Exactly. Grady couldn’t ever remember a time when he was so damn replete. There was a blizzard outside for God’s sake, and while there wasn’t anything he could do until it blew over, he could still be pacing the floor and looking out the window every ten minutes for some kind of break in the weather. He could be tuning in to the radio and strategizing the cleanup.

Instead of lying here letting her ogle him like one of his prize bulls. But man…he liked being ogled. He liked how she ogled.

He glanced down at his burgeoning cock. “Will it be anatomically correct this time?”

Her eyes drifted to his crotch, which did not help with his swelling problem. “Oh yes.”

Grady regarded her, seriously tempted and completely unable to fathom why. Vanity didn’t seem to be a very good reason to consent to something that had gotten them into this predicament in the first place. She must have taken his silence as a precursor to a no and quickly jumped in with a “Or I could make it bigger if you like?”

A chuckle rose in his throat. “Why?” he asked, rolling up onto his elbow. “Why do you want to paint me when you have all that”—he gestured with his free hand to the winter wonderland outside the window—“out there to inspire you?”

She sighed. “Because for some reason, my muse has a thing for surly rancher dudes. And the muse wants what the muse wants.”

He laughed at the note of frustration in her voice. “That’s inconvenient.”

“You have no idea.”

Oh, he did. He really did. Having Suzanne here had been extremely inconvenient to the strict confines of his life. And yet here he was, contemplating letting her paint him in his birthday suit. “And the muse always gets what the muse wants?”

She nodded. “It’s kinda the way it works.”

“Inconvenient,” he repeated.

“Yeah, but…” Suzanne’s eyes met his, sincere and earnest. “She’s been missing for so long now. To have her back…” She pressed her hand to her chest. “It makes me feel whole again.”

The soft catch in Suzanne’s voice slugged Grady hard. She really meant it. “Who will it be for?”

“For me. Only me.” She patted her chest for emphasis. “My first true piece of art that’s all my own. Not a replica. Not a caricature. My own work. If you’ll allow me to take it home with me?”