Raising Hell (10 page)

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then nodded toward the door. “Come on. I’ll race you up.”

Late-afternoon sun streamed through the windows as they burst into the loft at the same time. Beams of golden sunlight filled the otherwise dim room, giving it a dark beauty that Nick itched to paint.

“Fairy dust,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“You should dust more,” she said, raising an eyebrow and obviously stifling a laugh. She waved a hand through a ray of sunlight, setting a flurry of dust particles dancing.

“I gave the maid the month off,” he said. “She’s the jealous type.”

“Is she?” She understood the invitation for what it was, stepping into his arms and opening her mouth to his. Her kiss was raw and eager, and he felt himself harden from the soft firmness of her lips against his. She slid her hand down between them, cupping his cock and applying just enough pressure to drive him just a little bit crazy. “From what I’ve read in the tabloids, your maid’s probably jealous of all of New York City.”

“What can I say? I like variety.”

“And yet I haven’t seen even a hint of another woman in all the time I’ve been here. Could it be the tabloids lie? Or are you keeping the other women hidden?”

“Keep me satisfied, and I won’t need any other women,” he said. His tone was teasing. But as he spoke the words, he realized that he meant them. The realization chilled him, and he shook it off, willing himself to focus on the room, the light, and his model.

“The window,” he said. “Let’s get you in front of the window while the light’s still good.”

She hesitated for a moment, then went to stand there. She put her hand on the glass, chin up in the pose she’d held like a pro for days now. One beat, another. Then another. Time started to slip away as Nick lost himself in lines and colors. And, of course, in the bits of Delilah that he’d pulled free to illuminate his canvas.

Not too much—not yet. He’d had to start slowly, getting to know the woman he was capturing in the canvas. And over the last few days he’d done just that. Getting to know her even as, little by little, he started to fall for her.

It was an unwelcome realization, but one he couldn’t deny. All he could do, in fact, was ignore it and lose himself in the miracle of creation. His art was all that mattered. This masterpiece that was coming to life in front of him. That was his only focus, his only concern.

He’d do well to remember that.

“I was thinking,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts. “I was thinking that maybe we should do something just a little bit different.”

Her voice was low and sultry, flowing over him like warm honey. The sultry tones teased, tugging at his libido and making him as hard as steel. That was saying a lot considering that nothing more than the way his brush traced the lines of her body had made him erect and on edge.

He took a deep breath, making sure that he’d wrested control away from his libido before answering. “What did you have in mind?”

“This,” she said simply, then started to unbutton her blouse. It fell away, revealing her bra that she unhooked, then let slide to the floor. She reached up, her hands flat, her palms rubbing lightly over erect nipples. “You make me horny when you paint me,” she said. “I think it’s because I trust you. I’ve never been this uninhibited before. So the only explanation I have is that it must be you.”

He swallowed, desperate to move away from the canvas and take her in his arms. “Is that good or bad?”

“Very good,” she said with a come-hither smile. “Whatever you’re doing to me, I like it.”

“I’m glad,” Nick said, but without the sincerity in his voice that he would have hoped for. What the hell was wrong with him? She was practically giving him permission to continue chipping away at her soul, stealing bits and pieces until it was all gone. He should be thrilled. Guilt free. Happy and sated with the promise of this woman, wild and uninhibited in his bed.

Instead, he just felt lost.

She moved away from the window, her head tilted to the side as she watched him. “I want more, Nick. I want you.” She took his hand and pulled it toward her, capturing his fingers between her legs. They’d left her panties in the men’s room trash can, and now his fingers found her damp and silky, and damned if his hesitations didn’t evaporate in the face of his near-desperate desire.

He pulled her roughly to him, crushing her mouth under his even as his hands attacked her skirt, ripping open the zipper, then yanking it down over her hips. She squealed in pleasure, urging him to move faster, to do whatever it took to get inside her.

Seconds later, he was, and they bucked together in a wild frenzy, a storm of erotic intentions that filled him as much as his art ever had. She came with him, crying out as her body spasmed and her fingernails tore down his back. He ignored the pain, seeing only the expression of rapture on her face as she found release in his arms.

“I’ve been an idiot,” she murmured later as they lay together on top of the sheets, the gentle breeze from an oscillating fan cooling their overheated bodies. “I thought modeling was the ultimate rebellion against my father.”

“It’s not?”

She shook her head. “Nope. You are.”

He rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could see her face. “How do you mean?”

She lifted a shoulder, then rolled away so that she was talking to the wall rather than to him. “It’s hard to put into words. But it’s like what I really wanted was to take a risk.” She rolled back, facing him again. “You’re a risk, Nick. A big one. You make me feel wild and decadent, and that’s something I never felt at home. It’s like I go a little crazy when I’m near you. And especially when you paint me. Like I’m losing my footing. Turning into a bit of a bad girl. And I don’t know. Maybe that’s just what I needed.”

“You like the way you’re feeling?” he asked, weighing his words and trying not to entertain the little bit of hope fluttering around his head like a moth holding the promise of redemption. “What you’re becoming?”

She licked her lips, her expression sultry. She lifted herself up, then climbed up to straddle him. “I love it,” she said, writhing against him. She took his hand, lifted a finger to her mouth, and sucked. Like red-hot sin, fire shot from his finger to his cock. She reached down, stroking and urging him along, then lifted her hips and settled herself on him, moving so slowly that the sensation was pure torture.

