Page 40 of Pretty Cruel Love

Her eyes sparkle. She nods, smiling. “Okay.”

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“Right there’s fine.” She points to a barstool in the corner.

I take a seat, then casually pull out my phone.

Extend camera delay by two hours. Log out until I say otherwise.

Sheldon

Done.

She stares at me, and I stare right back. Her gaze lingers on my jaw, then my shoulders, before she picks up her pencil and begins.

She alternates between pencil and brush, eyes flicking from my face to the canvas. Her focus is surgical, intense. Each stroke of shading adds depth. Her detail is nearly photo-realistic, like she’s trying to possess me one pencil line at a time.

We’re both aware of the cameras. Me—because I don’t trust Sheldon’s perfect record. Her—because she’s always being watched.

So we move slow. Subtle. Controlled. It’s like we’re speaking in a private language made of silence.

When she begins to sketch me with a shirt on, I clear my throat and tug it off, revealing my chest.

Her cheeks flush. But she nods, adjusting the lines.

“Thank you,” she says, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got enough to finish without you sitting longer. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Do we switch places now?”

“No.”

I stand and cross the room, grab one of the notebooks from her shelf, and reach for a pencil.

“I’d prefer to draw you in a different setting.”

“Outside?”

“You wish.” I smirk. “In your bathroom. Sit on the edge of the tub for me.”

She swallows, but nods. She steps into the bathroom and eases herself onto the clawfoot tub’s edge, legs bent slightly, one arm bracing behind her.

I drag a chair to the doorway and sit. Then I flip open the notebook.

She stares at me as I begin, her gaze locked on mine. Then—slowly—she spreads her legs.

Her perfect pussy glistens in the warm light, and for a split second, all I want to do is bury my head between her thighs and lose myself.

Not tonight.

I keep my gaze steady, my pencil moving. I glance at the clock every so often, holding myself together by a thread.

An hour passes. I shut the notebook and hand it to her.

“Let me know what you think after you look at it,” I say. “I have to step out for half a day—need to look into something for your case. But I meant what I said about the extra isolation session.”

“You’re leaving me?”

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