“But you don’t like me,” I remind him in a choked whisper.

“Not even a little.”

I’d ask why, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

“I don’t like you, either,” I say instead, willing a smidgeon of truth into the harsh line of my jaw. Willing him to believe the lie…willing the lie to morph into irrefutable truth.

“Glad to hear it, because that makes what I’m about to do much easier.” He presses forward until the backs of my legs hit the velvet cushion of a lounge chair. “Sit.”

“Wait,” I protest. Just because I’m unequivocally attracted to him doesn’t mean I’m ready to spread out before him, exposed and vulnerable. It was hard enough doing it the first time, when I was only naked from the waist down, and we had the rest of the Brotherhood surrounding us, not to mention the cold and sterile setting of an examination room as a backdrop. That day, the scorn on his face left no doubt of his feelings toward me.

Now there’s something else in his expression. A hunger, a need, a softness that wasn’t there before. Maybe even an openness.

And the setting is too cozy and inviting with an undertone of sexual awareness…and we’re alone with no distractions on the horizon for the next three hours.

“Novalee, sit your ass down.” His voice comes out thick as if he wants to say more but doesn’t. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I hesitate—a deceptive protest—but his irritable patience wins out. I lower into the chair, limbs tight and awkward as I palm my breasts and press my thighs together, rendered more defenseless than I can stand.

Propping himself up with one hand on the back of the lounge, he leans over and adjusts the necklace until it nestles in the valley of my cleavage. Then, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, he arranges my arms over my head before inching my legs apart to expose my most intimate place.

The one that’s inflamed with liquid heat from the press of his fingers on my thighs.

“I saw the portraits you did for him. This isn’t how the women posed.”

“You’re different.”

I’m holding my breath, heart diving into a free fall as he sifts my hair between his fingers. The strands slip through his loose grip like fine silk, and he seems mesmerized, further wrecking my shield against this man.

“Why am I different?”

“I never wanted the other models.” He arranges the locks over my breasts, and a devious part of me rejoices at the hard-on he’s got from fondling my hair.

I’m tempted to grow it to my feet now.