Page 40

FORTY

Submission

Vivianne

Normally one to dominate a conversation, Paul speaks very little during the creation of his art. The only time he does is to adjust my stance.

“Head up.”

“Chin down.”

“Lift your right hip.”

“Toe pointed.”

“Relax your arm.”

His terse commands have me obeying, determined to follow each order because I trust his skill and don’t want to ruin his vision.

My skin reddens with the heat of the fire, and perspiration beads on my upper lip. Naked in the room with the two men, I feel oddly at ease, comfortable, and exquisitely beautiful.

Paul sets me in the next pose, lowering me to the floor again and placing me in a sitting position sideways to his eye. He pulls the hair off my shoulder and drapes it down my back, exposing the curve of my breasts. I turn my head away, never looking directly at him, which makes it easier to hold the pose.

Despite the heat of the fire, my nipples pucker, and I pray he doesn’t notice, which is ridiculous. He’s examined every curve of my flesh for the past couple of hours, except for what lies at the apex of my thighs.

I flush, thinking how he could probably paint me from memory after the cave. A flutter of anticipation races along my nerves, making my skin heat and burn.

Time both crawls and flies by, and I measure the passage by the speed with which the fire consumes the log. At one point, Anthony asks if Paul wants more wood added to the fire, and he replies with a terse, “No.”

The once-bright yellows of the fresh flames have softened into deep, umber reds, the fire no longer voracious but glowing with a steady, intimate warmth.

The room feels transformed. The shadows are longer, and the flickering light casts a more sensual, almost secretive ambiance as the last embers work through the remaining wood and coals.

The entire mood shifts, becoming darker, more private, and infinitely more intimate. Perhaps that was the plan all along.

Dozing off again, I give a start when Paul rests his hand on my shoulder.

“Are you doing okay?” His deep, hypnotic voice pulls me deeper into the sensual haze that surrounds me, my body heavy and relaxed, almost pliant beneath his gaze.

I close my eyes, letting the sound of his words sink in, feeling a warmth that is both comforting and intoxicating.

“Do you need a break?”

“Mmm, I’m good.” My voice is barely a murmur, carried by the floating, dream-like state I’m in.

He lifts me off the floor, his hands gentle but firm as they wrap beneath my arms, effortlessly pulling me to my feet. His gaze meets mine, full of care.

“How about some water? Or wine?”

“No, if I drink anything, I’m sure to pass out.” I laugh softly, letting my head rest briefly against his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I feel so relaxed… Floaty even.”

The corners of his mouth curve upward, his eyes softening. He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering against my skin.

“I see that.”

He holds me close, allowing me to regain my footing, which brings back the memory of the day we met when I tumbled into his arms. He held me very much like this. My heart raced then, as much or more than it does now. This time, instead of pushing him away, I clutch at the front of his shirt.

“I can’t wait to see the finished product,” I say, my voice tinged with excitement and curiosity.

“Hmm.” The low sound rumbles from his throat, full of deeper emotions. He steps closer, pulling me to him, and his head tilts down. I lick my lips, anticipation building as I imagine the kiss we are about to share.

A throat clears. The sound cuts through the moment sharply, a loud warning that snaps us both back to reality.

Paul pulls back quickly, just as I awkwardly push away. We fumble, both trying to regain composure. I stoop down to grab the robe, but Paul is faster. Our foreheads collide with a dull thud.

“Ouch!” I exclaim, my hand pressing against my head, the sting radiating across my forehead.

Paul’s laughter bursts out, and it erases some of the tension, though a hint of embarrassment lingers between us. Anthony, ever the vigilant chaperone, is clearly taking his role very seriously.

“Here,” Paul says, draping the silk over my shoulders. “Why don’t we take that break?”

But I don’t want to stop. What will the final pose be? He reveals more and more of me as the evening progresses, leaving me desperate to realize his vision for the crowning piece.

“Take a breather,” he says. “Refresh yourself while I set up for the final pose.”

My bladder pinches. A break is a good idea, especially if I’m going to make it through another hour of being laid bare to his astute gaze.

I excuse myself to the powder room and take a moment to collect my thoughts. The past few hours have been torture—sitting for Paul, being slowly stripped by Paul, barely being touched by Paul, and the final straw…The kiss that didn’t happen.

Quickly, I wash up, eager to return to the salon for the final piece. While I’ve done nothing but sit as still as possible, the gravity of the evening weighs heavily on me, and I look forward to falling into bed. Hopefully, my sleep will be dreamless, but I have suspicions that will not be the case.

