The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) by Deena Ward

too hard.”
    “I hope she’s not mad, or upset.”
    “She’ll get over it.”
    I shrugged. “She might as well. I can’t do anything about
it.”
    We strolled the path in silence as the sounds of the crowd
and Paulina’s voice faded behind us. I could still smell the faint odor of
burning wood from the pig pit, and the ever-present scent of freshly-mowed
grass.
    I thought I was tired when I decided to leave the picnic,
but now that Gibson was with me, I felt reenergized. The annoyance of Paulina’s
demands dissolved into so much nothingness. Gibson’s nearness wiping out all
other concerns. He was an enticement. I longed to touch him, wanted him to
touch me. I was ever on the verge, but never saw it through.
    Seeing him talking with that other woman earlier had given
me a sense of what might be, and that possibility was unthinkable. I couldn’t
stand the idea of Gibson being with someone else. He belonged with me.
    “Um.” I stumbled around for the right words. “What you did
for me the other day, it meant a lot to me, and I didn’t thank you enough for
it.”
    “You thanked me plenty. I only want to see you happy.”
    “I know.” And I thought, if you want that, then kiss me
right now and I’ll be beyond happy. No such luck. For everything that Gibson
was, he wasn’t a mind reader. Probably just as well.
    When we arrived at the cottage, he followed me inside and
into my workroom to deposit my supplies. He looked around the room with an
approving eye, studied a few of the sketches I had pinned to the wall on a big
cork board.
    “I like this one the best,” he said, tapping a sketch of
Xavier fishing off the dock. “You captured his serenity.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Well —” he began.
    Fearing he was going to say that he was leaving, I asked,
“Can I draw you? Will you sit for me?”
    A frown flickered across his features. I expected a negative
answer, but then his face smoothed. “If you’d like.”
    I gave him a reassuring smile. He didn’t know it, but I
already had a number of sketches of him that I’d done on the sly over the
weeks. I’d finished at least four of him that day alone while he went about
tending the pit, chatting with guests, refereeing a badminton match.
    That didn’t mean, however, that I wasn’t looking forward to the
chance to study him at leisure, to not have to hide my attention. I led him
over to a stool, got him settled, then moved an easel into position and grabbed
up a large pad of paper along with my other supplies.
    My pencil skimmed over the page as I tried to capture the
essence of the handsome man sitting patiently in my studio. I sensed his
discomfort with the situation. He didn’t enjoy being the center of attention,
even when the audience was only one, only me.
    There was a time when I would have thought his aversion was
a cute quirk, no big deal. Now, with issues of my own in this area, I couldn’t
downplay it. I understood that he was doing something he didn’t want to do,
that he was doing it for me, and so I didn’t prolong the process. I worked with
speed, but not haste.
    His hands rested on his knees and I noted the tension in his
shoulders, in the strong line of his jaw. His face, though, was smooth and
impassive, and it took some work to see through the enigmatic mask to the man
underneath.
    Gibson’s dark eyes and hair were a perfect contrast to the
pristine white of his open-collared shirt and pants. I wanted to kiss the
triangle of tanned flesh that showed in the neck of his shirt, then kiss my way
up his neck to his full lips.
    Damn, he was too good-looking. I wondered how many women
threw themselves at him on a daily basis. Then I took a harder look at him and
I realized probably not too many women would dare. Gibson Reeves was an
intimidating man, impossible to read, polite to the extreme of creating an
unbreachable wall between himself and others. It would take an immense amount
of confidence to charge that barrier.
    And yet, how many times