Page 32 of Windlass

“For . . . authenticity’s sake . . .” She tore her gaze away from Stevie’s chest and met her eyes. They still held that defiant gleam, daring Angie to push this further, daring her to call their bluff. “But only if you’re comfortable.”

“Sure.” Stevie slipped the simple black—why did she look so good in black?—pair of women’s boxers down her legs, kicking them onto the top of the pile.

Angie wished she could bite something. Oh, she was fucked. She was so, so, so fucked. It had taken years, but she’d finally pushed Stevie to her limit. If this was, in fact, the limit. There were parts of Stevie she still didn’t know. That frustrated her almost more than desire. She needed to know Stevie down to her atoms. Stevie’s hips were slimmer than Angie’s but still curved, the neatly trimmed triangle of hair between her legs a taunt.

Stevie’s hand in Angie’s hair, pulling Angie’s mouth to her—

This was too close to the fantasy she’d been entertaining recently for anything remotely resembling comfort. The things she would do for Stephanie Ward were shamelessly without limit. All Stevie had to do was ask.

A command wouldn’t hurt, either. At that thought, heat spilled from between her thighs, forcing her to shift yet again, and Stevie damn well knew it—she could see it in the set of her jaw, the muscles as hard as Angie’s clit.

“Perfect,” she said, clearing her throat. “Uh, if you could crouch on the table facing me . . .?”

Stevie cleared the clutter off the coffee table and settled onto the edge, one knee down, face tilted up to Angie. Thick blond hair fell around her shoulders, almost, but not quite, concealing her breasts. It softened her features—except for her eyes. Those dared Angie to take things further.

Angie turned to a blank page in her sketchbook and put the tip of her pen to paper, pulse pounding in her ears. Stevie wasn’t backing down. If Angie wanted to extricate them from this situation, she’d need to do it herself, but it was precisely Stevie’s determination that made that impossible. Nothing was as hot as a woman who’d made up her mind. She swallowed hard, her throat forgetting how to go about its business.

Why did it suddenly feel like Stevie was in control? Stevie was naked, not Angie. It should have been the other way around. Right? She’d never had the opportunity to take life drawing classes. She’d done what she could with YouTube and the internet, but what those shadowy imitations had left out was thepowerthe model had over the observer. Angie still had clothes on, for Chrissakes. But the heat between her own thighs was already unbearable. She anticipated this would only get worse, and while she was prepared to ask Stevie to position herself as necessary for her drawing, she was very aware that Stevie could ask Angie to get into whatever position filled her darkest, filthiest fantasies, and Angie would get to it with a “yes ma’am.”

“Perfect,” she repeated. “Can you hold that for a few?”

“We’ll see.”

Oh, they would. She sketched a loose series of shapes, capturing the motion of the pose with lines and ovals before diving into the details.

“Draw me like one of your French girls,” said Stevie.

Angie snorted with laughter. The relief it brought did not alleviate the fire at her core, but it did alleviate the tension.

“Nerd.”

“Nerd, Descending a Coffee Table.”

The reference to Duchamp’sNude Descending a Staircasesurprised her. “Wait, what do you know about art history?”

“I saw a meme once.”

“Classic.” Her pen moved independently of her thoughts, which was a godsend, considering the white noise making up most of her brain activity at the moment. Stevie was shockingly ripped. Wrestling horses had its advantages, apparently. She threw rough shading around the figure on her sketchpad, isolating the lights and darks and trying not to linger on the hollows above her collarbones. She wanted to taste those shadows. Bite the thick muscles in her shoulders. Feel the smooth, taut stretch of skin over her abdominals and sink her nails into Stevie’s hips to see what she would do when provoked.

“This is surprisingly difficult,” said Stevie.

“Do you need a break?”

“No. I just want you to appreciate my heroics.”

“You’re very appreciated.” God, could she sound less like a total simp? “Artistically speaking.”

“Noted.”

“Do you want music or anything? I should have asked.” Angie knew she sounded nervous. That was not part of the plan. There hadbeenno plan. This was—did Stevie really have to have such smoothly corded forearms, promising to deliver precisely what Angie needed?

Minutes passed.

“Okay. Got that pose for now. You can take a break.”

Stevie slid back onto the coffee table, then yelped as her bare ass hit the wood. “Cold.”

“It’s a thousand degrees outside.”

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