Pulling the robe tight across my body, I exit the powder room and return to the salon. Paul sits at his easel, busy filling in details with the sweep of his pencil. He glances up when I enter, and a massive smile brightens his face. Before I can peek—and I definitely try—he covers the piece.

A brutal, animalistic beauty clings to this man. I catch my breath as he rises, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way. His handsome face—those sharp cheekbones, the intensity in his eyes—draws me in, and I can’t help but marvel at how restrained he seems now, focused on his art, when just hours ago in the cave, he was anything but.

There, he had been raw and unrestrained, his passion evident in every touch and word. Now, his gaze holds something deeper—something both artistic and personal. The firm but gentle heat of his hands envelops mine, and he leads me back to the fire, each touch reminding me how much self-control he’s exerting in this very moment.

“Doing okay?”

“I am, but I admit, I feel a bit exhausted.” I smile, though it’s a tired one, my eyes tracing the sharp angles of his jaw. Overwhelmed is more like it, but I don’t want to admit how much this entire experience has affected me. “I can’t believe you won’t let me peek.”

He huffs a laugh, his eyes holding mine. “You’ll have ample opportunity to see the finished work. I assure you.” His tone carries a hint of playfulness, but there’s something deeper too—a promise, perhaps.

I breathe out a sigh, rolling my eyes in mock frustration. “If you say so.”

My voice comes out softer, the tease laden with something more—an invitation, a hope.

He brings me to the fur rug and places me in the center of the fireplace. For the first time, he positions me directly facing him.

“Are you ready?”

The mesmerizing depths of his eyes steal my breath, and I manage a brief nod. Speaking clearly isn’t going to happen, not with the sudden acceleration of my pulse or the hammering of my heart within my chest.

“Good,” he says, his eyes full of warmth and swirling with a potency of something dark, dangerous, and very possessive. “For this last pose, I want you kneeling.”

“Oh,” I gasp. “Okay.”

He helps me down, crouching with me. “This will be much more provocative than the others. Sensual and erotic.”

“What about my face?”

He grips my chin, lifts it, and then places his forehead against mine. The gesture is close and intimate, and I part my lips after quickly moistening them with my tongue, wondering if that kiss might follow. Instead, the heat of his words fills my world.

“Trust, ma chère . You must trust me.”

No kiss then. I bite my lower lip with frustration and adjust my knees.

When he leans back, the moment’s magic is dispelled as his eyes take me in. “We need to remove the robe.”

“Oh, of course.” I untie the front, clutching the fabric tight for a moment before taking in a deep breath.

He’s already seen every piece of me. It’s not like I have anything to hide anymore.

He helps me out of the robe, sliding it over my shoulders and pulling my arms free from the sleeves. Standing, he balls up the fabric and places it on the butler’s table, where Anthony left an assortment of items we haven’t used.

Stepping back to stand beside his easel, Paul taps his chin, his entire focus centered on me kneeling in front of the fire.

“For this,” he says, “you will be kneeling as you are, but I need you to spread your knees slightly apart.”

I comply without question.

“Place your hands on your knees, palms down. Straighten your spine. Shoulders back.”

Pushing my shoulders back forces my breasts forward, making me feel incredibly self-conscious. I wriggle, sitting back on my heels, trying to find a comfortable position. A quick glance down reveals what I fear.

Fully exposed, my thighs tremble, and my most private parts tingle beneath the intensity of his focus. But his gaze isn’t on what’s between my legs—it’s on my face. He comes to me, that pensive expression deepening the lines of his face.

“You are an exquisite beauty.”

From my position, I have to look up to meet his eyes. Our gazes lock and hold each other for an expanse of seconds stretching to forever. An undeniable hunger stirs deep within his eyes, and for the first time, I understand that this evening has been torture for him too. The realization sends a thrill through me, knowing my presence affects him just as deeply.

“My face?” I can’t stop worrying about revealing my face.

He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin in a gentle caress. “Is remarkable, but I will save that for the images painted in my mind. I’m not willing to share that piece of you with the world.”

His words settle over me, sinking deep into my heart. There’s something so intimate about his refusal—as if my face, my true self, is a secret he wishes to guard for himself alone. The intensity of that sentiment makes my pulse thrum louder in my ears. He wants me, but not in the way any other man has. It’s possessive, but it’s also reverent, and that makes me feel cherished.

