She forced a throaty, sexy laugh, but the fact that he wasn't on knees beside her, having his way with her, had really started to ate. She felt a prick of something that might have been insecurity if such an emotion had been within her realm of feeling.

She did what she should have done an hour ago and took matters into her own hands. If he wasn't going to make the first move, she certainly wasn't going to be shy. "Why don't you take

your clothes off and join me, Sam?"

Sam stood up so quickly that the plastic chair shot out from under him and crashed against the barn wall. "I don't sleep with my models:'

He was good, she had to give him that. Talk about making her for it. No one had ever had the nerve to make her do that. He even playing it like he was serious. Like he actually wanted to put her clothes on and get the heck out of there.

"Is this a new policy?" she purred, slowly standing up, advancing on him, her bare feet crunching through the brown grapes that had fallen to the ground.

"She could have sworn he was fighting with himself on whether " stand his ground. But she sensed he'd be man enough to face r, to face his own need.

He stood perfectly still as she closed the distance between them "I can't sleep with you' he said again, and she smiled an all knowing smile that intensified the uncomfortable, hunted look in i eyes. Not to mention the raw desire he couldn't hide. Couldn't fake.

"How was she, Sam?" she asked, less than a foot from the hard lines of his body, knowing he would know exactly whom she referring to.

His jaw tightened. There it was. The woman in the painting had something to do with his reluctance to screw Vanessa's brains out. She'd always been smart about people. It was nice to be proved right again. "She was rounder than me, wasn't she?" she whispered.

"Softer' She closed her eyes, letting herself sway into him until her br**sts were a breath away from brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt. "I've never been with a woman before. She makes me wonder what I've missed." She was pretty certain he forgot to breathe for a moment. "The first time you kissed her, what did she taste like?"

She waited with her eyes closed, taking in the sweet smell of the dirt, of the night. His breath was ragged now, and he didn't answer her question. She hadn't thought he would.

"Did she taste like honey? Or was she more like powdered sugar? So sweet, so soft that you couldn't help but dip your tongue in for more. Even though you know you shouldn't. Even though she was bad for you. So bad:'

She opened her eyes enough that she could see his mouth, the pulse beating rapidly in his neck. She moved her hand to touch him, to run her fingers over his lips, but a breath away, she stopped. "Did you run your brushes over the canvas and imagine that you were running them over her? Did she beg you to touch her? Did you have to close your eyes to get away from her heat? Her wetness?" Vanessa felt her own breath go as she fell into her own game.

The air went still as she spoke; even the birds stopped singing as if they, too, were hanging on her every word.

''As you painted her, did you ache to be inside her?" The light was so faint that she nearly missed his exhale, as if someone had punched him hard in the gut. "I can only imagine how long, how hard your nights were. How hard you were from dusk till dawn.

"Wanting her. Because touching yourself, thinking of her was never enough, was it? And all that time, she knew how you wanted her. How you watched her. How you came again and

again thinking of her.

"Did you ask her to touch herself? Did you tell her you wanted to paint her with her hands between her legs? Her hands cupping !her br**sts? Did she arch her back and scream her pleasure for you? The light had gone completely as she'd spoken and Vanessa had never been so aware of another human being in her whole life. She knew Sam's penis would be hard, that one touch, one stroke, one kiss would send him over the edge. But still, she wouldn't let herself touch him, not until he begged her. Which didn't mean, however, that she couldn't touch herself.

"I can see the two of you together, Sam' she said, "and it makes me hot. So hot. And if you won't touch me, I have to take matters into my own hands:' She slid her fingers down the flat

plane of her belly, over her slick, waxed mons, finally finding the hard nub of her clitoris. "Do you know how good I feel right now, imagining you taking her clit into your mouth, sucking it, pulling it as you plunged your long, thick fingers into her?" She slid a finger into herself as she whispered, "That's what I'm doing right ow, Sam. I'm touching myself like I imagine you touched her. Her free hand caressed her br**sts. "I'm going to come, Sam' she said as her breath grew heavy, "and want you to imagine yourself coming as her muscles gripped and pulled at your cock, milking every last drop from you:'

The force of her orgasm hit, and it was so much better, so much stronger than she'd expected, than she'd hoped it would be, that it nearly knocked her feet out from under her.

Without a single word, without so much as brushing against her with his fingers, he'd brought her to one of the best orgasms of her life. She felt shaken by the force of her response.

No doubt about it, her painter was good. Very good. And he hadn't even touched her yet.

THREE

SAM HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED ANYTHING like Vanessa in life. She was the most unabashedly sensual woman he'd ever . His fingers ached to touch her. His c**k was nearly tearing through his zipper to get at her wetness. He deserved a medal of honor for this.

Picasso had never written about this, about starving himself of muse for the sake of art. But then, Sam knew Picasso had slept with whomever he'd wanted. Especially his muses. didn't think any nude model in her right mind had ever dumped Picasso. He'd been too successful. Larger than life.

Which was exactly why Sam had to hold out on his god damned libido. Even if he ached to be inside Vanessa. Even if the sound of her panting, post-orgasm, was making his dick throb

painfully in his jeans.

Sure, he was doing well professionally, but he wasn't larger than life. He wasn't an icon. He wasn't the painter everyone was trying to emulate. There weren't books written about him. There weren't courses taught on his methods at art school. He made a great living, but he hadn't achieved all his dreams. And that's what it all came down to. He needed Vanessa to jump-start his drive to paint again, to juice him up. If he could only channel his sexual frustration into his art, he could jump over the line from great to astounding.

There was a good chance that intense sexual frustration was a gold mine, because right now the only thing stronger than his urge to make love to her was his compulsion to capture her on canvas. He wasn't going to forget this longing, this desperation. Which meant that every minute with her, every moment he didn't run his fingers down the crevasse between her br**sts might very well be the inspiration he needed to lead him to the creative promised land. So he said, "Have dinner with me' certain that torturing himself with several more hours in Vanessa's presence was far better than not having a muse at all.