Serving Pleasure (13 page)

He wandered into the kitchen and righted the chairs and table. She’d left the remainder of rolls—about a half dozen of them—for him.

Micah picked up a roll and brought it to his nose. The scent of cinnamon and dough and sugar and butter wafted to his nostrils, triggering a gnawing ache in his belly he’d thought long buried.

Very gingerly, he unraveled the roll as Rana had done, and took a bite out of the center. The burst of flavors on his tongue made him moan, the sound startling him.

He finished the entire roll in two bites, as if someone were going to come and take it away. He eyed the plate of remaining buns before scooping them up in his arm and heading for the stairs.

He could manage a couple more. He did have a whole day to kill before Rana showed up again, after all, and there were only so many ways he could fill the hours. Somehow, he didn’t think obsessing over tonight would be the healthiest use of his time.

R
ana stood
in front of her closet, tapping a foot. Every few months, she went through a closet cleanup, where she vowed to be tidy. She’d sort all her clothes, toss the ones she didn’t need, and arrange everything on her hangers in color-coordinated groups.

Rana poked the pile of clothes on the floor. Sadly, she hadn’t had one of those days in a while.

Not that she blamed her inability to find an outfit on her utter lack of organization. She simply didn’t know what to wear. She’d Googled “What to wear as a nude model,” but the majority of the answers had been “nothing.” Haha. Well played, Internet jokesters.

Well, she wouldn’t be in the clothes for long, right? She would pick something she could get out of easily. Striding out of the closet, she went to her drawer and pulled out a soft pair of yoga pants and a matching fitted T-shirt, her usual workout wear. She stepped into them, skimming them over her hips and trying not to shiver over her underwear-less status.
It’s for ease,
she reminded herself sternly.
Not sexiness.

But it was pretty damn sexy.

She jogged downstairs and slipped flip-flops on before striding out. Rana slowed as she approached Micah’s house. Before she could knock, the door swung open and Micah was glowering down at her. Heaven help her, but she’d never found glaring quite so hot before.

“It’s past nine,” he said. “I thought you changed your mind.”

She raised an eyebrow and stepped past him into the foyer. “I had to shower and change and brush my teeth.”

“You didn’t have to do any of those things,” he countered.

“Okay. Next time I’ll smell like onions during the entire evening, and we can see how you like it.” She hesitated, wondering if he’d grown tired waiting for her. “Is it too late?”

“No,” he responded quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s get started.”

She swallowed as she mounted the stairs behind him, a few nerves creeping in to mix with the excitement in her stomach. What was going to happen? Would he want her to strip right away? Would she have to contort her body into weird positions? What if he started working and realized he didn’t like her body? That would be awkward.

They entered his studio, and he went to the couch and picked up something flimsy. He held it out to her. “You can change in the bathroom and put this on.”

She grasped the insubstantial silk robe. “You’re right, I didn’t have to take the time to get dressed. I should have come over in my robe,” she joked.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Someone could see you. You’ll always change here.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m joking.”

He placed his hands on his hips, and then linked them behind his back. “Yes. Right.” Micah gestured to the bathroom. “I’ll set up while you…”

“Right.” She went to the bathroom and shut the door, feeling mildly silly. He had already seen her naked. She could have changed in front of him, right?

Or maybe this was part of the model experience. She had demanded professionalism, after all.

She stripped down and folded her pants and shirt, showing more care for the workout clothes than they deserved. She shook the black silk robe out and put her arms in it. Something scratched her neck, and she reached back to find a tag there. The robe was new.

She yanked the tag off and tossed it in the wastebasket before tying the belt. The robe probably came to mid-thigh on shorter women. It barely covered her butt. She gave the hem a tug as she walked out of the bathroom.

He’d dimmed the lights and was crouched in front of the sofa, fiddling with a small space heater. He glanced up and gave her a quick once-over, his gaze burning a hole through the robe. Then he looked back at the space heater, as if it were incredibly difficult to operate. “I turned the lights away from the couch so you wouldn’t get overly hot, but then I thought you may get cold…you can tell me how you feel,” he said, though she hadn’t asked for an explanation.

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you want something to eat? Drink?” He rose to his full height and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “I would offer you some of your rolls, but I ate them all.”

Delight burned some of her nerves away, though why she was so happy he had eaten her food, she had no idea. “All of them?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Your plate’s over there.”