She’d turned the tables on him somehow, taking control of a seduction that should have been solely in his hands. Never before had he been so controlled by a woman, but the truth was he didn’t mind at all. He wanted to lose himself, both in her and to her. Most of all, he wanted to lose himself in a fog of passion so thick that he could forget that the woman he was falling for was quickly losing touch with herself, and that his brush was the weapon that would ultimately devour her soul.

“Fuck me,” Lila whispered
, not even shocked by the words that were coming out of her mouth. Not even a full week yet with Nick and she’d changed so much. So much more confidant, so much more daring. She felt sexy and alive … and at the same time desperately terrified that she was sliding into a chasm from which she’d never escape. As if all these exotic sensations were masking something else. As if good were hiding evil.

She shook herself, then ran her hands firmly down Nick’s hard chest. That was her father talking and the last thing in the world she needed in bed with her was a head full of her father’s thoughts.

Nick’s hand had moved from her lips to her breast, and now she took it, sliding it down until his finger stroked her swollen clit, sending ripples of pleasure through her body. She arched back, letting the sensations flow through her, building and building until she was so close to the edge that just a feather touch would draw her over.

She held her breath, holding back the inevitable as she pulled herself off him, then leaned over to capture his mouth with a kiss.

“Paint me,” she whispered. “Paint me while I come.”

‡
Chapter Nine

H
e was watching her.
Painting her. Taking everything he saw and putting it into the pigment. Storing it on the canvas.

For days now, he’d been capturing her image, and now that the portrait was almost complete, Lila was so turned on she could hardly stand it.

Nick had been a little startled when she’d pulled away, then urged him to the canvas. That much had been obvious merely from the expression on his face. But Lila didn’t care. All she wanted was this moment. The feeling of spinning out of control. More than sex, the vibrations that tore through her body when Nick painted her were so very … so very …

She shook her head and sighed. Honestly, there just weren’t words.

“Right there,” Nick said. “Hold it. The light from the street on your skin. It’s incredible. I just need to—”

“No.” She shook her head, wanting the sensation, but also wanting more and not sure how to get it. “No, you’re right. The street. That’s what I need.” She tilted her head toward the chest of drawers where Nick kept his clothes. “Get dressed, Nicky baby. You’re taking me out.”

The taxi sped down Broadway
toward the club that Lila had insisted they go to. And although Nick had cringed at the thought of visiting a club, he hadn’t countermanded the direction.

Now, he sat back against the battered upholstery, watching her. He’d protested making this venture out into the world. He’d had his fill of clubs and the party scene centuries ago, his ventures out now designed only to keep him in the public eye and serve the celebrity status that had been foisted upon bachelor bad boy Nicholas Velnias.

Not that he found the nightlife distasteful. He didn’t. But particularly when he was so close to the completion of a portrait, a venture out into the world would only serve to distract him.

And the truth was, he wanted this over. The painting was almost done, the final brushstrokes so close he could imagine the movements of his hand as the bristles caressed the canvas, the last bit of Delilah’s soul swirling out to infuse a masterpiece that would surely one day hang in the Louvre.

Honestly, it was a moment to be savored. Which begged the question of why he wanted to rush through it, finish the painting, and then leave. Leave the girl. Leave New York. And, most especially, leave the painting at a gallery, not much caring if he ever saw it again.

He rubbed his temples, frustrated. Because the truth was he didn’t want to leave the girl. But he didn’t think he could stand to be around her now, knowing what she’d become. What he was making her become.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, leaning against the side of the cab, the tight black Lycra of her skirt coming up mid-thigh, just low enough for modesty, and even that was debatable. She wore thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels. And her sheer white blouse was paired with a lace red bra, revealing more than it concealed.

“I’m thinking how close we are to finishing the painting,” he said.

“And then you’ll be finished with me,” she said with a little pout. “I don’t think I like that.”

“No?” As much as he wanted away, his heart gave a little jolt at the thought that she might want to stay with him.

“I like you, Nicky. I like the way you paint and the way you fuck.” She glanced toward the driver as she spoke, without even a hint of a blush.

“Anything else?” he asked. “What about me do you like?” He leaned forward as he spoke and took her hands, surprised by his need to find some remaining hint of the woman she’d been inside her. Something he hadn’t yet taken away and could hold in his heart even once he’d finally plucked it from her with the completion of the painting.

Her brow furrowed, almost as if she was confused. She blinked, and her eyes seemed to clear. Color rose in her cheeks, and she glanced out the back of the cab, not meeting his eyes. “I like the way you are when you’re teaching at the center,” she said. “And I like the way you looked at me that first time you sketched me. On the napkin, remember? As if I was the only thing real in the whole world and you could see everything good inside me. Being with you made me feel free and a little bit crazy, but in a good way. Now, though…”

She trailed off, and he saw a little shudder ripple through her body.

“Now, what?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I feel loose and wild and free, but at the same time it’s like being trapped. Like there are things in me that were never meant to be, and I can’t fight it. I’m getting sucked into a dark place, and I like it. But at the same time, I’m terrified.”

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to go to the dark place. That she should run away from him. Run far and fast and leave him to deal with the wrath of his father.

But he didn’t say anything. How could he? If he lost her—if he never finished the painting—he’d also lose his father’s respect, not to mention the inheritance.

And so he said nothing. Even though her eyes were on him, imploring, he said nothing at all. And then he watched her eyes darken, her pupils dilate, and he knew the little bit of her that had risen to the surface had been sucked down inside once again. He’d pull that bit out tonight and be done with it. His father would come. It would be over.