Undressing Mercy. Deanna Lee
my hand until I was on my knees, and then released me. I met his gaze and saw nothing but approval. God, this man was amazing, and his approval meant more to me than I expected. He backed up a few steps and then stopped to stare. His gaze moved from my toes, up my legs, across my breasts, and then finally to my face.
“Beautiful.” He turned and walked across the room and picked up something. He returned to me with a piece of red silk, holding it out in front of him, eyeing it and me. Shamus paused, and then shook his head and walked away once more. He brought back a small pillow this time, which he placed under my head.
His fingers moved through my hair, spreading it out on the small pillow. Then he draped the silk carefully over my breasts. My nipples tightened immediately, stimulated by the glide of soft material. His gentle fingers brushed over my shoulder as the material slid under my arm and fell down behind me. The silk brushing and falling down my back sent a wave of awareness and arousal down my spine. I looked away from him as he knelt on the platform in front of me.
Trying to remain motionless as his hands moved over the line of my hip, I focused on the yet-to-be-touched block of alabaster. Shamus moved his hand to my thigh; he pulled my left leg forward and slipped the silk between my legs to cover my pussy. I fought the urge to move toward him, to encourage more intimate touches. Did he want me the way I wanted him?
The silk, at first cool on my skin, warmed as it brushed against me. I felt myself flushing, and I tried to think about something horrible to keep my body from responding to an attraction he appeared to have no interest in exploring now. His touch had been so impersonal that I felt bereft. It was difficult to remember that I wasn’t in an intimate personal situation. To him, it was work.
I closed my eyes briefly as he brought the silk back over my thigh, effectively covering my “pink parts,” but leaving me in a state of undress that was unbelievably stimulating.
“I didn’t think you covered your models.”
He met my gaze and nodded. “It’s a shame to cover you. But when I first saw you, this is what I thought of.” He stepped back from the platform. “Are you comfortable?”
Surprisingly, I was. “Yes.”
He left me and returned with a large sketch pad. He sat down on the floor a few feet from the platform.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to spend a few sessions sketching you. Once I pick the final pose, I’ll start working with the stone. The sketches will allow me to work with the bigger piece when you aren’t here.”
I had nothing to do but watch him. And that was enough.
Shamus had powerful, careful hands. Hands that would glide, and fingers that would move over skin, bringing heat and pleasure. Would he be a careful lover, or would he lay a woman out beneath him and devour her with his need? I could almost feel his body, strong and graceful, moving against me, between my legs, and then inside me. My womb clenched against nothing, and I bit down on my bottom lip briefly to keep from moaning.
I focused my attention on his face then. It was perfect—the line of his jaw was strong, classic. Angular and masculine in a way that made me want to touch him. He had a great body, defined and muscular without being too much. He was a physical artist, so I expected that.
I’d dated a black man when I was in college, but there was no comparison. The difference was startling. My memories of Brian were a frenzy of physical unions that would make me ache and demand more. Brian had taught me a great deal about myself and how to pleasure a man.
But Shamus was no college boy. Intense and passionate, he was the sort of man most women wouldn’t be able to resist, at least on some level. All of his art pieces, even the small ones in his gallery, were sexy and wrought with sensuality. I’d admired his work for years, and now he was sculpting me. If anyone had told me that I’d meet Shamus Montgomery and be modeling for him all in the same day, I would have laughed.
The silence in the room was surprisingly comforting. This was odd because I loved noise and usually had the radio or television playing at home. Why was silence so much easier to endure with him?
“Will you take photographs?”
“No.” He looked up and met my eyes. “I never photograph my models.”
That was a relief. Having drawings of me was one thing, but full-blown color photos were another matter. What normal woman wanted her ass immortalized in living color?
I cringed at the thought of a camera. It’d come out in therapy that pictures had been taken of me during the rape exam at the hospital. I could still remember the faint click of the camera, and the flash bursting with light. Despite my effort not to react, Shamus had noticed and put down the pad.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine.”
Shamus leaned back on his hands and glanced me over. “You seem upset.”
“I was just thinking about something unpleasant.” I dropped my gaze to the length of floor that stretched out between us. “I’m fine.”
Picking up his pad, he went back to work while I tried to push the past away. Lately, it seemed easier to let go of what had happened to me in New York. It was never really far from my thoughts, but now it seemed to hurt less and anger more. It hadn’t been easy for me to get past the point of pain and betrayal. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to get to the angry stage if I hadn’t considered Jeff King a friend. Not a close friend, but certainly not a stranger. Until that moment in my office when I realized that he was dangerous, I’d never thought for a moment that he would hurt me.
I glanced toward Shamus and found him working intently. There was something special about him, and it was more than his artistic skill. It amazed me that I could inspire a man like him. He’d traveled all over the world and was one of the most sought-after sculptors in the entire country. His work graced the lobbies of countless buildings around the world. It was no understatement that men and women traveled half the world over to come to the very place I was lying.
He belonged to a world of beauty that I could only look at but never truly be a part of. My passion for the arts, both past and present, sustained me through difficult years with my parents and the move to Boston. Yet I would never truly understand what it’s like to be an artist.
I shifted and grimaced as the muscle in my thigh tightened. Sitting still had caused it to cramp up. “I need to stretch.”
Shamus stood and walked over to the platform. “Your leg?”
“Thigh.” I swallowed hard when he sat down on the platform and motioned me to turn over on my back.
“Let me help.”
“Okay.” I shifted onto my back and stretched my legs out. That didn’t help.
Strong, firm fingers traced the muscle briefly before Shamus used both hands to shift my leg and move it. The red silk fell away from my sex, revealing my pussy and the damp curls that covered it. I watched through half-closed eyes as he gently but firmly massaged my thigh, and sighed when the muscle began to relax under his touch.
“Lift up a little.”
I planted my foot flat against the pillow I was lying on and shifted slightly as his hands slid up my thigh, nearly to my hip bone, only to pause and then travel leisurely back down. The man was trying to make me stupid. I bit down on my bottom lip and swallowed hard to keep from making any sounds. He glanced at me then, his gaze drifting over my breasts and then to my face.
“You are a beautiful woman.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this better?”
I nodded and shifted away from him when he removed his hands. I knew I was fairly close to spreading my legs and begging him to fuck me. “It’s fine now.”
“I’d like to do a few more drawings.”
“Okay.”