Page 11 of Beautifully Deranged

She claps her hands. “Perfect. Let’s do it now.”

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

I don’t let people drag me anywhere. Yet somehow, she gets me off my seat and into the living room. She directs me toward the couch.

“Take your shirt off.” She orders.

“Excuse me?”

“For the painting,” she says innocently. But her eyes? They’re anything but.

I reach behind my head and pull my shirt off. Her mouth falls open, but she recovers quickly.

“Nice,” she teases, before settling in front of her easel.

She picks up a pencil and begins sketching, her eyes flicking between me and the canvas.She’s taking too damn long. And the way she watches me, like she’s stripping me down further with nothing but her gaze?

It’s torture.

I shift. “You done yet?”

“Art takes time, Mikhail.”

“Feels like you’re dragging this out on purpose.”

“And what if I am?”

“I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I like danger.” She bites her lip. “I need you to sit still.”

“I am.”

“Liar. You keep tensing up,” she says, sketching another line. “Relax.”

Relax. Right. Easy for her to say when she isn’t the one being watched like a fucking specimen.

“You know, you’re a very good subject.”

I puff out my chest at the compliment.

“Most men would take this opportunity to flirt with me.”

I glare. “I’m not most men.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Shame.”

There’s no shame in the way I want her. And it’s getting harder to fucking hide. She’s looking at me too much. Studying too closely. And my body betrays me before I can stop it.

Her eyes dart down and she sees my erection. But she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just smirks to herself and keeps drawing.

Like she’s won.

?Chapter Six?

Lola

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