One Bossy Offer (95)

“I don’t know,” I say.

Although, I’m fairly sure I do.

“If there’s something you want to know, ask me yourself. I’m not hiding anything.”

My fingers tighten around his, wishing it could all be just that easy.

“I hope not. Obviously, I won’t hold anything that happened before you knew me against you.”

I wait for something.

Anything.

But he doesn’t speak, and our fingers stay twined as he pulls me closer.

Does that mean he’s truly not hiding anything—or he is, but doesn’t know how to admit it?

We take the stairs below deck to the personal cabins.

Once we reach the master suite, he opens the door for me and I step through. He follows me inside, hugging me to offer support.

I need it as my eyes dance around the exquisite room until my knees buckle.

It’s that beautiful.

A canopy bed occupies the center, dressed in rich French brocades. There’s a glass wall across from us with a desk in the corner and a full wet bar with a mini fridge beside it.

Of course, the ocean view is absolute perfection through the spotless sliding door leading to a private balcony. Even in the dark, the water shines like a mirror, capturing the stars beautifully.

“Another place that inspires you to paint?” I ask, turning in his arms to face him.

His lips turn up. “You know me too well. Since you brought it up, that’s half the reason we’re here. Look up, kitten.”

He turns me around again and places his finger under my chin, tilting my head back.

What he has to show me hangs on the wall above the bed in a heavy golden frame.

It’s a lifelike portrait of a girl with windswept red hair on the rocks, and—holy hell—I’m not wearing any clothes.

“You didn’t,” I whisper, almost winded.

But he did.

I can’t stop looking at the painting.

My hair blows around me in ribboning sweeps. I stand tall, way more confident than I’ll ever be naked in real life.

I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified.

“When did you—I mean how—”

His embrace tightens, cutting me off.

“From memory, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t know you painted like that.” The day he painted me in his office, he was using me as a model.

But then I remember the tiger. He certainly didn’t need a model for that.

“When you’re etched into my soul, it’s easy,” he says.

As much as I fight it, I’m shaking, frozen in place and staring at the picture.

He didn’t miss any detail.

My hair is brilliant, glowing like embers in the evening sun. I’ve seen the same shy smile painted me is wearing a thousand times in the mirror.

I swallow thickly. “Miles, it’s crazy realistic. You know I’ll die if someone sees this, right?”

He pulls my face up firmly, stamping his lips against my throat.

“They won’t. This is for my eyes only. No one else will ever see it. Only you. I had to show you my real muse, and it’s not this ship. You’re looking at her, Jenn.”

Yep.

He’s trying to leave my heart a pile of shattered glass tonight.

“I’m glad, but it’s right there on the wall. Um, how will you make sure no one else sees it?”

Smiling, he steps away and moves to the dresser on the opposite wall of the desk. He picks up a remote and points it at the painting.

“You’re going to... turn it off?”

“Watch me.”

With the flick of a button, a thick burgundy curtain closes over it.

“I won’t have the cleaning crew ogling you. With you, kitten, I don’t fucking share.” His silvery eyes flash.

Presto, I’m smiling again like the lovestruck little fool I am.

“You thought of everything.” I lean up on my toes impulsively and kiss him again, loving how his teeth rake my bottom lip.

“How long do you think we can be gone without being noticed?”

“We have the whole night. I’d bet ten million Brock is taking his wife straight to their room, and they won’t be coming out again.”

“Their room is—”

“The farthest from ours.”

“Oh. Oh, thank God.”

He presses his lips to my forehead. “Don’t thank me. I’d never miss a chance to be alone with my girl.”

He picks me up and sets me on the bed then, kissing me down against the mattress. His hand slides between my legs, searching and hungry and hot, but I slide out from under him and stand.

“Turn around, Miles. Cover your eyes,” I whisper.

He tilts his head, questioning.

“Just do it. Trust me.”

He turns, lying so his back is to me, and I go to work undressing myself.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this. It takes every ounce of courage I have.

But he painted it, didn’t he?

I try to strike the pose in the picture, but there’s no wind in my hair. Even if there were, it still wouldn’t look anywhere near that good windblown, and I’m sure I’m nowhere close to the radiantly confident girl in the picture, but still.

I try.