Free Soulfire by Juliette Cross

Stretched out in a languorous pose on a bed of black silk, the milky-skinned woman stared from the canvas, obviously sated from lovemaking. Considering I’d never made love, the image sent my imagination into orbit. How would it feel to be loved as she was by such a man? I envied the woman, the mirror of myself, wishing I knew her secrets. Was this a projection of what awaited me? She lay on her side, arm under her cheek, a fall of black hair covering one breast. The sinuous curve of waist, hip, and thigh a stark contrast to the slide of black silk draping mid-hip. Her eyes at half-mast and full lips parted, promising more pleasure to come.
    Oh, my God. How in the world had he imagined me this clearly, especially when he hadn’t seen my body?
    “Lovely, isn’t it?”
    I jumped in my skin. The curator stood next to me, admiring the work. She was fine-boned. Most Morgon females were thin, delicate in their features.
    “This series is called The Lover .”
    Of course, it was. She examined me closely with vibrant violet eyes. She recognized my resemblance, probably wondering how many hours I’d lain naked on a bed for the artist. Uh, that would be none. He had conjured this image from his own head. This sultry lover, which looked exactly like me down to every bare inch, made my blood rush. Everywhere.
    Still unable to speak, the curator continued, filling the awkward silence. “This comes from one of our anonymous donors. Not for sale, only for viewing.” She smiled a secret smile. “He is quite possessive of this collection.”
    “Is he now?” Interesting, since last night he implied he didn’t care at all. “Excuse me.” I pivoted and grabbed Moira before she could view The Lover series, featuring myself lounging naked on a bed in a six-foot frame.
    “Is something wrong?” asked Moira as I ushered her down the street.
    “Um, no, Muffin. I don’t want to keep you out too late. Father will worry. Let’s get our coffee and cake to go, huh?”
    She nodded, a frown creasing her brow.
    Questions raced through my mind. I could hardly hold on to one thought. How could he imagine me so well? So real? How many hours had he pictured me in his mind in order to create such ornate paintings? He had acted indifferent to me last night when I had asked if he ever thought of me just once . Hell—countless times more like.
    Ugh. Last night. Every time a snap of memory popped into my head since I’d dragged myself out of bed this morning, I had shoved it far away, too humiliated to relive my embarrassing tirade and admission of feelings. He’d let me believe I suffered alone, pouring my heart out like a moron.
    “Bastard,” I mumbled under my breath.
    “What?” Moira looked shocked.
    “Nothing.”
    We stood in line for our coffees, last night replaying in my head when I tried to forget. Yes, he had been pissed I’d been making out with Pax. At the time, I had assumed he was furious because a human woman had dared to contaminate his superior family line. No. The fire in his eyes had meant something else entirely. Through the haze of memory, I could still feel the possessive hold when he’d carried me home in his arms. And what about the gentleness of his touch when he put me to bed?
    Oh, Lucius thought about me all right. Morning, noon, and night apparently. Affection, possession, and something more lined every stroke of those paintings. “Why are you hiding from me, Lucius?”
    “Excuse me, ma’am?” asked the cashier behind the counter, passing me a foamy coffee in a to-go cup.
    “Nothing. Sorry.”
    He might be able to fool many with his calm mask of indifference, but I’d just witnessed what was behind Mr. Nightwing’s cool exterior. He’d imagined me in the most intimate of ways, sprawled on his bed, beckoning my lover— him —back to my side.
    “Are you okay, Jess? You look feverish.”
    I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
    I tried to smile, but my stomach fluttered, knowing in a few short days he’d