Dance Away with Me(85)

Kelly had denied that he was physically abusive, but was that the truth? Winchester’s hostility seemed out of proportion to what Tess had done. Maybe his antipathy had more to do with his need to be in charge than it had to do with the town’s sex education curriculum. He was a man used to having his own way in everything, and he didn’t intend to let anyone, especially a woman and an outsider, challenge him.

*

When she returned to the schoolhouse, Wren was asleep in her nest in the upstairs bedroom. As Ian approached, baby monitor in hand, she decided not to tell him about Brad Winchester’s lurking. It would only strengthen his concern about the move to the cabin, and Tess needed to get back to living on her own again. Without him. And soon.

He gave her a lazy once-over. “This time I’m going to paint you for real.”

She shook off the aftereffects of her disagreeable encounter at the cabin. “I’ve heard that before. You tend to get distracted.”

“It’s all about mental discipline. I didn’t concentrate enough last time.”

“And this time will be different?”

“Absolutely.” He drew her into the studio where the rolling metal cart, loaded with tubes, pots, and squeeze bottles of paint, already sat in the middle of the room.

“Feel free to take off your clothes,” he said. “I won’t look.” He turned his back, unnecessarily studying the supplies he’d already organized.

“Do we have to do this?” she said. “I’m feeling self-conscious.”

He braced a hand on his hip. “Are we back to all your body-image crap again?”

“I’m allowed to have body-image issues. It’s my body.”

“And God couldn’t have created a more perfect one. Come on, Tess. Inspire me.”

“Damn it!” She pulled her sweater over her head, grumbling the whole time. “You could hire the most beautiful figure models in the world, but do you do that? No.” She kicked off her shoes. “Here’s what I think. I think you’re just cheap.” She tugged off her jeans and unfastened her bra. “You don’t want to pay for a professional. Instead, you take advantage of a defenseless widow. . . .”

He snorted.

She tossed aside her bra. “And I’m leaving my underpants on!”

He crossed his arms over his chest with an annoying smugness. “A little late, considering I’ve seen everything underneath. And I mean everything.”

She loved this new, playful side of him. And she loved not knowing exactly what would happen next. “I’m cold,” she said semipetulantly.

“Now there’s where you’re wrong. You are hot, babe. So damned hot.”

She suppressed a smile. “Says you.” Wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of bikini underpants scattered with flamingos, she faced him. “No photos. I don’t want my cellulite plastered all over the Internet the next time you get pissed at me. Which you know you will.”

“Your cellulite is safe from my petty revenge.”

He unrolled a long sheet of what looked like white butcher paper, laid it out on the floor, and drew her over to stand on it.

She practiced a pout. “How come you get to keep your clothes on?”

“Discipline, remember?” He sank his hands into her hair and spread it out until she must look like a wild woman. “Perfect.” He reached for one of the paint pots. “Don’t be concerned. It’s nontoxic.”

“Why should I be con— Hey!” She gave an involuntary yelp as he touched her nipple, leaving a curl of bright blue behind. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a renegade, remember? Used to working with all kinds of surfaces.” He swirled the color around the tip.

That’s when she understood. When he said he wanted to paint her, he’d meant it literally.

She stood motionlessly and let him turn her breast into an elaborate medallion of blue, crimson, maroon, and gold, with feathery edges drifting over her ribs. The warmth of the paint and the sensuous touch of his fingers grew into an exquisite torture. Her bones began to melt as he cupped the weight of her breast in one hand and used the little finger of the other to swirl the pigment.

He selected a square of thin canvas from the fabric pile on the cart. Gently, meticulously, he molded it to her breast, transferring the image from her skin to the small canvas. Using her body as a pliable stamp.

She stood before him, weak-kneed and ferociously aroused. He set the canvas aside and painted her other breast into an intricate, multicolored pattern of airy lace. Her palms grew damp as he tormented the nipple with ochre, lemon, and maroon. Sweat began to pool at the base of his throat.

Once again, he pressed the canvas to her breast, made his stamp, set it aside, and moved on to her naval. His hair had fallen over his forehead; his brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration.

Her skin was alive, every inch of it stimulated by his sensuous touch. He surrounded the oval of her naval with a mosaic of rolling waves. Pressed a new canvas to her. Set it aside.

Paint dripped onto her underpants. He shrugged out of his sweat-damp shirt and went to his knees. She fisted her hands to keep them from sinking into his hair. His breath fell hot on her skin. He moved behind her. He pushed the rear waistband of her underpants down and caught the fabric on one side in the crack of her buttocks, exposing a single cheek.