Page 1 of The Sculptor

Ramsey

“Lower,” I whisper, fighting off a grin.

His eyes widen with surprise. “How much lower?”

I nod at his sweatpants—gray just like the sky outside this ratty motel. “Push them down until I tell you to stop.”

His gaze is alight with mischief when he inches the material down his waist. “Whatexactlyare you planning on sketching?”

I twirl the pen between two fingers. “Why do you ask? Are you getting shy?”

“I’m not shy.” His voice is unashamed. “I’m being considerate.”

“Oh, yeah?” I shift on the table, pulling my leg closer to reach my thigh. “And what are you being considerate of? My innocence?” I chuckle.

I smile at the color blooming on his cheeks and begin outlining, taking time to accentuate the sharp lines of his abdomen that I’m sketching along the skin of my upper leg—my favorite canvas.

Duke scoffs. “I’m being considerate of your…” His voice trails off as he fidgets with the strings on his pants.

“You’re being a chicken is what you’re doing.” I belt out a laugh. “Yank them down, Potter. Don’t make me find another muse.”

I should have known that would have him snapping to attention. “Is that a threat?” He steps closer to the table, all the humor evaporating with my exhale. Grabbing my hand, he places it on his chest. “Because if you know what’s good for your next model,” his voice drops to a menacing tone, “then you’ll beg him to keep his clothes on.”

He places my hand on his waistband, his fingers curling over mine, forcing an immovable grip. “I am youronlymuse.”

The soft material slips lower with the pressure of our hands. “Do I make myself clear?”

I swallow, my gaze drifting to the dip between his hips where the perfect Adonis belt awaits. I’ve never seen one so masculine, so sculpted. “You are perfection.” I breathe along his chest, leaving goose bumps along his skin.

He lets go of my hand, bringing his up to grasp my chin in a firm hold. “And you’re mine. Forever.”

Forever.

The word sends tingles swirling in my stomach.

“Don’t promise something—”

He cuts me off with a rough kiss, but I pull back, not falling for his distraction tactics. “Stop trying to—”

His lips are on mine again, but he’s not rough this time. His touch is gentle as his arms wrap around me. “You wanted something, didn’t you?”

With my grip firmly on his waistband, I nod into his chest. “Mm-hmm.”

I can practically feel him smiling in victory above me. “Then all you need to do is tug a little low—”

“A little lower, sweetheart.” The strange voice pulls me out of the memory faster than being doused with ice-cold water. “More toward the middle of the arch.”

My hands move on autopilot as I work past the ball of my fiancé’s foot, kneading toward the center as he instructed.

“That’s my girl, right there. That’s the spot.”

I wish I would have hit the spot about twenty minutes ago and ended this show of fake affection earlier. Instead, I’ve spent the past half-hour on my knees, trying to ignore the dry patches of skin flaking off his feet and falling into my hand.

It’s disgusting and quite demeaning, considering I’m dressed in nothing but a bra and a thong.

But that’s how Langston Albrecht prefers his women—stripped and helpless.

He’s a distinguished man of power.

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