gaze locked on Brayden, I rise from the chair I’m perched on. As soon as I do, his gaze sharpens. Other than his arms falling back to his sides, he doesn’t move, only continues to watch me through hooded lids.
When I’m no more than a foot away, I raise both hands before settling my palms against the warm flesh of his chest and the sinewy muscle that lies beneath. Even though I have yet to explore his body physically, I feel intimately acquainted with it. I could describe every ridge and contour in glorious detail. Every dip and swell. I’ve spent so many hours staring at him that my fingertips itch to discover the firm flesh for themselves. I want to feel every hard line instead of simply capturing them on paper.
My gaze falls, needing to study him up close and personal. It no longer matters if he’s watching me from beneath the thick fringe of his dark lashes. He stands perfectly still as my palms drift upward, gliding across hard pectorals and over sculpted shoulders. I move from his tightly corded neck to his powerful arms before smoothing them over the bulge of his biceps.
Unwilling to end my perusal, I reverse the motion until my palms once again arrive at his broad chest. Even though he remains immobile, his heart picks up its tempo, thumping faster.
Is it my touch that causes this reaction?
The thought is a heady sensation.
My gaze lifts, flickering to his. The heat that fills his eyes is enough to scald me alive.
Instead of moving upward again, my palms descend, floating over washboard abdominals. They are so damn tight. Hard as a rock. I can almost imagine how many hours Brayden must put in at the gym. This isn’t the kind of physique you get just showing up for practice every day. Hours’ worth of work have sculpted every tightly honed muscle. My body is trim, but I don’t have this kind of impressive definition. I have neither the time nor commitment to achieve it.
As my fingers slide downward, my gaze follows their path. Just like he accused earlier, I’m eating him up with my eyes. I can’t help myself. On each side of his lower abdomen are the chiseled lines of a V that look as if they’ve been carved from marble. They’re like a brightly lit Vegas Strip sign, arrowing toward his thick erection.