“Don’t be sorry. And, no. I ate dinner. I’m okay.”

“Great. Okay.” He cocked his head toward the couch. “Can you...?”

“Yup.” This was it. Showtime.

She unknotted her robe but couldn’t seem to shrug the silk off her shoulders. The two sides hung in front of her.

Get naked. Now. This is what you wanted.

She’d done this before. Stood in front of him, untied her robe, dropped it. She’d done it when she barely knew the first thing about him. It shouldn’t be hard now.

“Rana.”

She looked up to find him studying her, his face as soft as she’d ever seen it. He backed away and sat on a stool a few feet from the sofa. Probably so he wouldn’t seem so big and intimidating. “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“You’ve seen me naked. I don’t know why I’m nervous.”

Micah cocked his head. He didn’t look gruff and cranky anymore, but understanding and patient. Like he’d flipped some switch and settled into a persona she’d never seen before. Was this the professional, experienced artist Micah? “Because it’s a different sort of trust that’s required here.”

“You’ve been inside my body. I trust you.”

He placed his hands on his knees. “You’re letting me inside your soul now.”

She waited a beat before letting out a peal of laughter. When she was able to speak, she asked, “You’re joking with that shit, right?”

His lips curled. Ah! It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was definitely amusement. “I thought you’d like that.”

Still smiling, she snorted. “Good one.”

“In all seriousness, though, I understand it’s not quite the same thing. You might sleep with someone and not let them take nude photos of you, correct? Different levels of trust.”

“I suppose. But this is…art.”

“A naked photo captured on a camera phone can be art. In any case, both are a form of recreating your likeness when you’re at your most vulnerable.” He hitched a shoulder. “Perhaps not quite seeing into your soul. But there is intimacy. I understand if you don’t feel ready yet. I understand if you never feel ready. If you like, I can paint you as you are, clad in a robe. Or a sheet. Or dressed. Or I can not paint you at all.”

She ran a hand down the lapel of her robe. “No one’s ever had to coax me to strip. When I lost my virginity, I was the one tearing off the dude’s clothes.”

“I’m not coaxing you. I’m telling you you have a choice.” He cocked his head. “I will still sleep with you, if you’re worried about that.”

“Ha.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You won’t really paint me clothed. You only paint nudes.”

“I grew famous for painting nudes,” he corrected. “I have painted all sorts of people.”

“Oh?”

“When I started art school, I didn’t even have plans to paint, not really. I was going to be a sculptor.”

“But you discovered you liked painting more?”

His gaze was far away. “I discovered I enjoyed the thing that made me money. Success meant I was good at it, yeah? I liked being good at things.” He refocused on her. “But success isn’t an issue here. Anything I make with your body as a model—clothed or unclothed—will sell like nothing I’ve made in a long time.”

No pressure, though. “How do you know that?”

His eyes glittered. “You inspire me.”

Her breath hitched. The words should have been as cheesy as his joke about seeing inside her soul, but they weren’t. Because he sounded…honest. And puzzled. And frustrated. Like he didn’t want her to inspire him, but he had no choice in the matter.

Her decision was made.

She drew the robe open and let it slip off her shoulders, giving it a little kick so it lay away from the sofa.

He didn’t say anything, but he surveyed her, starting at her feet and moving slowly upward. She shivered, goose bumps coasting along her skin as he looked his fill.

Her heart thundered, beating double time when he finally met her gaze. There was heat in his eyes, yes, but it was banked and simmering in the background, behind excitement and wonder.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“Yes,” she answered, with no hesitation.

“You can stop me at anytime.”

This was sort of like losing one’s virginity, she thought. She was damn glad Micah was the one who was popping her cherry.

He nodded to the couch. “Sit down. However you feel comfortable. Curl up your legs, leave them straight, whatever you want.”

She sat down on the far right, the cool cotton of the sheet rubbing against her ass. Everything felt heightened. It was like sensory overload.

“Are you cold? Hot?”

“No. I’m fine.” Since he’d told her to be comfortable, she leaned against the arm of the sofa and curled her legs under her. Her usual TV-watching pose. “Is this okay?”

“Perfect.” He picked up a huge pad of thin paper and a stub of charcoal from the paint-spattered table next to him, and rested the pad on his thigh. “These first few times we meet, I’ll just be sketching. I’ll tell you when to move and occasionally give you directions. We’ll run through a number of positions. Mostly so I can get accustomed to your body.”

