pick up a rag. “I’ve been painting.”
“Evidently.” Without asking, his friend went to the back and stood in front of the easel, his arms folded in front of him as he studied the canvas. “This is her.”
Finn knew better than to pretend he didn’t know what Marcel meant. “Yes.”
“Exquisite.” His friend glanced at him, his expression cunning. “Women are inspiring, no? Inspiring to create or to strangle, but inspiring nonetheless.”
“I can’t argue that.”
“I only know two things. Music and women,” Marcel said as he headed to the door. “But I know both really well. And do you know what?”
Opening the door for the man, Finn shook his head. “What?”
“Both bring misery.” The man pointed at Finn. “But both can help you reach the most sublime heights if you treat them with their due.”
“What does that mean?” he asked as the man shuffled out of his studio.
Marcel waved over his shoulder and said, “I can’t do all the work for you, boy.”
The old man was mad. Closing the door, he ignored the restoration project he needed to finish and stood in front of Viola’s image. He picked up his brush and attacked the canvas again, wondering if he’d ever see her in person or if this painting was going to have to do.
He didn’t even know her—not really. He glared at her lovely face, only half finished, and wondered how she could have wormed her way into his life so quickly.
His buzzer rang. He considered not opening it, but maybe Marcel was back with a croissant.
Except it wasn’t an old Frenchman standing in the doorway: It was Viola.
Relief made his knees weak.
She opened her mouth. “I—”
He tugged her to him and kissed her. He moaned at the taste of her, the familiar way her body curved to his, wanting her with an intensity he’d never felt for a woman before.
Which made no sense at all, because normally he’d have preferred that she go away. He only saw women who were easy: no expectations, no baggage. Viola was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he liked.
Not that his body agreed. His body thought she was exactly its type. He slid his hand down the column of her neck, marking her skin with his paint. He pulled open her coat and slid his fingers under her layers, directly to the hardened tip of her breast.
She moaned and arched back. “I can take things off,” she offered in a low voice, her hand going for the coat buttons.
He kicked the door closed and pressed her against it. “I’ll do it.”
“Hurry.” She pressed her palms to the wood, her arms in a T.
He wondered if she knew how she looked, in such a sacrificial position—more a gift than an offering. He untied her scarf and tossed it aside. “Maybe we’ll use that later.”
Her eyes went large, and she looked at the scarf as though she’d never seen it before. “Really?”
“Would that please you?” he asked as he undid the buttons of her coat.
“I think it’d please me greatly.” She looked at him. “Would it please you?”
“Will you moan?” He pushed the sides of her coat open and pushed her silky shirt up over her breasts.
“I’m not sure I could help myself,” she said breathlessly.
He admired the way the pink bra plumped her flesh up, and then he pulled the straps down so the soft mounds popped out. He exhaled deeply, moved by the erotic beauty of her nipples darkened with desire, standing taut. He ran his thumb over them.
Sighing, she arched up. “Where’s the scarf? Is it later yet?”
He was already hard, but her question made him surge with impatience. “I’m taking you here.”
“Here?” Her eyes closed as he played with the tips of her breasts.
The sight of her drove him mad. Unable to savor her the way he’d have liked, he slipped his hand under her skirt. She wore woolen tights—he expected them to stretch all the way to the top, but he touched the soft skin of her thigh where her stockings ended. Thigh-hi stockings? He stilled.
“I was
“Evidently.” Without asking, his friend went to the back and stood in front of the easel, his arms folded in front of him as he studied the canvas. “This is her.”
Finn knew better than to pretend he didn’t know what Marcel meant. “Yes.”
“Exquisite.” His friend glanced at him, his expression cunning. “Women are inspiring, no? Inspiring to create or to strangle, but inspiring nonetheless.”
“I can’t argue that.”
“I only know two things. Music and women,” Marcel said as he headed to the door. “But I know both really well. And do you know what?”
Opening the door for the man, Finn shook his head. “What?”
“Both bring misery.” The man pointed at Finn. “But both can help you reach the most sublime heights if you treat them with their due.”
“What does that mean?” he asked as the man shuffled out of his studio.
Marcel waved over his shoulder and said, “I can’t do all the work for you, boy.”
The old man was mad. Closing the door, he ignored the restoration project he needed to finish and stood in front of Viola’s image. He picked up his brush and attacked the canvas again, wondering if he’d ever see her in person or if this painting was going to have to do.
He didn’t even know her—not really. He glared at her lovely face, only half finished, and wondered how she could have wormed her way into his life so quickly.
His buzzer rang. He considered not opening it, but maybe Marcel was back with a croissant.
Except it wasn’t an old Frenchman standing in the doorway: It was Viola.
Relief made his knees weak.
She opened her mouth. “I—”
He tugged her to him and kissed her. He moaned at the taste of her, the familiar way her body curved to his, wanting her with an intensity he’d never felt for a woman before.
Which made no sense at all, because normally he’d have preferred that she go away. He only saw women who were easy: no expectations, no baggage. Viola was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he liked.
Not that his body agreed. His body thought she was exactly its type. He slid his hand down the column of her neck, marking her skin with his paint. He pulled open her coat and slid his fingers under her layers, directly to the hardened tip of her breast.
She moaned and arched back. “I can take things off,” she offered in a low voice, her hand going for the coat buttons.
He kicked the door closed and pressed her against it. “I’ll do it.”
“Hurry.” She pressed her palms to the wood, her arms in a T.
He wondered if she knew how she looked, in such a sacrificial position—more a gift than an offering. He untied her scarf and tossed it aside. “Maybe we’ll use that later.”
Her eyes went large, and she looked at the scarf as though she’d never seen it before. “Really?”
“Would that please you?” he asked as he undid the buttons of her coat.
“I think it’d please me greatly.” She looked at him. “Would it please you?”
“Will you moan?” He pushed the sides of her coat open and pushed her silky shirt up over her breasts.
“I’m not sure I could help myself,” she said breathlessly.
He admired the way the pink bra plumped her flesh up, and then he pulled the straps down so the soft mounds popped out. He exhaled deeply, moved by the erotic beauty of her nipples darkened with desire, standing taut. He ran his thumb over them.
Sighing, she arched up. “Where’s the scarf? Is it later yet?”
He was already hard, but her question made him surge with impatience. “I’m taking you here.”
“Here?” Her eyes closed as he played with the tips of her breasts.
The sight of her drove him mad. Unable to savor her the way he’d have liked, he slipped his hand under her skirt. She wore woolen tights—he expected them to stretch all the way to the top, but he touched the soft skin of her thigh where her stockings ended. Thigh-hi stockings? He stilled.
“I was
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