“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Well now you know.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn’t.” He lets go of my arm, and I miss the warmth of his touch, which is crazy because he’s treated me with nothing but disdain every time we’ve crossed paths.

But I can’t deny I’m alive from the intensity in his gaze, the seriousness of his brow, the way he’s clenching those large hands. I imagine them gripping my thighs and flush even hotter.

What is wrong with me?

It’s not like me to become so tongue-tied in the company of a man.

But maybe that’s the problem—Sebastian isn’t some average guy standing in front of me. He’s one-hundred percent alpha with a legal and binding claim on my life.

He’s the kind of man who paints naked women for fun.

And in four months, he’ll have total dominion over my body.

A shudder tears through me, laden with arousal at the unwelcome thought. As if he senses my reaction to his nearness, he steps forward again, crowding my personal space. Inch by inch, he pushes me against the wall. My spine bumps against cold stone, and I gasp as something hard presses into my thigh.

Sebastian is sporting an erection, and though he was just painting an attractive nude woman not five minutes ago, I’m positive his hard-on is for me.

“You might as well make yourself useful since you interrupted my session,” he says, voice a sexy murmur as he sifts my blond locks through his fingers.

“What do you mean?”

“Provide me with a little inspiration.” His body is hard against mine, tempting my soft curves to mold to the contour of his muscles, the planes of his abs.

I stare at his lips. “I’m not taking my clothes off for you.”

“You could wear your hair instead. It’s amazing.”

The compliment is unexpected, and I stutter out a thank-you.

“I’ve wanted to paint you from the moment I first saw you.”

I blink, and in that millimeter of a second, I imagine myself sprawled in front of him like the woman he left in the other room. No clothing, legs open to his gaze as he captures how he sees me on canvas with bold, sure strokes.

No exam bench or hostility.

No other men.

But would he see me as a girl or a woman? Something tells me he’d see me as the latter.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Would you spread your legs and let me paint your cunt, princess?” His eyes are alight with amused curiosity, but the vulgarity of his words spark the opposite in me.

“Let me go,” I demand, pushing against his chest.

The amusement fades from his expression, and he separates himself from me in the space of a second.

As if I burned him.