“How long will our session be tonight?”

“Until you get tired.” He eyed her sternly. “So you mustn’t be shy about telling me when you’re tired.”

“What about when you get tired?”

“I don’t get tired,” he said absently. He stared at her, critically examining her breasts and belly, his charcoal hovering above the paper.

Her skin prickled, in a good way. “Paint me like one of your French girls, Micah.”

He smirked, but his eyes were on her stomach. “I’ve never had a French model. Only English ones.” He paused. “One other American.”

She picked up on the odd note in his voice. “You slept with her. The American.”

His gaze flew to her face. “Do you have a radar for sex?”

“Something like that.”

“I was a twenty-year-old-virgin. She was a twenty-five-year-old not-a-virgin who inexplicably liked my inability to speak to her without stuttering.”

“Aw. You were a bit of a late bloomer, Micah.”

“Very much so.”

“So you do sleep with your models.”

He shook his head. “She was the first. You’re the second.”

“Must be us Americans. You can’t resist our charm.”

His fingers were moving over the paper, fast and sharp. He was barely looking at what he drew, though. His eyes were on her, probing and a little unfocused.

He was in his zone. It was sexy. “Yes. Perhaps it’s my American side dominating,” he said absently.

She propped her chin in her hand. “Your American side?”

“I have dual citizenship. I was born in Hawaii.”

Surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“No reason for you to know.” The words were matter-of-fact.

“Is it bothering you when I talk?”

“If talking makes you more comfortable, go ahead.”

“Can I ask you questions?”

His fingers stuttered, but otherwise he gave no outward sign of discomfort at the question. “Depends on the question.”

Oh man, did she have a ton of questions. She settled on continuing their conversation. “Are you Hawaiian, then?”

“Yes. Half.”

“What’s the other half?” she asked, and then made a face when she heard herself. “Sorry, you can tell me to shut up if you don’t want to talk about your ethnicity. I only ask because when I first saw you, I thought you might have some Indian in you. Just wondering if I need to welcome you into the brotherhood.”

His lips curved. His charcoal didn’t stop, his eyes traveling down to her legs. “There’s a brotherhood?”

“Oh yes. The Order of the Samosa. We have a handshake and everything.”

Oh, oh, oh! There it was. A smile. So quick and fleeting Rana would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him, but the flash of white teeth and the crinkles at his eyes made her heart swell.

Damn. Had she thought he was sexy before? Nope. It was nothing compared to him smiling.

“You have a good eye, but I don’t know if I would qualify for the order. I’m...” He narrowed his eyes and ripped off the sketch he had been working on, tossing it onto the floor next to him. “Can you shift a hair to the left? Put your hands in front of you if you can. I’m shite at drawing hands.”

She obeyed, arranging into a different position. His charcoal flew again. She wished she could see the sketch he had done of her, but the paper had landed face down.

“You were saying?” she prompted.

“I’m one-eighth Indian. My father is Hawaiian. My mother is Jamaican. But, racially, she’s a little of everything. I believe her grandfather was Indian.” He shrugged. “Might be a Chinese grandparent or two in there as well.”

She flexed her foot. “Now I feel boring.”

“Nothing boring about the Order of the Samosa.”

She chuckled. When she stopped, she noted him watching her mouth, his pencil arrested, a perplexed expression on his face.

He ripped off another sheet. When she stirred, he shook his head. “No, you can stay where you are for now.”

She made a minute adjustment so her leg wouldn’t fall asleep. “So, you have a Jamaican mother and a Hawaiian father, and you grew up in England instead of some tropical paradise?”

His eyes warmed the slightest degree. For such a solitary, reserved man, it was practically a declaration of adoration. “My mother is English. Born and raised. She met my father when she was on holiday from uni.” He dipped his head. “Papa was working at his friend’s restaurant. A tourist trap, it was, where they did hula and ate fire. Story is he looked up from the show, saw my mother, and that was it. They got married a month later. I was born in ten months.”

Rana wasn’t the romantic in her family, but her heart was pretty damn close to melting. “Aww. That’s so cute.”

He didn’t disagree with her. “I would have been raised in Hawaii. But my mother missed her life and her family, and my father has never been capable of denying her anything. We moved to England for good when I was under a year old.”