I soak him in, my eyes lingering on every perfect feature. His defined jaw highlighted by the shadow of stubble. The wind-tossed black hair, thick and smooth and so familiar to my fingers. And his eyes. Those amazing dual-colored eyes that are focused so intently right now that I can feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.
He is dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. But even in such informal attire, there is nothing casual about Damien Stark. He is power personified, energy harnessed. And my only fear is the knowledge that one can neither capture nor hold on to a lightning bolt, and I do not want to lose this man.
His eyes meet mine, and I shiver from the shock of the connection. The athlete, the celebrity, the entrepreneur, the billionaire persona all fall away, leaving only the man and an expression that makes my blood heat and my insides curl with longing. An expression that is so raw and primal that were I not already naked, I’m certain that every stitch of clothing would have turned to ash, burned away by the heat in his eyes.
My skin prickles, and I have to force myself not to move. “Damien,” I whisper, unable to resist the feel of his name upon my lips. The word seems to hang in the room, trapped in the air that is thick between us.
By the easel, Blaine clears his throat. Damien shifts enough to look at him, and I think it is surprise that I see on his face, as if he’d forgotten that we aren’t alone. He crosses the distance to Blaine and stands at the artist’s side in front of the huge portrait. From my position, I can see the wooden frame across which the canvas is stretched and, to the side, the two men studying an image that is hidden from my view.
My heart pounds against my rib cage and my gaze does not waver from Damien’s face. There is something rapturous in his eyes, as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.
My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Damien’s.
In Blaine and Damien’s original concept for the portrait, I’d simply stood in this spot, the gossamer drapes set to flutter about me, my face turned away from the artist. The image was sensual, but aloof, as if someone was yearning for that woman but would never touch her. The portrait was stunning, but something was missing. Damien suggested that we contrast the free-flowing drapes that graze lightly over my skin with the constriction of a bloodred rope, and that we bind my hands behind me.
I didn’t hesitate to agree. I wanted the man. Wanted to be bound to him. To belong to him. To be claimed by him.
No longer would my image be unattainable. Instead, the woman in the portrait was a prize. An ephemeral goddess tamed by a worthy man.
Damien.
I search his face, looking for clues to his assessment of the portrait, but there is nothing. This is his corporate expression, the unreadable mask he wears so as to not give away his secrets. Damien is extremely good at hiding his secrets.
“Well?” I ask, when I can stand it no longer. “What do you think?”
For a moment, Damien remains silent. Beside him, Blaine shifts nervously. And though only seconds pass, the air is thick with the weight of eternity. I can almost taste Blaine’s frustration, and I understand the impulse when he finally blurts out, “Come on, man. It’s perfect, right?”
Damien’s shoulders rise and fall as he draws in a deep breath then faces Blaine with respect. “It’s more than perfect,” he says, turning to me. “It’s her.”
Blaine’s smug grin is like sunshine. “I gotta say, I’ve never been shy about bragging on my own work, but this is … well, it’s wow. Real. Sensual. Most of all, it’s honest.”