Amorous Liaisons. Sarah Mayberry

he was and what was happening in his underwear.

      He didn’t move. He wanted to flex his hips and press himself against her so badly it hurt. His whole body tensed as he imagined sliding his hand a few vital inches and cupping her breast. He could almost feel the softness of it in his palm.

      Thanks to the notorious lack of privacy in dancers’ changing rooms, he’d seen Maddy in various states of undress over the years. She had small, pink nipples, and when she was cold they puckered into tight little raspberries.

      He imagined plucking them, rolling them between his fingers. Pulling them into his mouth and tasting his fill of her.

      His hard-on throbbed.

       Man, oh man.

      He closed his eyes. He had to back off. Now.

      Maddy stirred, her body flexing in his embrace, her backside snuggling into his hips.

      He’d never been so close to losing control in his life. His hand lifted from her torso. But instead of sliding it up and over her bare breasts, he twisted away from her warmth.

      He slid to the side of the bed and sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands.

      Talk about close. Too close.

      His underwear bulging, he made his way downstairs. The cold water of the shower hit him like an electric shock, but it took care of business below stairs very effectively.

      He eyed himself in the mirror as he shaved. He wasn’t going to give himself a hard time for waking with an erection. It was pretty much an everyday occurrence, with or without a hot woman in his bed. He wasn’t even going to give himself grief for horning onto Maddy while she slept. He was only human, after all.

      But those few moments of temptation…

      They were a whole other ball game. His jaw tensed as he imagined Maddy’s reaction if she’d discovered him feeling her up. She’d come to him seeking comfort and understanding and he’d almost jumped her when she was at her most vulnerable.

      Just as well she’d probably be going home tomorrow. He clearly couldn’t be trusted where she was concerned.

      Dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He worked as quietly as possible to fill the stovetop espresso maker. While he was waiting for it to brew, he cleared away some of the debris on the kitchen table. Which was when he saw the envelope icon flashing on his cell phone, indicating he had messages.

      He clicked it open with his thumb, frowning when he saw it was a message from Gabriella, his life model.

      pls call ASAP.

      He dialed her number, a bad feeling in his gut. The message was time-stamped early this morning, and Gabriella was due in an hour. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize something was up. As her phone rang and rang, he hoped the news wasn’t terrible.

      It had taken him over a month to find the body type he’d wanted to act as model for his latest project. The works he planned had been inspired by his years in dance, and he’d been excited when a mutual friend had put Gabriella in contact with him. She was a dancer—nowhere near Maddy’s level, but she had the refined, defined muscles and flexibility he required.

      He tried to anticipate the reason for the last-minute contact. She might be sick. Her car might have broken down. Or—disaster—she might have broken a leg or something else equally debilitating.

      The phone clicked as someone answered.

      “Max. I’m so glad you got my message,” Gabriella said. “I was worried you wouldn’t see it in time.”

      “Hi, Gabriella. What’s up?”

      “I’m so sorry, Max, but I won’t be able to make it today. I got a job.”

      “Right. Congratulations.” He tried to sound genuine. He knew that Gabriella had been looking for dancing work for some time now without much luck.

      “I know this ruins your plans, but I had to take it,” she said apologetically. “I hope you understand.”

      “Of course. We’ll just reschedule. What’s your timetable like? Is it weekend work?”

      “Oh, I didn’t explain very well, did I? The job’s not here in Paris. It’s a touring show, a kids thing. I’ll be on the road for the next three months.”

       Shit. Might as well have broken a leg.

      He leaned against the kitchen table and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

      “Right,” he said.

      “I can still sit for you when I get back, if you’re happy to wait,” she offered tentatively.

      “Sure. Give me a call when you’re back in town.”

      He’d need to find someone before that, of course, but there was no need for Gabriella to feel needlessly bad. She had to make a living, and what he could pay her as a life model wouldn’t come even close to what she’d earn as a full-time dancer.

      “Okay. I’m really sorry for the short notice, Max.”

      “Don’t worry about it. I’ll work something out.”

      After wishing her best of luck with her new job, he ended the call.

      He fought the urge to kick something. It had been a long time since he’d wanted something wholly for himself. Was it too much to ask that even the simplest of his desires—that his chosen model be available to sit for him at a convenient time—be answered?

      “What’s up?”

      He turned to find Maddy halfway down the stairs. She was rumpled and sleep-creased and warm-looking. He made an effort to keep his eyes above the hemline of the T-shirt.

      “Nothing. Just a work thing,” he said.

      “Of course. You’re back in the workforce now. What are you doing?”

      He stared at her. There were a handful of people who knew about his artistic ambitions. None of them were close friends or family. Still, he had to start owning his desires sooner or later.

      “A bit of stonework. Mostly working with bronze. Mostly figure-based stuff,” he said.

      God, he felt like a pretentious wanker saying the words out loud.

      She frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course.

       I’m trying to be an artist.

      That’s what he should have said.

      Her baffled gaze slid over his shoulder to where his earlier works marched along the wall beside his workbench.

      “Oh! Those are yours?” she asked, incredulous.

      As well she might be.

      Her eyes were wide as she walked over to inspect them.

      “God, Max, I thought you’d brought them over from your dad’s place or something and didn’t know where to put them in your new loft,” she said.

      He stayed where he was, his whole body tense as she circled his most recent piece, a full-size bronze figure of a woman balanced on one leg, her other leg bent at the knee and held at a right angle from her body, her pointed foot hitting her supporting leg above the knee. Her arms were lifted high, joining in a graceful arch over her head.

      He’d been happy with the emotion he’d been able to capture in the piece, but it still needed work.

      “This is great! Wow. Max, this is amazing. I can’t believe someone I know made something this beautiful.”

      Something—relief?—expanded in his chest and he let himself move closer.