Page 73 of The Substitute Fiancée

“Why not?”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. I rush to the guest room where I store all my supplies. I return with my easel, my portfolio, and my charcoal.

Alexander laughs at my enthusiasm, but when you have such a beautiful model ready to pose for you, you don’t waste time.

I set up a blanket and white sheet on the living room floor, then arrange a few cushions. I create a small intimate space, bathed in natural light filtering through the bay windows. Then I set up my easel and attach a large white sheet to it.

“There, all set.”

“Let’s do it then.”

Usually, our models undress in another room or behind a screen, then put on a robe while waiting to pose. It only takes two seconds to go from individual to model.

Alexander, however, does something none of our models has ever done: he undresses slowly in front of me, his eyes locked on mine.

Fuck.

He slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing his firm, masculine chest. His well-defined muscles and abs make me want to run my hand over them.

The way I’m looking at him is anything but professional.

Then he leans down and lowers his jeans, revealing firm, muscled thighs.

I don’t miss a thing.

When he straightens up, my attention stops despite myself on the bulge straining his underwear.

I swallow. I remember perfectly what it feels like to have him inside me. I press my thighs together to maintain my composure.

His hands slide along either side of his boxer’s waistband before freezing.

I look up. He’s staring at me with a mocking smile before lowering his underwear. His erection, its tip glistening with desire, bounces against his lower abdomen.

I’m burning up.

Despite myself, my eyes drift to where they shouldn’t. His cock twitches slightly under my gaze and, mortified, I look away as Alexander bursts out laughing.

“Sorry,” he says without seeming sorry at all. “Hard to stay indifferent when you’re devouring me with your eyes.”

“I… this is purely professional,” I stammer, my cheeks on fire.

“Of course,” he says with a smirk.

I take a deep breath, trying to regain my calm and focus.

“Sit there,” I say, pointing to the space I’ve prepared. “Arms around your knees, like this.”

I guide him into the pose I have in mind, ignoring the shivers that run through me where my skin meets his. Sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his bent knees, chin slightly lowered.

“Perfect. Don’t move.”

For the next half hour, I get to work. The charcoal glides across the paper, capturing the lines of his body, the shadows and lights. I lose myself in the process, focusing on the shapes, the proportions, the way the light caresses his skin.

But it’s impossible to forget that this is Alexander, the man I love.

When I finish my sketch, an idea comes to me. A scandalous idea.

“Don’t move.”