Guarding His Body. A.C. Arthur
him. Sort of like the sway of her hips was doing right now.
“We mostly do artwork here. You know, sculptures and statues. Over there’s the oven. That’s where we melt the metal and fire the castings. It’s hot as Satan’s den over there, so I won’t take you too close.” Walt was busily talking and guiding Sabrina.
Bree looked around, watching as workers poured a glistening liquid into small molds and large molds, her inquisitive mind working overtime. “So, do you just come up with the ideas and pour the metal inside and then you have a statue?”
“Naw, all this starts with the artist. He dreams up the idea and then brings us a smaller model. We take it from there.”
“This is really interesting. I never gave much thought to how these things were actually created.”
“It’s a daunting process,” Renny spoke up from his spot behind them. When she turned her eyes to him he felt like sitting her down and answering any question she asked. She looked suddenly vulnerable and very childlike in this big warehouse with all this heavy machinery. A marine, no, you would never guess it of this petite woman. Not until you looked deep into her eyes. They were such expression-filled eyes that Renny found himself getting lost in them once again. She was passionate, with a strength and determination to rival any man’s; he could see that clearly. An artist had an eye for detail, and ever since meeting Sabrina he’d stored away loads of details about her.
“Really?” She’d known he was close, had felt his dominating presence behind her as if he were her entire world. There was an unknown element about Renny Bennett, something she assumed other people didn’t see often when they looked at him. “How do you get your inspiration?”
He couldn’t tell her his latest source of inspiration and didn’t quite know how to explain his pieces, so he thought an example would suit this conversation better. “Walt can show you a couple of my finished pieces and then I’ll let you answer that yourself.”
“Sure. Right this way. He’s real protective of his stuff, so I keep it in a locked room until it’s time to move it.”
They walked through the center of the factory, up a few stairs and across a catwalk. Renny grabbed her elbow to keep her steady. Bree frowned but didn’t say anything. She’d walked on a catwalk before; hell, she’d jumped out of a plane before, so this was a piece of cake, but she kept that to herself. Renny seemed to be real big on this gentleman thing, so she’d leave it alone, for now.
Walt used a key to gain entrance into the room and flicked on a light before inviting them in. Renny still held on to her arm even though they’d left the catwalk about twenty steps ago. White sheets covered everything in the room except the steel shelves. When it seemed no one was in a hurry to remove them, Bree took a step and pulled one away herself.
She gasped, her hand coming to her throat for an instant. Then she ran her fingers lightly over the figure. It was a woman. A naked woman, lying on a couch, one leg thrown over the back while the other dangled over the edge. One arm was draped over her head while the other extended down between her legs. Her features weren’t clear, yet the excitement, the growing passion, was unmistakable.
Her skin tingled as she continued to study the sculpture. It was intricate in its design, right down to the sharp protrusion of the woman’s nipples. Renny was standing right next to her now, close enough that she could hear his breathing. “What do you think?” he almost whispered.
She licked her lips. “It’s, ah…very interesting.”
Renny sighed. “You think it’s pornographic, don’t you? You can tell me the truth.” That’s what his father thought, that he was spending all his time making dirty sculptures so horny nutcases could pay a fortune for them.
Bree heard the disappointment in his voice and turned to face him. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his jaw clenched as he looked away from her. She touched his arm gently, knowing exactly what it felt like when someone didn’t understand your life’s work. “I think it’s extremely passionate. It’s not pornographic, more like sensually tasteful, I’d say.”
Overhead a speaker blared and Walt heard himself being paged. “I’d better see what’s going on out there. You two take your time. I’ll be right back.”
They were alone in the room when Renny finally let himself look at her. She’d touched him of her own accord, but the moment his eyes rested on hers she’d pulled away. She thought his work was passionate. “Do you want to see the rest of them?”
“I’d love to.” Bree was careful to keep her eyes averted from his. This room was really small, and very hot since she’d unveiled the first sculpture.
“I call the collection Breathless Passion,” he told her as he went about the task of removing the other covers.
Breathless was exactly what his sculptures made Bree feel. Each one, twelve in all, were of men and women in various stages of sexual fulfillment—together and separately. She touched them all, hadn’t been able to resist. They were so real, so alluring. Renny Bennett must be some kind of lover to create like this.
One in particular drew her closer, both her hands moving over the cool, smooth surface. The woman stood with her back facing the man, one foot lifted to rest on an ottoman, one hand fingering her breast while the other reached up to wrap behind her lover’s neck, pulling his head closer to hers. The man was behind her, buried deep inside her womb, his hands grasping her hips as he bent her slightly forward.
Bree’s heart took on record speed as she examined the piece. For a moment she felt as if she were in the room with that couple. She could smell the distinct aroma of sex and sweat, could feel the tension rising until it clogged her throat. The place between her legs began to throb, her breasts stiffening with the erotic reverie. Then she felt it, his hands on her waist, his thumbs at the base of her back, his fingers splayed over her pelvic bone. He pulled her back to him until his hardness rested against her like a silent, but persistent, offering. She inhaled.
“It leaves you breathless, doesn’t it?” Renny asked with a thickness in his voice he hadn’t intended. Usually his work excited him, not to the point of masturbation or driving him to go out and find the nearest woman to sleep with, but excited him with a feeling of accomplishment. His dedication paid off. But watching Sabrina enjoy his creations, watching her touch the very bodies his fingers had molded did something to him. He envisioned her hands on him as clearly as if she’d turned and undressed him herself. His skin had reacted to each of her caresses as if they were meant only for him. And he wanted her.
Breathless was an understatement to Bree. She remembered inhaling, but for the life of her she couldn’t release that breath. His hands were still and they weren’t on any real prohibited part of her body, yet they sent sparks of heat through her so intense she’d closed her eyes to keep from sighing. If they were naked and she lifted her own leg he could slip inside her—they’d be just like this sculpture and she’d have the same look of supreme satisfaction on her face that this woman had.
The doorknob turned with an unmistakable click and Bree rushed away from Renny. The moment Walt entered the room she snatched her hands away from the sculpture and tried to gather her wits.
“Just a minor problem I had to deal with. So, little missy, how do you like my boy’s work?”
Renny jammed his hands into his pockets to conceal his burgeoning growth from his longtime friend. He was sort of glad that Walt had picked that moment to return. If not, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do to Sabrina next. She was an enigma. An ex-marine turned bodyguard. A wisp of a woman with the allure of a porn star. An ordinary female with more beauty than a supermodel. What had his brother gotten him into?
“The pieces are wonderful,” she said in a slow measured tone. “I would venture to say that very creative hands brought them to life. The public is going to love them.” She was looking at Walt as she spoke, but her words were meant for Renny. She’d sensed his insecurity about his work the moment they’d stepped into this room, and wondered where it stemmed from. Most artists, she