Page 18 of A Taste like Sin

will I be.

“In a way that will allow me to explore your body in a manner entirely separate from my art.”

Heat sears my cheeks. A nun could hear the innuendo in his tone—and he’s done so well to disguise it

until now: the restrained lust oozing from him, as tantalizing as his cologne. A part of me shivers in

response. Flinches. I’m painfully aware of the thin fabric of my dress whispering over my skin.

“Have I startled you, Ms. Thorne?” he wonders innocently. A soft hiss makes me imagine him picking

up the brush, dipping it into paint before testing a streak over the canvas. “Perhaps you find this

proposed diversion too stimulating? We can skip the blindfold, if that appeases you.”

“No. In fact, I think you have a deal, Mr. Villa.” I wrench my coat open, fiddling with the buttons as I

go. Once it’s off, I toss it aside and shed my dress, feeling the chill in the room. My nipples tighten as

I wad my panties up and discard that as well. “Now what?”

“Lie down.” His voice has deepened. Gone is the mocking, playful edge, and I can’t stop my arms

from flinching toward my breasts, despite his lack of sight. An artist has replaced the powerful,

reclusive billionaire—but he’s a more dangerous animal. One who communicates with grit in his tone

and an authoritative aura. “On your back,” he prompts as I feel for the platform and perch myself on

the edge of it. “Don’t worry about positioning your limbs. I will arrange them for you.”

An ominous sentence if there ever was one.

“Arrange?” I can’t resist parroting as I run my fingers along the silken sheets, testing their quality:

luxurious. “You make it sound more in-depth than painting.”

“Sí.” A wistful sigh rips from his throat. “It always is…”

“Ah, how could I forget? You’ve done this before.”

Painting naked women is a pastime that’s garnered him acclaim. Though it’s the first time in a while

that he’s referred to his other subjects—a deliberate tactic, I suspect. Deciphering his reasons why is

like playing an elaborate game of chess with a master far out of my league.

So I forge a change in subject.

“I’m lying down.” Twisting, I lift my legs and lower myself onto the platform. “So when do the pearls

come into play?” I ask, sounding bolder than I feel.

“Now.”

I sense him stand again and my ears strain to catch his every movement. There is a practiced grace to

how he moves, supposedly pivoting on his feet to navigate the slender path between his stool and the