Out of Control (Untamed #2) (10 page)

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

I turned away from the tea, and nodded. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

“Yeah,” I said, and waved my hand at the platform. “How do you want me?”

Dare didn’t answer right away, so I looked up to find him staring at me with a quiet storm brewing behind his gaze. He swallowed hard before speaking. “A simple reclining pose. However you’re comfortable.”

Turning away from him, I stepped up onto the platform, pulled the ends of the tie at my waist, and let the robe slip to the floor. Then I took out the elastic from my hair and shook out the long strands, letting them cascade all the way down my back.

I lay down on my side, my back to him. “Is this okay?” I asked, my voice coming out too breathy. I felt more naked than I ever had in my whole life.

He didn’t answer, so I glanced over my shoulder.

Sinfully dark, turbulent eyes were fastened on me as Dare’s chest rose and fell in quick succession. My skin was awash with electricity at his look—I felt more alive, more aware, than I had in weeks. He seemed to be fighting the urge to pounce on me, and I hoped to god his resolve would shatter. Mine had.

Finding closure could go fuck itself. I wanted Dare.

Right now. And always.

That was not going to change.

eleven

W
hen Dare noticed me looking, he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. Picking up his palette, he took a sip of coffee then set his cup down. His shoulders stiffened and he shifted in place, as if unsure about his next move. Almost like he wanted to go one way, but knew he should run the other.

“Dare?” I said again, luring him back to me. “Are you okay with this pose?”

He hesitated, opened his mouth, then snapped his jaw shut. Then he took a step toward me, but changed his mind and stayed firmly put.

“Face the wall.” The instruction was brief, quiet, and terse.

My chest tightened. He wanted me looking away from him. My smile had been his favorite, but now he couldn’t even stand to glimpse it.

Nodding, I pulled a pillow under my head and closed my eyes, listening to him get to work. The soft hiss of a brush touching the canvas was occasionally punctuated by the scraping sounds of a palette knife. There was a unique music to Dare’s work, and as he found his rhythm I could hear him fully relax into it.

And so did I.

God, I remembered this so well. The sounds of him working, the air laced with paint and turpentine. The way his brow would furrow and his lips would tighten as he focused on his work. Time had no meaning or importance in his studio. He’d work for hours without taking a break.

I hoped tonight was no exception.

I’d stay for as long as he’d let me.

I woke to find Dare leaning over me, his hand warm on my hip.

“You fell asleep,” he whispered, “and changed your position.”

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry.” I blinked my hazy vision into focus. “I’m—”

He gave me a gentle nudge. “It’s okay.” His voice was low, his eyes soft. He was looking at me like he used to, and all I could do was stare back at him, completely entranced by his hypnotic gaze, wildly drawn to his sculpted mouth.

He was so close…if I lifted my head just a little I could touch his lips.

I licked my own just thinking about it.

“Can I…?” he asked, indicating he wanted to guide me back into position. His eyes raked over my body, making me feel even more naked and exposed than I already was.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. So I just nodded.

Yes, you can touch me. Please, please touch me, Dare.

One hand on my shoulder, the other pressed into my back, he directed me up on my side again. The feel of his fingers against my bare skin sent sparks through my body. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with him as he moved over me, carefully arranging my body to his liking. His nearness made me dizzy with want, desperate with need. I pressed my thighs together in a feeble attempt to subdue the arousal pulsing between them.

I ached for more of his touch. More of him.
Everywhere
.

When his grip wrapped around my calf, I bit down on my lip to keep from moaning. He shifted my leg so it was resting over the other one, then slid his hand to my knee to lock it in place. He stilled for a moment and turned his head to look at me.

Chocolate-colored eyes pierced me, flooding my insides with liquid heat. I gasped, unable to hold back the tremor that rocked through me. My whole body was on fire, my most sensitive places throbbing with unbridled desire.

Dare continued to hold my gaze captive, the violent storm in his eyes betraying that he was well aware of his effect on me. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his grasp on my knee tightened. My pulse kicked up as I imagined him on me, kissing me, parting my legs so he could slip between them…

Oh, god. The tremors flared anew.

But not even a second later, his face turned to stone and he released me. Straightening to his full height, he moved back to his easel, leaving me cold and alone. I was glad my back was to him so he couldn’t see my face—couldn’t see the disappointment reflected in my eyes.

Dare stayed still for what felt like an eternity. I had to fight every urge to turn and look back at him. Finally, he started painting again, so I shut my eyes and relaxed into the rhythm of his strokes. There was no way in hell I’d be falling asleep again, my mind and body were buzzing with equal parts desire and despair. I lay there thinking about all that had happened three years ago, everything I’d put him through.

