Page 22 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

Rose lets her gaze drift softly down from my face, along the length of my chest and stomach, before coming to rest on the pulsing bulge behind my zipper.

She stares intently at it for a few moments before finally meeting my eyes again with an unspoken question. I smile reassuringly, letting her know she can continue looking if she wants, even though I’m feeling strange at this unexpected turn of events.

Taking my time, I remove each piece of clothing, like I’m unwrapping a gift for her. I start with my shirt, unbuttoning each button one by one until it falls open. The fabric slides off my shoulders and down my arms, giving Rose a full view of my bare chest. Her breath hitches as she takes in the sight of me, her eyes narrow in appreciation.

Feeling less awkward, I slide my jeans over my hips before kicking them away. I’m now standing in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that are so tented the extent of my arousal is unmistakable.

I’ve painted dozens of nude models before my long sleep. They often acted bored, as though they couldn’t wait for the gig to be over so they could collect their pay.

There’s nothing boring about standing exposed in front of Rose, especially with the way her eyes rove hungrily over my body. This is hot, sexy. I’m growing more aroused by the second.

Rose’s face is pink now, cheeks flushed with desire as she takes in every angle and plane of my torso. Her gaze is so intense it feels almost tangible. She swallows hard before finally tearing her gaze from inspecting me to finally look into my eyes. The sexual tension radiates between us, a shimmering wave of raw emotion.

My body is alive with sensations, my skin feels as though it’s on fire, and my blood pounds in my ears. This is what it feels like to be wanted. I never felt this way with Isabelle. With her, I was a toy. I see that now. With Rose, we’re touching souls.

Chapter Twenty

Rose

I can’t tear my gaze from him. He looks so beautiful standing there, with his barely contained strength. His chest is broad and toned, his arms thick with slabs of muscle. I can see the veins bulging in places, proclaiming his masculine beauty.

He has a slender waist that tapers into narrow hips. Just visible below the waistband of his boxers is the evidence of how much he wants me.

Is he aware I’m breathing heavily? I tip my head to the side, studying him like a work of art. His perfect bronze skin, the lean muscles rippling across his abdomen, his powerful thighs. As his chest rises with every breath he takes, for one wild second, I want to reach out and touch it.

But I can’t bring myself to do this yet. Although I concocted this painting session so I could see him naked, I really do want to paint him. In order to do that, I have to focus on capturing the right pose and mood.

So I step back, breaking the spell, and then clear my throat. “Now, if you’d like to sit on that chair over there.” I struggle to keep my voice even and my gaze off the bulge in his underwear.

He moves gracefully across the room to the nearby armchair, and I’m finally able to tear my gaze from his body.

“No!” Whoops that was far too forceful, but it’s all wrong. “Hold that thought.”

I hurry to my bedroom and muss the white comforter on the perfectly made bed.

“W-would you go into the bedroom and um, remove your… the rest of your clothes and lie on your front?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, winks at me, and gives me a devastating smile as he walks to the bedroom. I don’t know how he manages to act as though I’m not watching his every step, inspecting him, evaluating him. Perhaps he’s confident, knowing I’ll like what I see. Which I do. This man is gorgeous.

When I cross the threshold and see him naked on the bed, just as I instructed, I gasp. There are so many nude sculptures and pictures of women throughout time, but other than the Statue of David, there aren’t that many works of art with men. But right this moment, I truly believe men are the more beautiful sex.

I’m terrified of touching him, afraid I’ll cross a line I’m not ready to cross, so I give him verbal directions until he’s lying in perfectly mussed white sheets, his legs outstretched, and most of one arm stretched up the wall at the head of the bed.

It shows off every muscle of his lean body, the curve of his buttocks, and the slabs of meat in his muscular shoulders.

“May I?” I ask as I reach to arrange that long, beautiful caramel hair so that it teases, but doesn’t obstruct the view of everything his body has to offer.

“Don’t move, Rip, but dear God, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I’ll have to paint fast, because that couldn’t be comfortable, but first I have to blink my tears away. If I capture only one-tenth of what my eyes see, this painting will be blindingly beautiful.

By the time I move the easel and supplies into the bedroom and throw open the curtains to get better light, my tears have dried.

My hands shake with anticipation as I reach for a brush. I hope I can capture not only what my eyes see, but what my heart is feeling.

Painting with fascination, it’s as if my hands aren’t my own as I add color to the canvas. Every stroke is like a miniature caress. The mere process of painting stokes my arousal.

My skill seems improved, perhaps because of the subject I’m painting. I don’t need the amulet; I have Rip. My brushstrokes accentuate every muscle, contour, and curve. The work of art he’s presenting to me is breathtakingly beautiful, and I can’t help but get lost in it.

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