Page 60 of Deliverance

He eyes me suspiciously but does as requested. “What next?”

My fingers tingle as I gather my tools. I can feel the high coming. A raging wave, slapping me from each and every angle. “Take off your T-shirt.” I stop working on the tray and lift my right leg to unzip my boot.

Zander grins and a playful glint enters his eyes. “You didn’t tell me I was going to pose naked.”

As soon as I’m done with the other boot, I’m four inches shorter and he’s so much bigger. “You’re not. Jeans stay.”

“Okay. You’re the boss.” He grips at the hem of his T-shirt and drags it over his head, revealing a very toned and very male body.

I swallow. My heart lurches in my chest. Rhys aside, I’ve touched men before, men I worked with, men whose skin I studied so closely that I knew every pore, but none looked like Zander Shaw.

Bare-chested with mussed hair and generous splashes of ink across his shoulders and torso, he’s magnificent. And I’m not sure in which way. I’m not sure if I’m seeing him through the lens of an artist or through the lens of a woman who swore off sexual intimacy for good. Or both.

Heat sweeps through my stomach and settles somewhere below my gut. A warm pulsing sensation.

“Lie down.” I motion at the paper taped to the floor.

A small frown creases his forehead. “Just to verify, you’re not a serial killer?”

“If I were, this would have been plastic.”

“Good point.”

“Just take off your boots first.”

He does as instructed and lowers himself onto the paper.

“On your back.” Grabbing the tray with my tools, I kneel by his side and study him quietly, my mind racing, my heart pounding.

“Does it make me a fool that I like not knowing what you’re going to do with me next?” Zander asks, staring up at my face. His hair spills onto the paper and his sun-kissed skin glows against the dead-white canvas like a torch in a dark tunnel.

“Are you cold?”

“No. Should I be?”

“You’re lying on the cement.” I offer an apologetic smile and pick up my palette.

“I’m resilient.” He winks at me and an electric current crackles in the air between us.

“Please let me know if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m good. Promise.”

“Okay.” I drop my gaze to the collection of tubes sitting on the tray and grab the Indian yellow. “There’s a shower in the back and I promise your jeans won’t be harmed.”

He remains silent as I squeeze some of the paint on my palette and prepare my brushes and oils. I credit his calm to the fact that he’s worn facial paint for years and knows the feel of it on his skin.

“Be still,” I whisper as I scoop up some oil. My hand quivers.Traitor.

“What’s this?” His gaze shoots to the bottle, but he remains motionless.

“A medium.” Biting the inside of my cheek to stop the tremor, I bring the brush to his chest. “It alters the consistency and the behavior of the paint.” A sharp smell fills the room and streams into my nostrils. “Don’t worry. It’s safe,” I reassure Zander, noting a flash of panic in his eyes.

His stomach tightens when I drag the brush across his pec and down over the hard ridges of his abs. It’s obvious he takes care of his body. I can only imagine how difficult a two-hour set behind a drum kit can be. I remember being completely exhausted after my forty-minute boxing sessions with Roque, which reminds me… I haven’t been to the gym in ages.

“What are you thinking about when you paint?” Zander questions.

“Depends.” I return to my palette and dip the brush into the Indian yellow.

---