Why couldn't he have been a landscape painter? Why had he always been so drawn to the human form? He'd have to ask her to close her eyes while she posed so that he didn't embarrass himself. He needed time to get a grip.

And she hadn't even taken her panties off yet.

He was on the verge of telling her to leave them on. He wasn't sure he could paint with her sweet pu**y right there for the taking, especially when he could tell how bad she wanted to be taken. That she expected to be taken. He'd always been able to read people: It was an artist's gift. And he knew without a doubt that Vanessa Collins always got what she wanted.

Only this time, no matter how much control he had to exert over himself, she was only going to get the painting she desired.

Not the painter.

Unfortunately, by the time he got the words "leave your panties on" gathered together in his brain, she'd slipped them off. He'd never had a chance.

Her pu**y lips were full. And perfect. They were slick and wet. For him. His c**k pounded against his zipper again, begging to (get out, to find out what it would be like to slide into her cunt. She stood before him, naked and glorious and so incredibly beautiful that bits of poetry sprang to mind. She was the perfect muse, not the least bit uncomfortable with her nudity.

Or his obvious sexual desperation.

"Don't be shy about arranging my legs. Or arms. Or anything you need to touch and move. I'm up for anything."

Every word out of her mouth was better than a  p**n  flick. "Yes' he wanted to shout. The answer was yes. And that's what he would have said if his entire life hadn't been on the line. If his future as a painter didn't depend on getting his groove back. Even I, with Marissa he'd eventually been able to think about painting, about something other than getting off.

With infinite grace, Vanessa lowered herself down onto the "thick, soft, white canvas. She shifted her weight until she was on her side, her cheek resting on the palm of her right hand, her left thigh up over her right. Even her ankles were perfect. Slim and strong and tanned. For the first time, Sam understood why women had covered their ankles for centuries lest they tempt men beyond control.

Good Lord, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her ankles, prop them on his shoulders, spread her wide, and drive in between her wet, sweet lips.

The sun had gone behind the roof of his barn, the light was rapidly fading, the heat of the day had dissipated, but Sam was sweating. He needed her to stop looking at him like that. Like she wanted to devour him. Like she was waiting for him to pounce on her.

"Lie on your back;' he said, knowing he was being curt but unable to help himself.

She turned her hips from him, until her round, yet firm, ass was resting on the tarp. She put her arms up above her head, arching her rib cage the slightest bit. Her legs were stretched before her, bent ever so slightly at the knee.

It was as if she had tied herself to an invisible bedpost. She was perfect.

Her head was turned to him, her eyes burning a hole through him as he gripped the pencil and began to feverishly draw her, starting at the dip of her belly button, her concave stomach.

His fingers stilled. He couldn't draw her pu**y. Not with her taking him apart with her eyes like that. "Look up at the sky;' he said, surprised he could speak for the raging lust, the violent need to scrap his sketches and move straight to raw color that was ripping through him.

In her eyes, he saw that she knew why he wanted her to reposition. She knew he couldn't handle it. That he couldn't handle her. That he wanted to screw her any and every way he could and then come back for more. He knew she liked that he was completely in her power. The small Mona Lisa smile resurfaced on her lips and she turned her face away from him, up toward the rapidly darkening sky. The way she tilted her chin up, elongating her neck so beautifully for him, made him wonder if she'd posed before.

Jealousy burned through him at the thought of other men, other women, taking her beauty in. He wanted to capture her reflection on canvas for the world to see, and yet, he wanted her remain his alone. It was just as he'd thought when they'd been standing in his gallery, sizing each other up. His salvation might be his very nation.

POSING NAKED FOR SAM, Vanessa had never felt so ripe, so sensual before. Maybe, she wondered wickedly, she should have auditioned for the Playboy college centerfold at Berkeley. One of their scouts had given her his card when she'd been serving beer at the campus bar, but being a bunny hadn't been in her plan at the time. Not to mention how much fun Rose and Carrie had made of her for taking his card. Of course, that had been before she'd known how utterly glorious it was to lie exposed like this neath an artist's eyes.

Then again, Vanessa knew that she was dripping like a bitch in heat because they were Sam's eyes, not those of some creepy photographer hoping to cop a feel.

Endless visions of what would come later drove through her mind.

Sam's big hands fondling her.

Sam's chiseled mouth tasting her. Sam's big, hard c**k plunging into her.

Five minutes. That's how long she'd give him to forget all out his sketchbook.

The heady scent of the vines surrounded them, and Vanessa felt drunk with desire. She'd been to Napa before, but it had never seemed so sensual, so filled with promise. Who knew, if Sam turned out to be as good in the sack as she was guessing he'd be, she might make a weekend in Napa a regular thing. A nice little hot -sex break from her usual city grind.

Extremely pleased with herself for stumbling straight into a sexual fantasy, Vanessa stretched like a sleepy cat on the tarp. She heard Sam shift in his chair and the knowledge of how badly he wanted her made her grow wetter, even more aroused. Just thinking about him watching her and getting more and more excited got her, well, even more excited.

Her hints couldn't have been any more blatant. The only way to be clearer was to rip his pants off and start sucking his dick. She grinned at the mental picture that conjured up, quite enjoying the thought of shocking Sam more than she already must have.

She shivered as the breeze kicked up. Sam's voice cut through her thoughts. "It's getting dark. You can get dressed:'

She blinked open her eyes and shifted to her side, her head propped up on her palm again. "Now why would I want to do that?" she said, infusing every word with undeniable sensual promise.

He stared at her, hard, but he didn't say anything. A muscle in his jaw jumped out, then back. She gestured to the vines, the nearly black sky. "It's perfect out here."

Still, he didn't say anything, but that muscle jumped faster in his cheek. She knew she was getting to him, and she couldn't resist pushing him further. "I love how it feels to be naked like this, outside, in your vineyard. And I've only just met you. I feel so naughty."