Page 44 of Ruthless Enforcer

She doesn't run.

She just stands there, paintbrush trembling slightly in her hand, staring at me like she's never seen a naked man before.

And suddenly, I know.

She hasn't.

Or if she has, it wasn't like this. It wasn't someone she wanted, someone who made her breath catch and her pupils dilate and her pulse hammer visibly in the hollow of her throat.

The realization hits me like a fist to the chest. Clara Whitlock—sharp, fearless, composed Clara—is standing in front of me utterly uncertain what to do with the fact that I'm naked and hard and three steps away from closing the distance between us.

And I fucking love it.

"Most men knock before entering a woman's studio," she says finally, her voice slightly breathless but still defiant.

"It's my house."

"It's my studio." She gestures at the room with the paintbrush, trying to recover her composure even as her gaze flickers down again—just for a heartbeat—before snapping back up. "You gave it to me. That makes it mine."

"I gave you the space. I didn't give you permission to walk around in your underwear."

"I'm not in my underwear." She glances down at the shirt, then back up at me with a wicked little smile that doesn't quite hide the uncertainty beneath it. "I'm in your sweatshirt. Which makes this technically your fault."

I laugh despite myself, low and rough. "That's some creative logic, Duchess."

"I'm an artist. Creative logic is my specialty."

She turns back to the canvas, dismissing me entirely—or trying to—but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand shakes just slightly as she lifts the brush.

She's rattled.

Good.

I stay exactly where I am, naked and hard and utterly shameless, watching the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, hyperaware of me behind her.

I should leave, but I don't move, because Clara Whitlock Reyes is standing three feet away in nothing but my sweatshirt, pretending she's not thinking about what it would feel like if I crossed the room and put my hands under it.

I am so fucked.

Shaking my head, I force myself to back up.

Then she glances over her shoulder, and leaving becomes the hardest thing I’ve done all week.

36

CLARA

Istare at the doorway where Gabriel Reyes stood wearing nothing but tattoos, and then I turn back to my painting.

Well. This is boring as hell now.

Sighing, I set the canvas aside and replace it with a blank one.

37

GABRIEL

Hendricks