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I wasn’t sure how I’d convinced him to go this far. It reminded me of my attempts at sexy roleplay. He usually gave about fifty percent of what I asked for before his nerves or gentle nature got the better of him. Like the time I talked him into playing kidnapper. My so-called scary dog lacked the ability to be menacing even for a minute, so the act ended with me thrown over his shoulder and carried to bed in a giggling fit.

This exercise had gone as far as getting him out of his clothes and me seated before my easel, and now we were in a stalemate.

My lips curved in a smile before I called over in a sing-song voice. “Loren…”

He glanced at me, sharply focused, and my heart flip-flopped. I swallowed to keep my voice from cracking because the absolutesmolderof this man was enough to choke me.

I smiled again, this one a bit wobbly, then flapped my hand at him. “Pose for me, baby.”

His brows dipped, and I snickered.

Swiveling in my seat, I faced him fully and tucked my paintbrush behind my ear. “It’ll be tasteful, I swear. Like an art class study.”

Snorting, Loren turned aside, giving me a view of his left hip and the soft ridges of his ribs, punctuated with muscles. As if I wasn’t having a hard enough time concentrating. Besides those impeccable obliques, he had an eight-pack, long sinewy arms with tendons that roped around his biceps, and the perfect Adonis V like an arrow that pointed straight at his dick. The thought of it made my mouth water.

I swallowed again, definitely salivating, then added, “I never went to art school, you know. These are experiences that could really improve my craft.”

Loren looked at me again, more scathing than before. “You’re full of shit,” he grumbled.

God, he was cute when he was pouty.

I stood, no longer able to resist the urge to get closer to him. Maybe I should have taken up sculpture instead of watercolor. That would have given me an excuse to touch every inch of him and claim it was research.

Instead, I shuffled over in my bunny slippers and entered his personal space. When he didn’t quit his grip on his manhood or relax the arm barred across his torso, I laid my hands on the narrowest part of his waist and leaned against him.

“Please?” I batted my eyelashes. “Let me paint you like one of my French girls.”

“No.”

His skin felt like velvet beneath my fingers, and those long, espresso-brown locks spilling over his shoulders invited me to play. Forget painting. Forget posing. We could take this exercise to the bedroom and turn it into a workout.

“Please?” I tried again, really milking it.

Despite me crowding him and craning my neck to catch his gaze, Loren kept his attention averted, watching Dr. Frankenfurter prance across the television screen with a level of interest that almost made me jealous.

After a long, quiet moment, I pinched his bare butt cheek. He jumped, then glowered down at me.

“Come on, Lore,” I whined. “At least fix your face. I don’t wanna immortalize you scowling.”

“I’m not…”

My chastising look silenced him. He glanced over his shoulder at the wide, short window behind him with the curtains thrown wide to give a view of the trailer park outside. He sighed loudly.

“The neighbors can see my ass,” he muttered.

Sure enough, a woman was out across the road, watering her hanging tomato plant and missing the best show of her life.

Catching Loren’s chin in my hand, I turned his face toward mine. “Lucky them,” I said, bouncing my brows.

He rolled his eyes, and I pushed up to peck a kiss to his lips.

I stepped back and held up my fingers to make a frame, horizontal then vertical, sizing him up. He harrumphed another breath while I pondered and finally announced, “I also don’t want to immortalize you with a limp dick.”

Loren grinned, wry and so damn sexy that I could have swooned like a southern belle, thrown myself backward and let him catch me, but he spoke first.

“So, you’re painting porn now.”

I crossed my arms, indignant. “It’s a tasteful nude.”