Free Every Time I Love You by Heather Graham

panels. She hugged her arms around her bare breasts and shivered and had to swallow down her sense of panic. She couldn't do it. She knew now for a fact that she just couldn't do it. When Brent came back, she would apologize profusely for leading him on in this manner. She wouldn't have him drive her back; she would call a cab.
    She pressed her hands against her cheeks. What would he think of her? First last night...and now this. She could never accuse him of dishonesty, so there was no excuse for her own behavior.
    “Gayle? I'm going to have you—”
    She spun around, startled at first, then horrified to realize that she hadn't pulled the curtain closed. She was just standing there, practically naked. And Brent McCauley was back in the studio. He had changed into jeans and a denim work shirt. He was standing a mere few feet away from her, staring at her.
    He was silent for the longest time. She couldn't move. She stared into his eyes, ebony-dark eyes with a slow-burning flame in them.
    “My God,” he breathed out at last, and the desire in his eyes seemed to touch her like a caress. She still could not move; she could barely breathe. She remembered vaguely that she had intended to apologize to him and leave. Her intention meant nothing now. Nothing had meaning, except for the touch of his eyes upon her.
    “Come here. Come to me,” he whispered to her.
    And she knew that they were not talking about art anymore, that this had nothing to do with modeling or posing.
    But, God help her, she was responding. She couldn't have denied his demand, not if her life had depended upon it.
    The distance between them seemed to be incredibly long. She moved slowly, as if a compelling force were drawing her ever closer to him. All the while she felt his eyes locked upon hers. She could not look away from him. Her arms fell to her sides; her fingers clenched and unclenched; she felt the cold of the floor with each step. And then she was before him. Not touching him, a breath away. She saw the clean-shaven texture of his chin and the little nick where he had caught himself with his razor. She saw a blue vein in his throat, throbbing. She felt his scent all around her, heavily male, and then she saw his eyes again, so deathly dark, so fascinating.
    His hands cupped her cheeks. Then his long fingers stroked and caressed her face. It was an artist's touch. A lover's touch.
    She didn't move. She couldn't move. Tremors seized her, and still she could not tear her eyes from the fascinating darkness of his. His touch, so light, left her face. His hands slid down the slope of her shoulders, caressed the outward curves of her breasts, and settled upon her waist.
    Then he knelt before her.
    She first felt the heat of his breath, then shatteringly, the warmth of his tongue creating patterns over and through the lace panties that covered her. She cried out softly, gripping his shoulders lest she fall, stunned by the sensation that ripped through her. Nothing had ever been so keen in her life; nothing had ever left her so bereft of thought or reason. Nothing had ever been so blindingly intense as his touch, so blatantly intimate, so sensual, so stirring, so exciting.
    The friction, the heat, the wetness, the probe and stroke of his tongue against her...the feelings washed through her with the force of a storm. Sweetness like honey flooded her; she shook and trembled and could barely stand, and only when it was so good that it was painful, that she could bear no more, did she begin to think to protest. To no avail. Frantically she whispered words, incoherent words, to which he paid no mind. His hand rounded her buttocks, his fingers played within the lace, and with a snap it was gone. Nothing stood between them and he knew no mercy. He played upon her leisurely but surely, like a master who knew her most erogenous zones. First he touched her lightly, then deeply, tormenting her with pleasure.
    She screamed as she reached a delicious release. Then so