He chuckled, and the wicked rumble of it teased my skin.

“Pictures.”

Frustrated, I stepped forward and then stopped, not knowing what was in front of me.

“It’s okay,” he told me. “I cleared the space. There’s nothing to trip over or bump into.”

My heart sped up at the thoughtfulness of his gesture. “You did that for me?”

“Yes. I wanted you to feel comfortable and at ease here.”

Strangely, I did. Stepping closer toward the direction of his voice, I asked again, “What do you paint?”

This time, I heard him move. His feet shuffled across some fabric, maybe a drop cloth on the floor, before he stopped in front of me.

“I’ve been looking for something, something that will inspire me, Chantel. Something the world will look at and want to cry because it’s so fucking beautiful your body just can’t help but weep.”

I stood there speechless as his voice, coupled with the words he was telling me, pulled at my soul. From somewhere deep down inside of me, I realized what he wanted. I knew as he moved closer still that I was what he wanted to paint. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel.

Tilting my head to him, I stated softly, “The world is a big place. That’s a lot of people to touch and a lot of people to please.”

Absolute silence filled the space we were standing in, and he reached out, taking my hand. Tugging gently, he urged me forward, and I complied. I could hear the cloth as I now stepped onto it as well.

“Okay, how about this? For right now, I just want to please you.”

I frowned for a moment and moved my eyes to where I was sure his face would be. “You have pleased me. Thank you for showing me your studio.”

He laughed softly as he moved even closer, and I felt his hands grip my arms lightly.

“This isn’t what I wanted to show you,” he assured me, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my left cheek.

At the first touch of his mouth against my skin, I sucked in a quick deep breath and stiffened as he let me go.

He didn’t move far. “Hold out your hands for me?”

Confused but curious, I raised my arms and held them out.

“Palms up,” he instructed.

Flipping my hands over, I was surprised when I felt a cool glob of liquid hit the palm of my hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked nervously. “What is this?”

“So many questions, Beauty. Relax. Trust me,” he teased, his voice taking on a seductive timbre.

I heard a rustle of movement and knew immediately that he moved away from me. I could hear him doing something but what, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t understand what he had planned until he stepped back in front of my raised hands. Taking me by the wrists, he tugged me forward. I stumbled a little, nervous and uncertain of what was going on.

He whispered, “I want you to see me.”

My heart was now galloping in my chest, and my breathing was coming fast.

“How?” I questioned, but I knew how. It was how the blind always see people, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to touch him that way. I was already under his spell just by his voice alone. Touching him would make it impossible to ever surface above it.

Pulling my right wrist up, he placed it, wet palm down, on a very naked chest. He must have removed his shirt when he stepped away earlier. His chest was a little higher than my own breastbone, and his muscles were hard and solid.

He released my wrist. “I know you use touch to learn a person’s features. I thought it would be fun for you to paint me.”

Swallowing deeply, I let out a fit of nervous giggles. “So, I’m just going to...paint you?”

I knew that if I could see him, he would have a smile on his face. I could hear his happiness in his voice.

“Yes. Don’t worry. They’re watercolors,” he confirmed. “Then, maybe one day, you’ll let me paint you.”

* * *

Wow. Sitting in Phillipe’s chair, I stop for a moment, finding I need one. Hell, I might need several. I’m trying to imagine how Chantel must have felt. She stood in this very studio with paint on her hands and him naked from the chest up in front of her as he gave her permission to touch his body.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t have a clue how she felt.

Last night on the stairs, I froze like a statue, allowing him to do whatever he wanted with me, and he was fully clothed during our encounter. She had been standing before him with the knowledge that he had removed clothing. Yes, my first conclusion is sound. I have no idea how she felt.

Staring down at that last line—then, maybe one day, you’ll let me paint you—I’m struck at the simplicity of that moment in time. He made a request. Obviously, somewhere along the way, she granted him permission. And now?

Shaking my head, I am amazed by how much one moment can change your life forever. That moment certainly changed theirs.

Looking down at the journal in my lap, I pick it up and continue reading.

* * *

I could feel his heart beating under my palm—thump, thump, thump.

It was steady and calming, but by that stage, I was feeling anything but calm. I spread my fingers wide. The heel of my palm brushed against a pointy nub, his nipple. I moved my hand slowly, so my palm was covering his strong pec. His nipple was now pushing against the center of my hand.

“Touch me all over,” he offered suggestively.

No, my mind was screaming. I had no idea what I was doing. Instead of telling him that, I responded shyly, “Yes. Okay.”

I actually felt the rumble against my palm this time as a low laugh bubbled out of his chest and throat.

“Don’t stop now, Beauty. Learn about who sees you. See me,” he encouraged.

The paint was dripping beneath my palm. It was probably sliding over his stomach, so I slowly started to move my hand down the side of his body. I kept my left hand palm up, so the paint stayed in my hand. I concentrated on smoothing my other fingers down his ridged ribs. Tracing every single groove, I licked my lips before flattening out my wet palm, caressing his corrugated abdominal muscles.

He shifted, and I felt his body shudder as he sucked in a deep breath.

Stopping my exploration, I tilted my head up to where his eyes would be. “Should I stop?”

I waited for an answer to come. Instead of a verbal response, he reached out and gripped my left hand, pulling it forward with a bit more force than necessary, to place it on the neglected half of his body.

“Definitely don’t stop, Chantel,” he ordered.

I felt him raise his hands up behind his head.

Taking my own calming breath, I took my bottom lip between my teeth and concentrated as I mirrored the same path my first hand had followed.

With my right hand still on his lower abdomen and my left hand reaching his navel, I found myself becoming more aggressive. I stepped forward and let my fingers trace each abdominal muscle individually before dipping my wet finger into his navel. A loud groan slid free from his mouth. It thrilled me somewhere deep—somewhere I was not familiar with.

His body was amazing, a true work of art in every sense of the word. In my mind, I could see the dips and shadows, the valleys and sharp ridges, and the more I touched him, the bolder I became.

I took the final step toward him, closing the distance between us. I left enough space, so I could still move my hands as I guided both index fingers down to his naked hip bones. His hands came to rest on mine and that was when my breath caught. He hauled me forward and slammed his mouth onto my own.

Our first kiss was a brutal onslaught. I moaned as he slid his tongue in to rub up against mine. I dragged my paint-covered hands up his arms and slid them over his muscular neck. As he pulled his mouth away, he swallowed, and I could feel his Adam’s apple move. That’s when I began touching his face voraciously, like a starving woman.

His hands were in my hair, and I could feel them gripping tightly as I stroked my fingers over his strong masculine chin and jaw. My finger dipped into a cleft at the center of his chin. Tracing over light stubble, I dragged my nails lightly over his cheeks, moving up to his high cheekbones. I smoothed four fingers of each hand across the sides of his broad face. Breathing deeply, my index fingers traced his beautiful strong nose.

My sensual exploration ended with my fingers gliding up between his brows, smoothing them across his forehead. His face had to be covered in paint by now, but he didn’t seem to care.

Feeling his breath whisper across my parted lips, I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back into the cradle of his hands.

Softly, I asked him, “What color eyes do you have?”

“Green,” he replied quickly. “Have you seen green before?”

“No,” I told him.

“Then, why ask?” he questioned curiously.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.” Before he could ask me anything else, I queried, “What color hair?”

“Brown.” He chuckled.

I felt him lower his head down until I could taste the breath he was breathing out. He was addictive. This feeling of intoxication was addictive.