Loving Grace by Eve Asbury Read Free Book Online Page B

seeing her more as
canvas than woman at the moment. She reached back and unhooked the
bra. Not daring to look down as he asked her to lean her body back.
Her nipples went rigid and tight as they reacted to every stroke of
the brush that flowed to the waist of her jeans. It was
disconcerting, and arousing.
    “Turn around. Stand up.”
    She did so, closing her eyes at the sensation
of him painting her back and spine the same way. Only when he let
her turn again did she look down and see the tiger stripes on her
body. The warm tan, brown, dull gold, the lustrous gold too, and
the feathered strokes made it look like fur. Her breasts were
tight, peaked, and chills blanketed her skin. She glanced up when
he was once more at the canvas, to see him watching her again.
    He said, “I’m going to turn on a fan but it
blows warm air.” After doing so, Noel instructed her to get back on
the stump, to hold her pose again.
    For Grace it was a bizarre experience, she
did math in her head, sang songs in her mind, and tried not to
stare at the face of the man who was putting her likeness on
canvas. She wanted to lick her lips, but felt the paint on them,
figuring she shouldn’t.
    “Crouch.”
    She did so, feeling the denim and the thong
pinch.
    “Uncomfortable?”
    She swallowed. “No.” Only my ass.
    “Spread your knees.”
    Grace did, putting her hands on the edge
again, feeling the fan blowing back her hair, her knees out.
    “I need you unclothed...Jane.”
    Grace closed her eyes a moment. This was a
good time to confess all, to tell her real name, to admit she was
modest and that she...
    “But if you’re not ready, we can work up to
it.”
    Her eyes opened. “I’d have to…work up to
it.”
    He smiled and met her gaze. “I know.”
    Grace said nothing, holding the pose while he
painted and then getting down when he told her to take a break.
    She went to the restroom, startled to see
herself in the mirror. The fan had blown her hair straight back,
enhancing the tiger face that turned her eyes to a burnished gold.
She took care of her business; glad her palms were unpainted, but
fascinated by the creature staring back at her in the mirror. It
was her, but it was so, cat-like, feline, primal.
    Several moments later, she padded back to
find him relaxed on the sofa. He handed her a glass of wine,
inviting her to sit.
    “The paint will rub off.”
    “We’ll fix it.” He shrugged, sipping and
watching her sit on the edge of the sofa.
    Grace eyed his relaxed pose, slumped in the
corner, arm along the rest and one knee on the sofa cushion, the
other foot on the floor. She sipped, looking at his face. He was
staring at her.
    “This is for the animal paintings they were
speaking of in the newspaper?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you have any finished?”
    “One.” He shrugged.”
    “I don’t see myself as a tiger.”
    “No?”
    “No.” She took another drink.
    “What do you see yourself as, in relation to
animals?”
    She thought a moment. “I’ve no idea.
You?”
    He laughed softly. “No. You use your eye and
tell me.”
    She looked at him a long time, sliding her
gaze from head to foot and lingering on parts. “Things come to my
mind, but few are animals.”
    “What things?”
    “Warriors, gods, statues, hawks, horses,
midnight, velvet, just...things.”
    He was still as he murmured, “That’s a very
rich imagination.”
    She snorted. “My brother would beg to differ.
I would too, since I am normally an analytical person. I haven’t a
creative bone in my body and while I enjoy beautiful things, I am a
task person, a...” She stopped talking as she spied that smile on
his lips.
    He quirked his brow. “This is a new
experience for you.”
    “I’ll say,” she muttered and sipped the
wine.
    “You’re challenging to paint, Jane.”
    “Really?”
    He dipped his head. “We must work on reaching
inside to your core. Your deepest instincts. You describe yourself
as one dimensional, but what is beneath there? We are