Free Absolute Pleasure by Cheryl Holt

and she couldn't bury the feelings she'd habitually striven so hard to suppress.
    He leaned in, adding a familiarity to the situation that she couldn't ignore. His demeanor was amiable, accepting, his mannerisms sincere and sympathetic. He inspired trust, and his frankness made her anxious to unburden her troubles.
    "You can confide in me," he said. "I'll never tell another soul. I swear it."
    "It's so difficult." She was disgusted to note that she was stammering and blushing as though she was an insecure adolescent, once more, and confused by her maturing figure. Her assertive disposition deflated, and she glared at her lap.
    He reached out, laying a calming hand on top of her own. "Are you afraid of how I will portray you?"
    "Yes." She hated that he could deduce her dilemma. "I've never cared much for my appearance."
    With the admission, she peeked up, only to catch him contemplating her with what seemed to be earnest understanding and authentic fondness.
    Oh, he's good, she thought petulantly. He's very, very good.
    But even though she suspected that his expression was practiced, her heart fluttered at the prospect that she might be winning his regard—even if it was slightly falsified. If she wasn't cautious, what an easy mark she'd be!
    "I want you to remember something," he said.
    He was soothing, cajoling, and she was desperate to credit any outrageous comment he might utter. "I'll try."
    "Our time together will create a special bond. We're going to be friends. More than friends. We'll be confidants, companions; it's the way of these sessions. A personal attachment will thrive and flourish. There's no reason to fight it." He gently squeezed her fingers, his unguarded demeanor encouraging confessions. "Why are you apprehensive? Haven't I told you—over and over again!—that you are very beautiful?"
    Yes, but I don't believe you! As she could hardly verbalize the opinion, she admitted, ''It's just that this is so different. Being alone with you. Posing. I'm a tad unsettled."
    "That's normal, but tell me the truth: Do you question my talent?"
    "No." His genius was the one factor of which she had no doubt. She had only to glance around the room to see it abundantly displayed.
    “Then depend on me to depict you as you are. "We’ll get through this, and I promise you'll be thrilled with the result." He turned their hands so that hers was lying atop his, the white of her glove pristine and chaste when contrasted with his darker skin. "Let me show you how we'll commence. You'll be more comfortable."
    His thumb traced slow circles across her palm. Though no skin was touching, the thin fabric rendered scant protection, and he generated a heat that seared up her arm. The glove was held together by a small row of buttons along the edge and, steadying her wrist, he unfastened the first one.
    "May I?" He advanced to the next before she could formulate a response and, in a matter of seconds, the glove was gone.
    She couldn't recall when a man had last seen her uncovered hands. Exposing them was a societal prohibition she'd invariably deemed ridiculous but with which she repeatedly complied.
    How exciting to have him unveil what was forbidden! The titillation was extreme!
    Meticulously, he scrutinized the extremity, tracing the bone structure, the lines, bumps, and nubs. Rubbing and petting, he persisted until the appendage tingled and burned. Just from his palpation! The remainder of her arm was shielded by the sleeve of her dress. What would it be like to have more skin exhibited? How would she endure the agitation?
    He snatched a pillow and slipped it onto her lap, resting her fist on it. Then he situated his supplies and, with a few broad strokes—they transpired so rapidly, she could barely follow the movements—he'd drawn her hand. He shifted it, and sketched it again. Then again. He kept on, until the empty pages were overflowing with variations on the same theme.
    By the time he flipped to a sixth sheet, he was including