Free The Portrait by Megan Chance

temple, catching a whiff of unwashed, smoke-scented skin. "Your breasts, Clarisse," he said in a low voice. "They're exquisite, quite perfect. Will you show them to my class today?"
    She giggled and pulled away, her blue eyes glinting. "You are a wicked man, Jonas Whitaker. A wicked, wicked man."
    He lifted a brow, chucked her under the chin. "But you like it, darling, don't you?"
    "I like it," she said simply, and Jonas felt a tug of satisfaction. Ah, Clarisse, how simple you are. How very, very simple. He smiled as he watched her make her way across the studio to the changing screen and disappear behind it, and then he looked over at Miss Carter and saw the gentle flush on her cheeks as she talked to McBride. A flush he hoped would soon become much harsher, much redder.
    He moved away from the door and his students fell silent waiting for him. Slowly, aware that their eyes followed his every move, Jonas grabbed a chair from the big table and set it before them, positioning it on the platform Clarisse had posed from yesterday.
    "We'll continue with life studies today," he said casually, deliberately turning his gaze to Miss Carter, smiling inwardly at her wide-eyed attention. "Miss Carter, I believe you should continue with charcoal this morning. The rest of you prepare your palettes. And let's forget about using raw umber for the flesh tones, shall we?"
    He waited while they worked, waited until Clarisse emerged from the changing screen, wrapped in a rumpled piece of white linen. She tossed back her red hair and seated herself in the chair, and then, with the aplomb of a woman who'd dropped her gown for many men before, she let the wrap fall to reveal her breasts.
    Jonas smiled. He refused to look at Miss Carter, at least just yet, preferring the keen edge of anticipation, allowing himself the luxury of imagining her expression instead, the way her face would turn scarlet with embarrassment, how her hands would shake. Ah, he could picture it so easily. He felt liberated already, and he concentrated on positioning Clarisse to emphasize her breasts even more, turning her body slightly, lifting her chin to elongate the line of her throat, raising her arm to cause her breasts to lift. He allowed his anticipation to grow, waited for the right moment, savored every lingering second.
    "Notice the color of the skin," he instructed as he posed her. "Try starting with vermillion for the veins, then glaze over with the lighter colors. Remember Titian's luce di dentro —the internal light. Clarisse's skin glows with life—it radiates."
    He touched Clarisse's cheek, ran his finger over her jaw, down her throat, a slow, caressing touch. "Remember that a silk woven of blue and red threads can't be duplicated by any silk simply dyed purple. Like the silk, there are different colors in Clarisse's skin. See here, the pink of her cheek, the bluer shadow of her jaw." He dropped his hand lower, skirting her collarbone. "See how it shines here; it's almost white in the light, but the sun adds just a bit of Naples yellow—"
    Almost time. ... He felt a surge of expectation, could barely contain himself as he touched the top swell of Clarisse's breast. Now. He smiled broadly, turned to Miss Carter. "And here, the—"
    He froze in surprise.
    She wasn't scarlet with embarrassment, wasn't averting her eyes as he'd expected, as he wanted. Instead she was sketching intently, her fingers curled around the charcoal, her motions slow and deliberate. There wasn't a hint of mortification on her face, not a touch of chagrin.
    Disappointment pricked him, annoyance came sharp and quickly on its heels. "Miss Carter," he barked, feeling no satisfaction at all when her gaze riveted to his. "Do you know so much more than the rest of us that you don't have to pay attention?"
    She frowned, looking slightly confused. "I am paying attention," she said slowly.
    "Oh?"
    "Yes, I—" She turned her easel so he could see her sketch pad—a confusion of lines, a figure that