Page 23 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

My gutsiest move out of so many bold moves today is that I posed him with his head facing me. Those gorgeous ice-blue eyes watch me with an intensity that could set fire to my skin. It’s so hot in here now, we’re both sweating with anticipation and desire.

I step back for a moment to catch my breath and see how the painting is taking shape. Each addition of color and texture gives life to the masterpiece that’s slowly emerging on the canvas—Rip himself.

“The light is fading.” My voice is mournful.

“You’ll have to double my fee if you want me to pose tomorrow.”

I know he was joking to break the shockingly intense moment, but his voice was so deep and cracked with emotion it just intensified things.

“You’re beautiful,” he says in a whisper.

Our gazes lock for the first time in long minutes. My heart is pounding in my chest. His voice is like a spell, and I’m completely enthralled. He stands up and slowly crosses the room, his gaze never leaving my lips. I’m trembling now, overwhelmed with desire and longing.

Finally, he sets my brush on the easel, takes my hands in his, raises them to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to each palm. His lips are warm and gentle, and I’m so overcome with emotion I can barely breathe.

He gazes into my eyes, no longer holding anything back. I can see the affection radiating there.

“Can I see the portrait? I know it’s not done. If places were reversed, I wouldn’t want to show you until I was finished, until it was perfect. But Rose. I can’t sit here a moment longer without pulling you into bed with me, letting you explore me with more than your eyes. I don’t need more than what we shared last night. I just have to have my lips on you, have your intimate taste on my tongue.”

Arousal darts through me, hot and swift. How can I want something so badly when I’ve never had it before, don’t even know what exactly it is I’m yearning for?

I glance at his portrait, seeing a dozen places I have yet to get right. It needs more nuance, more detail. But overall, it shows more than the handsome man in that mussed bed who promised so many things—things I’m not even sure I understand. It shows the affection of the artist.

With my heart thumping in my chest, I step back. “Okay.”

As he moves in front of the painting, my attention is momentarily captured by the stiff erection jutting at his hips. I could gape at it all day, which seems intrusive, so I drag my gaze back to his face only to find him mesmerized by the painting.

He’s standing next to me, his heat enveloping me, although he isn’t touching me at all.

“Rose. It’s…”

He sees it. I know he does. He can feel my affection for him in every brushstroke.

He pulls me close and tucks me against him, managing to tilt his body to keep his hard rod from touching me. As sexually charged as this experience has been, as much as he wants to carry me to the bed, in this moment, the portrait seems more important than that.

“We’re going to take this at your pace,” he whispers into my ear. “I can wait years for you, Rose. Because this? This tells me all I need to know about how you feel about me.”

I nod. There's no use denying it. I need to reassure him, though, that we won't be waiting years. I'm ready now.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rose

I change my position to cling to him head-on, to feel that hard cock nestle between my thighs. Instinctively, I widen my stance and let loose a little moan at the thrill of him pulsing against my clit.

“I won't take no for an answer, Rip. You said it. We've waited forever for this. I don't need years. Not even another day. I want you, and I know you want me.”

To punctuate my words, I slide my hand between our melded bodies and fumble a bit before I grip his cock at the root. For a moment, a frisson of fear darts up my spine when I can't for the life of me imagine anything that big penetrating me.

Then I think of my twelve siblings. If my mom could push thirteen children out of her channel, I can certainly tolerate one hard, thick cock. I vow to take that inside me or die trying.

Just as Rip lifts me into his arms, we're interrupted by a fierce pounding on the front door.

“Rosie! Rosie! We know you're in there!”

It's unmistakably my father. His use of the word “we” suggests one or more of my brothers are with him.

I thought I'd come so far, but just hearing his voice has me trembling in fear.

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