Page 132 of The Holiday Fakers
“What kind of expression do you want?”
“You’ve just been victorious at the Battle of Ashmyre and know that no one dares oppose you. I want you to look at me like you know the power you have over me.”
He raises an eyebrow, and my whole face flushes.
“Your wish is my command,” he replies in a British accent, and my pencil immediately slips out of my hand onto the bed.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath as I pick it back up and force myself to concentrate on the drawing.
But when I glance up from the paper to his face, the look in his eyes makes my fingers shake. His expression is so intense, so hot, I feel like I might combust on the spot.
“Is this working for you?” Brody continues in a British accent.
“Oh my god, yes!” I exhale heavily, fanning my face. “But if you keep that up, I won’t be able to finish the drawing.”
“If you’re experiencing a discomforting rise in body temperature,” he says, sounding like the Earl of Fuck-Me-Now Abbey, “then perhaps you should disrobe.”
I tug my sweater off and toss it to the bed.
Fire flashes in Brody’s eyes. “Good girl.”
His words hit my clit like a spark.
“Look,” I say, my voice trembling, “just give me five minutes to finish this before you reduce me to a puddle.”
He nods, still eye-fucking me, and I look down, blinking at the drawing as I try to focus.
Brody stays silent, and I manage to stay detached enough to finish the picture. It’s the best one I’ve ever done. It has a vitality and energy none of the others possess. Maybe only I can tell what makes this picture so good, but it doesn’t matter. All I know is I’ve never been this excited about my art before. Now, with the best model in the world, anything is possible.
I clear the bed, then pass the drawing to Brody so he can see it.
His eyes widen as he takes it in. “Fucking hell, Piper. This is … wow.”
“Don’t touch it. I need to spray it with fixative first.”
“I didn’t get you any.”
“We can get some in town tomorrow. I’m just going to wash my hands.”
I slip into the corridor before he can grab me and head to the bathroom to clean up.
Staring at my lust-drunk features in the mirror, all I can think about is Brody’s thick cock driving deep inside me. My hands tremble as I dry them on a towel. Taking a steadying breath, I walk calmly back to the bedroom.
The main lights are off, the room illuminated by three candles on the dresser and the colored lights from the neighboring houses that dance across the far wall. Brody is still seated in the chair, but the blanket, hockey stick, and tub of cream are gone. His legs are spread, his hands resting on his muscular thighs.
My pulse pounds through my body, from my throat to my pussy. I want him so much.
“My lady,” Brody begins in a cultured rumble, “you’re late.”
His voice has always done something to my insides, but in a British accent? Hoo-ee, I’m done for.
I swallow. “I apologize, my lord. What would you have me do?”
His gaze roams over me possessively, as if he owns every inch of me and I exist solely to satisfy his needs.
“Disrobe,” he says. “Slowly.”
My fingertips feel like fire as I undo the tiny buttons down the front of my top. My breath quickens as I glance at Brody’s hands, the tendons flexing as if it takes all his willpower to keep them still.
