Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
He presented the robe to me, his stare daring me to flinch.
“You can change in the bathroom.”
I took the robe and rose from the chair. I was halfway to the bathroom when I heard him say, “You don’t have to do this, Paige. I can get someone else.”
I stopped. The words resounded in my ears, deafening. He could get someone else. Anyone else. Like he had scores of hopefuls lined up around the block, desperate to model for him. Like I was replaceable.
He hadn’t meant it that way, but that’s how it felt. I draped the robe over a nearby stool. He offered a kind smile, like he’d anticipated me changing my mind. Grasping the hem of my tank top, I pulled my shirt off right there in front of him.
My father’s eyes rounded with stark surprise. I let my shirt fall, then unzipped my jeans and shucked them along with my underwear.
I stood naked before him, hips squared and shoulders pulled back to accentuate breasts that stood quite proudly on their own.
A breath fell from his lips as his gaze caressed me. My arms and legs pilled with goosebumps. The man could’ve wrapped me in burlap and it wouldn’t have made a damn difference. I was Henry Monroe’s daughter. He couldn’t replace me.
“We’re going to need black. Lots of black. Nothing that’ll take away from...” He let the sentence go unfinished as he reached into the bin overflowing with fabric and proceeded to pull out yards and yards of midnight-colored material.
Chapter Eight
I waited as he readied the scene, my nipples gathering to points in the cool air of the studio. He stripped the futon, replacing the vibrant fabrics with the ones he’d selected.
“Too much color detracts,” he said, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking to himself or to me. “We don’t need color. Just light. Lots of light.” He arranged the materials, scrunching some pieces and smoothing others. He raised the shades on two of the windows, then turned to me. “Have a seat.”
Breathing deeply to temper the nerves I didn’t want him to see, I lowered myself onto the tangle of fabric.
My father circled the futon, then stopped in front of me, tall as a mountain. He’d shifted into artist mode, his eyes tuned to the finer details, as he compared and contrasted what was in front of him with the image in his mind’s eye.
“Pull your knees to your chest,” he said, and I did. “Cross your ankles. Good. Hold them.” He swept a lock of hair behind my ear, and I fought the urge to lean into his touch like a cat. He tipped my chin upward, then down, then took a step back, arms folded.
“Lie down,” he said.
I eased back onto the futon but kept my ankles crossed. My breasts splayed to either side of my ribcage as my heart pounded against my sternum. I studied the ceiling and its highways of exposed beams and copper piping to distract myself, listening for the sound of his footsteps as he moved around the room.
“Slide your foot out,” he said. “No, the other one. Here.” His face hovered into view as he knelt on the mattress. “I’ll do it. Just relax.”
His hand circled my ankle. My breath stuttered. Carefully, he drew my right leg out straight, then the left. My skin had never felt so sensitive, so conscious of its placement and relation to everything else. He positioned me, guiding my limbs to where he wanted them to go. I closed my eyes, letting his adjustments lull me into a state of suspended detachment. I was a puppet, a marionette with nerve endings for strings, and my father conducted the show.
He brushed my nipple in the process of draping my arm across my chest. I gasped at the jolt of pleasure that echoed in my hips. He pressed a hand to my stomach.
“You okay?”
I nodded yes, though I was far from okay. I was on fire, in spite of the gooseflesh that pricked across my skin as if I were cold. I was a tangle of string, threads of embarrassment and arousal, and a yearning to be made and unmade by this man, this maker of beautiful things.
He turned his attention to the fabric around my shoulders, and I used the distraction to restore my mask of calm. The skin on my stomach was still warm from where his hand had been. I inhaled deeply, filling my head with the scent of chalk and paper, paints and thinner—comforting smells, classroom smells.
Without warning, he grasped my ankles, bent my knees, and spread my legs.
Last night’s fantasies that felt too much like memories flashed across my mind, an image of my father’s hands gliding down to stroke my clit. A whimper caught in my throat as his very real fingers parted my labia, exposing me to the air. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was unmasked.