Page 137 of Frozen Hearts
My hand reaches out, my fingers brushing along the edges of the page. “You have such a talent, Royce,” I murmur in awe as I drink in every part of the drawing. Thumbing the edge of the page, I go to turn it when a large hand clamps around my wrist.
“The deal was one drawing.”
My lips part in protest until I recall that that is the deal we made.Damn, my stupid wording.
He leans in, his lips hovering above my ear, and his voice dips as he says, “However, I’d be willing to make another deal with you.”
“You really want to lose at another game of Rummy?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Not Rummy.”
“What then?” I ask in a breathless voice.
“Sit for me.”
“Sit for you…” my eyes dart down to the sketch lying open on the table. “While you draw me?”
He nods. “And in exchange, I’ll show you another drawing.”
Looking back up at him, I ask, “Why would you want to draw me?”
His fingers brush along my hairline, down the side of my face and along my jaw. “I’ve been trying to for weeks but I can’t get it quite right.”
He’s been drawing me for weeks?
I think about the scrunched-up balls of paper filling his wastebasket and wonder how many of them contain my face.
“Okay,” I agree, unnerved. “But that’s the sketch I want to see… when you’re finished.”
He hesitates before agreeing. “Go sit over there.” He points toward his bed and I walk over and perch on the edge, watching as he sinks into the chair at his desk and turns the notepad to a fresh, clean page.
Looking up, his gaze rakes over me in an astute, critical fashion. “You’re going to be sitting there for a while, so you may as well get comfy.”
“Can I lie down?”
“Sure.”
Climbing onto the bed, I lie on my stomach, head in my hands and feet crossed at the ankles. “Okay,” I say with a smile, a thrill of excitement washing through me. “I’m ready.”
I’ve never had someone draw me before. Never even posed for a photograph, so this is kind of exciting… and a little ruffling, knowing the two of us will be alone in here for the next few hours.
He shifts in his chair as his eyes roam over me in a slow perusal that sparks a heat in my core and has me clenching my thighs. Clearing his throat, I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs before he tears his gaze from my body and focuses on the page in front of him.
The next few hours are the most beautiful kind of torture as I silently watch him work. Even though I’m just lying there, I never once find myself bored or zoning out. I’m too entranced by the sharp line of his brows as he concentrates, and the way he presses his lips when whatever he’s drawing doesn’t come out how he wants. The flexing of his biceps and forearms as he makes quick strokes across the page or fills in areas with soft shading. I can honestly say I have never found arms to be as sexy as they are on him, and while he traces my curves and edges, I trace the outline of his tattoos running from his wrist to disappear beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt, before reappearing around the collar.
Some of the designs I recognize, like the football helmet on his forearm and the bloody fist on his bicep that I imagine represent the fighting he does in the ring. While other designs resemble patterns, and woven in amongst them, I catch sight of lines of text, too small for me to decipher from this distance.
Eventually, he straightens in his chair, stretching out his neck as he rolls his shoulders. “That’s probably enough for now.”
“Can I see it?”
“It’s not finished yet,” he states, closing the notebook.
Ah, he’s one of those artists. A perfectionist. I should have guessed.
“Okay,” I say, sitting upright on the bed. “Do you need me to sit for you again?”
He shakes his head. “I should be able to do the rest from memory.”
