When the watch comes off, we don’t stop it. He sets it gently in the dresser next to his Audemars. Then, he looks at me with a pure smile.

“Let the time stand still, Elisa.”

Chapter Nineteen

Masterpiece

The light of his bedroom is muted. No sound but the night and my loud breathing. He is close, very close. I smell sandalwood. Cinnamon. Aiden. I see nothing but him. And he has turned part beast, part man. The molten blue of his eyes stirs, melts, whirlpools, freezes and revives all over again, in some inner battle.

He caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers, along my jawline, until he reaches my lips. He traces my lower lip with his thumb and the edge of his nail scrapes my skin lightly, back and forth, back and forth. My eyes close, my head lolls to the side.

Then, both his hands frame my face.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers. I do, but my eyelids are heavy.

“Elisa, have you done this before?” His voice is low, almost part of the night. I can only shake my head.

“La virgen,” he mouths. “Are you sure you want this?”

This, yes. What’s coming later, no. I nod. Apparently the powers of speech have deserted me. His lips hover over mine. I feel his hot breath on my mouth.

“I should stop you, but I won’t. Because every day, every hour—awake or asleep —since I saw your first painting, you have haunted me.” His voice is on a tight leash, and the fire in his eyes rages brighter. One of his hands leaves my face and splays at the small of my back. He presses me against his body. Hardened, coiled. For me. He brings his mouth to my ear.

“I think it’s time I haunt you back.”

You already do, I want to say but I cannot find my voice.

His lips brush against my earlobe, feather-light like the quill that he has set on the bed next to us. He takes my earlobe in his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. My spine goes rigid and quivers like a strained bow. The knickers he gave me feel wet and cool. It helps my overheated skin.

He kisses underneath my ear, my jawline, my neck. His other hand fists in my hair and bends my head back so he can kiss my throat from the base to my chin and finally, finally, my mouth. I have missed him. His tongue is alive. It moves with mine, flesh on flesh. I reach slowly to wrap my arms around his neck and knot my fingers in his hair. It’s the familiar in the new.

He starts to kiss my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. I panic.

“Please, don’t kiss my forehead,” I whisper. I keep my eyes closed, afraid to see who knows what in his face. I know I sound mental but this would be the worst moment in the world to have a breakdown. His lips stop.

“Look at me, Elisa.”

I open my eyes, terrified that he will decide I am too messed up, too much work.

“Why do you ask me that?”

I swallow hard and manage a whisper. “My dad used to kiss me there. I can’t bear it. You can kiss me anywhere else you want. Whatever else you want. But not there.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, and his eyes turn unbearably soft. The sound marks a transformation. With a groan, he parts my lips with his tongue, and we are off. I realize abruptly that until now he was hesitant. But my words resolved whatever conflict he had, and now he moves with abandon.

He caresses my spine and cups my behind. At first gently, then hard. He pins me against his hips, and there it is, that part of him that wreaked havoc in my head all day today. He grinds against me, breathing harder. He tugs my lower lip with his teeth. It’s not gentle. It hurts, but it starts a frenzy inside me. I pull his hair and, without thinking, bite him back. My muscles tense under his hands as I turn liquid.

He grasps the hem of my dress and lifts it slowly. When it finally comes off, he throws it behind him so forcefully that it hits the back wall. I stand before him in my cream lace bra that does not match the knickers he bought me. It does not seem to bother him. He takes a step back with a look of triumph in his eyes.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispers. “Even better than I imagined. And that’s saying something.”

Shyness should not be here but it is. I force myself to look at him, instead of down. He is wearing too many clothes. I’ve never seen a man naked before but Aiden Hale does not seem to belong in the same species as other men.

Uncertain that I can move, I manage a small step toward him. I lift my hands tentatively to his belt. The moment I reach for him, he wraps his hands around mine and whispers, “Start a little higher. Or this will be over much sooner than either of us wants.”

I can’t help my proud grin. It makes him smirk, humor back in his eyes. I start unbuttoning his shirt but my fingers are shaking. After the first two buttons, he sighs, grips my hands and rips the shirt off. Buttons fly everywhere.

“That should do it,” he says as if this is a normal way to undress.

It makes me giggle and squirm at the same time. That was… I cannot think of a word. Brain-frying hot? That’s the best I’ve got.

He is wearing a tight T-shirt underneath. It strains against every muscle like wrapping tissue on a present. I slide my fingers under the hem and take it off, hypnotized by the body that materializes one inch at a time. First, the hard edges of the V that disappears into his low jeans. Then the short dark hair that trails toward his navel. And every peak and valley of his abs, perfectly symmetrical. I stop and stare. I don’t know for how long but eventually a throat clearing brings me to my senses.

“Elisa, when you’re quite finished ogling my body, would you be so kind as to remove my T-shirt all the way?”

I look up at once, noticing that, in my awe, I abandoned the T-shirt. It is now covering his face and hanging limply down his back.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, heat burning not just my face but the rest of my skin.

“Not at all. You can ignore my face for my body anytime you wish.”

I pull his T-shirt over his head and his glorious face is mine again. I rise up as high as I can on my toes and kiss him on the lips. “Impossible to ignore this face,” I murmur against him.

He lengthens the kiss. I can’t resist sucking on his lower lip and biting it gently. His gasp makes me braver. I place my hands on his shoulders. His muscles ripple underneath me. He is breathing hard, but this breathing I know. It’s like mine. Fast and shallow. I drop my hands to his chest and then slowly across his rib cage, his stomach, along the waistband of his jeans.

I snap his belt open and unbutton him. Then I stop moving and stare shamelessly. What exactly am I going to do with the bulge that is straining against his jeans?

Don’t be ridiculous, he’ll guide you, I scold myself. I suck in a breath and unzip him. I slide my hands under his jeans and start taking them off, praying with my one rational brain cell that he does not get caught on something. I hear a hum from his chest, but he does not rush me. Perhaps he is letting me enjoy my first unveiling. I drop to the floor along with the jeans and slide them off his feet with his shoes and socks. Even his feet are attractive. I lean back, feeling like I just unveiled a sculpture commissioned personally for me from Michelangelo himself.

His legs have a light dusting of dark hair. My eyes follow them up until my head bends all the way back. The hard muscles rise up to the heavens. Or rather to the one and only heaven that has now captivated my entire focus: the snug dark gray boxers he is wearing. I rise up slowly, checking to make sure my legs can support me, and reach for them, running my fingers along the band where it meets his skin. He tenses and twitches beneath my hands. I gather the last bit of courage from the gnawing need in my veins, and drop his boxers to the floor.

He springs up as if he broke through a leash, blind to everything but me. Oh my fuck! A naked man is a whole different plane of existence. Utilitarian and beautiful. Lewd and romantic. And the only axis holding the contradictions together is now before me. Hot. Heavy. Hard. Present. The cock.