I had no idea if I could make up for it, if my actions could ever be forgiven. Dare had been the one who had come after me even with the threat of my father looming. His life had been at stake, his family had been endangered, yet he’d wanted to fight for me, fight for us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, breaking the silence between us.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “For what?”

For everything.

“For what I said in the hospital.”

The painting sounds halted and I heard him inhale sharply.

“Don’t, Reagan. Don’t go there.” His voice was low, dangerous. I’d heard that tone before and knew better than to push him. But how were we supposed to move beyond that if we couldn’t even talk about it? If he wouldn’t even accept my apology?

I stayed silent and he started painting again.

After a little while he said, “So what happened to make you…like you were in the metro and the other night when the power went out?”

“I…” Cold rigidity settled in my muscles and a lump rose in my throat.

There was one way to make Dare understand just how dangerous and controlling my father really could be—tell him what had happened seven years ago.

But at the mere thought of sharing that part of my past with him—with anyone—my hands began to tremble. I shook my head, begging my heart to calm the fuck down.

I would not think about it.
I would not think about it
. I squeezed my eyes shut to force the images away. Paris. I was in Paris. I was far away from it all. Years and thousands of miles away.

“You don’t want to know.” My voice came out tight, strained. “Trust me on this.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I—”

“No, Dare,” I said. “Just…
no
. You don’t get to shut me down when I apologize, and then pretend like you’re concerned about me the next moment. Either you’re in or you’re out. And you obviously don’t want to be in right now.” I took a slow, shaky breath. “I deserve that, I know. But you can’t have it both ways.”

If I told him about what happened, he’d probably forgive me for everything. Right here and now. Maybe he’d even want me back. But I wanted him to want me for
me
—JUST me—not out of pity.

The room turned so eerily still I could hear the soft sounds of traffic from the street below. Night had fallen, and I realized I had no idea what time it was. I heard Dare put down his brushes and palette, so I turned to look at him over my shoulder.

His shoulders were stiff and his eyes unfocused. He seemed…distant. I immediately regretted my angry words. I opened my mouth to say as much, but he beat me to it.

“Why don’t we call it a day?” he said. Before I could respond there was a knock on his front door and I could hear it opening.

“Dare?” a husky female voice called out. “
Où êtes-vous?
”
Where are you?

His head snapped up and he glanced at the doorway to the studio then back to me. Cursing under his breath, he started putting his brushes away as quickly as he could.

“
Ici,
Giselle,” he called out.
In here.

Shit. Giselle? I was about to make a grab for the robe, but she was already standing in the doorway—tall, lithe, and very French. Every hair was perfectly in place, her designer clothes sleek and subdued, she was nothing like…well, me. Her chocolate brown locks were twisted up tight on her head, and her makeup was dramatic and so exact it had to have been put on by an expert. Her green eyes—the only color to her besides the red of her lips—swept over me in distaste.

And I could only imagine what she saw—a naked model with messy hair tumbling around her, looking ridiculously uncomfortable.

Dare finished putting his stuff away, stood up and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She grasped his hand and started pulling him out of the room, moaning something about being late.

He glanced at me from the doorway, his face void of expression as he said, “You can let yourself out.”

I sat up slowly, watching him. “So…tomorrow?” I said, finally getting hold of the robe and pulling it over me. “Afternoon so I can work in the morning?”

Dare nodded once, and then he was gone.

I heard him say something to Giselle that made her laugh as they walked out the door. I whipped the robe around me and raced to the windows in his living room—the ones that faced the street. As the two of them came out of the building a moment later and walked down the steps, Dare draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her to him. She slipped an arm around his waist and they walked down the street, disappearing out of sight.

I stood at the window, looking out at the brightly lit street, feeling lonelier than I ever had. That used to be me—the girl in Dare’s embrace—but not anymore. I sighed, hugged my arms around myself, and glanced down at the robe. Ugh. Giselle had probably worn this, too. And suddenly I couldn’t stand the feel of it. I hurried toward the bathroom, peeling it away as I went—unable to get it off my skin fast enough.

I dressed and went back to my place to shower. I needed to wash her away.

Giselle. She wasn’t his type AT ALL. She was too…artificial. I didn’t know how he could stand her. But then again maybe it was her gorgeous body and the way she draped herself over him. Or the way she said his name with that lilt in her voice—like she was caressing it with her French tongue.

Fucking hell. How many times did I have to be hit in the face with how stupid I’d been to let him go?

twelve

“S
o…have you painted her?” I stood in Dare’s studio the next day, my own robe cinched at my waist, the sun’s warm rays flooding the futon.