All evening, he has arranged my hair to drape down my back. Now, he does the opposite—parting it at my nape and pulling my hair forward, letting the long strands fall to cover my breasts. I’ve always had long hair; it reaches down to my waist, even with my natural curls. My hair fans out naturally, but he reaches down and twirls the strands. The backs of his fingers brush the swell of my breasts as he uses my hair to cover my nipples. When he’s satisfied, he steps back.

The sensation of his fingers, the brush of his knuckles against my skin, ignites a heat that radiates through my entire body. His touch is deliberate, respectful yet undeniably sensual. It leaves me caught between anticipation and longing, wanting him to linger but knowing he won’t.

A thin breath tangles in my throat, shaky and unsteady, the tension between us turns heavy and palpable. The way he positions my hair is not just about modesty; it’s an act of intimacy, a tender detail that brings us closer.

“Tilt your head down,” he says, his voice softer now. “Stare at your knees.”

Paul has placed me in a pose of supplication. My entire body trembles with that realization, more so from how natural it feels to be kneeling at his feet. It’s strange how comfortable I feel—not humiliated, not embarrassed—just calm, as if every nerve is attuned to him and waiting for his guidance.

Again, I follow his command, but he doesn’t return to his easel. I lift my head, my gaze questioning.

“Something is missing,” he says, his brow furrowing slightly. “Give me a minute.”

He walks over to the pile Anthony brought down and searches through it, tossing things aside until he finds a gilded box. Opening it, he draws out a length of silver. I strain to see what dangles from the chain, but he palms the necklace, hiding it from view.

“What is that?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

“You know, you’re one of the few women I know who doesn’t wear jewelry.”

“That surprises you?”

“Indeed,” he affirms, a smile tugging at his lips. “Most women of your social standing drape themselves in all that glitters.”

“All that glitters?” I can’t help but laugh a little. “You’re obviously not a fan.”

“Oh, I think the right piece on the right woman is exquisite.” He opens his palm, revealing a simple twist of silver. “This, for instance, a simple twist of silver, made all the more elegant by its simplicity.”

The chain glows under the chandelier’s light. It’s a unique take on the classic rope, plain but classy. I love it, but nothing is simple about the cameo hanging from the chain.

He opens the clasp and stretches out the two ends of the chain, letting me fully appreciate the antique mother-of-pearl cameo. A hand-carved swan sits in relief in a sterling silver frame. The iridescent pearl shifts through the spectrum beneath the lights, the luster making the swan come alive.

The swan sits in repose, a gentle creature floating on the top of still waters. The piece holds the weight of age and steals my breath.

“I’ve never seen a swan cameo before and with mother-of-pearl. It’s stunning.”

He twists the necklace, drawing it closer for his inspection. “It’s definitely unique.”

It seems as if he might say more, but he bends to one knee before me. “I would be honored if you wore this.”

“For the picture?”

“For the entire weekend, if you so choose.”

I grasp the cameo, holding it still momentarily, intent on looking closer. “It truly is amazing.”

“As are you.” He reaches around and closes the necklace around my neck. Then, he stands, looking down at me once again.

The air thickens between us as I feel the details of the cameo, tracing out the gentle curves of the swan, the fine point of the bill, and the slight ruffle of the feathers.

The chain is too short for me to lift and see the piece. It fits tight against my throat, much like a choker would. There’s a significance to that—an element of possession—and I can’t deny the way my pulse races at the thought.

“Now,” he says, his gaze holding mine with a quiet intensity, “let’s finish this last piece.”

“When will you paint them?”

“ Ma chère ?”

“The paintings? When will you paint—me?”

“As soon as possible.”

His words feel like a promise, the heat in his eyes making it clear that he’s not just talking about the art. There’s a charge between us, a fire that’s built steadily all night, and now, as he steps away to complete his work, I suddenly realize Anthony is no longer here.

At some point, he must have slipped out, leaving Paul and me completely alone. The realization hits me abruptly, excitement bubbling in my chest. I feel the thrill of being alone with him—intensely, acutely. My pulse quickens, anticipation swirling through me like a current.

I’m here with Paul, vulnerable, bared to his gaze—not just as an artist’s subject, but as a woman who wants him. The room feels smaller, the fire warmer, and the only thing I can focus on is how it will feel when this last sketch is over—when it’s just us, without an audience, without any barriers.