Read Online Absolute Pleasure by Cheryl Holt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cheryl Holt
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glass of wine?"
How utterly romantic, to be sequestered with him and sipping intoxicating beverages in the middle of the afternoon! Caution was definitely called for. "Will you be having any?"
"No. It dulls my senses when I need them to be sharp."
"I believe I'll pass, then."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
His gaze held hers, once again, then plunged lower, across her chest, pelvis, and legs. When he arrived at her feet, he started up, his perusal meandering, tarrying in spots, and so tangible that it seemed he was really touching her.
He dallied overly long on her hips, then deliberately worked his way higher. Brazenly, he lingered at her bosom, judging her breasts, her cleavage.
Determined not to be timid or abashed, she bravely endured his silent inspection, declining to flinch or hide herself. He could look his fill, and she wouldn't object.
With fastidious informality, he studied the size and shape of her breasts, plainly taking inventory of their weight and girth as though assaying them for future handling. Her loins stirred and she writhed against the sofa, trying to allay some of the intense perturbation occurring inside her torso.
"Does it disturb you when I evaluate you so precisely?" His scorching analysis left her breasts and swung to her face.
"No." Refusing to have him see her as fainthearted, she deliberately surveyed him. She was resolved that he would compare her to his other adept lovers—of whom she was persuaded he'd had many—and that he would perceive her to be mature and worldly.
"You have a fabulous body," he mentioned irreverently.
"Thank you." She replied casually, affecting indifference, as though receiving such compliments was customary.
"You'll be beautiful on the canvas."
"I'm glad you think so."
"I know so."
At his vehement affirmation, she nodded. "I bow to your superior artistic estimation."
He chuckled, the sound charming and captivating, and she nestled further into the fainting couch, deciding that she could sit there forever, watching him and hearing him laugh.
"We'll begin with my sketching you." He was deluged by a potent energy, and he grabbed a stool and placed it directly in front of her. "Top to bottom. Head to toe. Back, front, sides. I must capture every aspect that makes you unique."
Without giving her a chance to demur or reflect, he hurried to a shelf, rustled through his supplies, and retrieved a portfolio packed with blank sheets and a thick charcoal pencil. He returned to the stool, scooting it nearer to the sofa's frame, moving in so that his legs tangled with hers, their feet intertwined.
His behavior was shameless, intrepid, but then, from their first encounter, he'd acted unconventionally, and she was swiftly acclimating to his impertinent ways. He was unlike any person she'd encountered before, and she was enchanted by his audacity.
However, while she'd accepted his precipitous proximity with more ease than she'd ever imagined she could, she wasn't mentally prepared to have him progress.
With his materials at the ready, he placed the black tip of his pencil against the creamy page, and she oozed trepidation. While she'd dreamed of being alone with him, had vigorously fantasized about watching him draw and paint and work, now that they were about to embark on their endeavor, her courage lagged.
She didn't dispute his ability. He'd unerringly reproduce every trait, every feature, every flaw. The man had a critical eye; nothing escaped his scrutiny. How would she appear? Did she really want to know?
Her smile faded, and he immediately noticed.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she lied.
"Not true, milady." He could discern her emotional state as no one ever had, and he pondered her exhaustively, as if he could deduce the problem just from staring.
Unfortunately, being in his presence stirred sentiments she'd previously neither perceived nor heeded. Since stumbling upon him at the theater, she was a spontaneously erupting jumble of hankering and regret,
How utterly romantic, to be sequestered with him and sipping intoxicating beverages in the middle of the afternoon! Caution was definitely called for. "Will you be having any?"
"No. It dulls my senses when I need them to be sharp."
"I believe I'll pass, then."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
His gaze held hers, once again, then plunged lower, across her chest, pelvis, and legs. When he arrived at her feet, he started up, his perusal meandering, tarrying in spots, and so tangible that it seemed he was really touching her.
He dallied overly long on her hips, then deliberately worked his way higher. Brazenly, he lingered at her bosom, judging her breasts, her cleavage.
Determined not to be timid or abashed, she bravely endured his silent inspection, declining to flinch or hide herself. He could look his fill, and she wouldn't object.
With fastidious informality, he studied the size and shape of her breasts, plainly taking inventory of their weight and girth as though assaying them for future handling. Her loins stirred and she writhed against the sofa, trying to allay some of the intense perturbation occurring inside her torso.
"Does it disturb you when I evaluate you so precisely?" His scorching analysis left her breasts and swung to her face.
"No." Refusing to have him see her as fainthearted, she deliberately surveyed him. She was resolved that he would compare her to his other adept lovers—of whom she was persuaded he'd had many—and that he would perceive her to be mature and worldly.
"You have a fabulous body," he mentioned irreverently.
"Thank you." She replied casually, affecting indifference, as though receiving such compliments was customary.
"You'll be beautiful on the canvas."
"I'm glad you think so."
"I know so."
At his vehement affirmation, she nodded. "I bow to your superior artistic estimation."
He chuckled, the sound charming and captivating, and she nestled further into the fainting couch, deciding that she could sit there forever, watching him and hearing him laugh.
"We'll begin with my sketching you." He was deluged by a potent energy, and he grabbed a stool and placed it directly in front of her. "Top to bottom. Head to toe. Back, front, sides. I must capture every aspect that makes you unique."
Without giving her a chance to demur or reflect, he hurried to a shelf, rustled through his supplies, and retrieved a portfolio packed with blank sheets and a thick charcoal pencil. He returned to the stool, scooting it nearer to the sofa's frame, moving in so that his legs tangled with hers, their feet intertwined.
His behavior was shameless, intrepid, but then, from their first encounter, he'd acted unconventionally, and she was swiftly acclimating to his impertinent ways. He was unlike any person she'd encountered before, and she was enchanted by his audacity.
However, while she'd accepted his precipitous proximity with more ease than she'd ever imagined she could, she wasn't mentally prepared to have him progress.
With his materials at the ready, he placed the black tip of his pencil against the creamy page, and she oozed trepidation. While she'd dreamed of being alone with him, had vigorously fantasized about watching him draw and paint and work, now that they were about to embark on their endeavor, her courage lagged.
She didn't dispute his ability. He'd unerringly reproduce every trait, every feature, every flaw. The man had a critical eye; nothing escaped his scrutiny. How would she appear? Did she really want to know?
Her smile faded, and he immediately noticed.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she lied.
"Not true, milady." He could discern her emotional state as no one ever had, and he pondered her exhaustively, as if he could deduce the problem just from staring.
Unfortunately, being in his presence stirred sentiments she'd previously neither perceived nor heeded. Since stumbling upon him at the theater, she was a spontaneously erupting jumble of hankering and regret,
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