“What are you thinking about?” she asked, folding the edge of the sandwich’s wrapper.

“Honestly? You’re not ready for the answer.” He tugged on the end of her hair. “Besides, I’d rather talk about the lies you told me when we first met.”

Shame caused her shoulders to hunch in. “I’m sorry about that. But I promise you, I will never lie to you again, no matter how painful the truth is.”

“Good. Prove it by telling me something about your past.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Start with a favorite memory of the farmhouse.” The need to learn more about her had yet to lessen.

“A favorite memory...” A faraway glaze appeared in her eyes as her mind drifted. “Christmas, about a year after my dad died. My mother and I decorated the entire house with ribbons and bows and afterward she baked pumpkin spice cookies. For the first time, we weren’t afraid of anyone finding fault with our efforts.”

“You were afraid before?” he asked gently. “With your father?”

Her nod was reluctant, but it was a response and it was progress.

“I know you mentioned he called you names. Did he ever hurt you physically?”

“He didn’t have to. His words did enough damage.”

Beck took her hand and twined their fingers. “Sometimes that’s worse. Physical damage heals. Inner wounds can fester.”

She held on tight, and the ache returned to his chest. But he was used to it now. It was almost like an old friend. “You were hurt, too,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

Oh, no, she didn’t. They weren’t talking about him. “Haven’t you heard?” He smiled as he released her and gripped his knees. “I’m Superlover. Stronger—and harder—than steel.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re also deflecting.”

“No, I’m stating facts. Now, what’s your favorite food?”

“Bacon. Isn’t everyone’s?”

“Your favorite drink?

“Lemonade. What about you?” she asked. “Your favorite memory of the farmhouse, I mean. And don’t try to flirt or tease your way out of answering. I’ll kick you out of my RV.”

“Harsh, Harlow. Harsh. But okay, fine. I enjoyed finding a blueberry pie thief in my hallway.” When she pointed to the door, he said, “I mean it. You looked both scared and determined, like you were defenseless, but you would kill to protect the pilfered dessert.”

“I would have,” she said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. A smile he wanted to taste.

“Bunny,” he said, reaching out to finger the hem of her shorts, the need to touch her born from his most primitive instincts. “Have you thought long and hard about what position you’d like me in for the painting?”

Color bloomed in her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat. “Yes. You should be bent over the couch, your bottom red from a recent spanking.”

“In to pain and punishment, are you? Good to know. Grab the supplies I sent over, and we’ll get started,” he said—and while she sputtered for a response, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

* * *

ONCE AGAIN THERE was something different about Beck. Only, this change came from the opposite end of the spectrum, and it was making Harlow nervous. He was charming, more charming than usual, and he was clearly bent on seduction. Did she have the strength to resist?

“Wait,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. I should paint you with your clothes on first. You know, to make you feel more comfortable.”

“Trust me. I’m always comfortable naked.”

I’ll bet you are.

He popped open another button. His nimble fingers had already worked halfway down the shirt, and what she saw of his chest captivated her. Well-defined pecs with a dusting of black hair that was golden at the tips. Tanned, unmarred skin. An eight-pack capable of intoxicating her after a single glance. He was altogether flawless and utterly divine.

His past lovers were probably equally flawless. Look at Tawny. Kimberly, whom he hadn’t slept with but had considered dating. And then there was Harlow. Up top, she was like a patchwork quilt. “Don’t you want to make sure I can get your upper proportions right before you trust me down below?”

A wicked sparkle in eyes now tilted with languid desire. “Do you think I’ll be too big for the canvas?”

Kill me. Kill me now. “Just leave your pants on!”

He shrugged out of his shirt, saying, “You’re sure?”

Not even a little, but she forced herself to nod.

He gave a heavy sigh, as if he were doing her a huge favor. “Very well. The pants stay on. For now.”

“Sit on the couch,” she instructed, pulling the easel, paints and brushes from the cabinet. Earlier she’d given him a list of everything she would need, and she’d had to make a split-second decision about acrylic paint or oil-based. In the end she’d opted for oil-based. Acrylic dried too fast, even when mixed with a retarder, making the blending of colors more difficult.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings by being truthful about how wrong you are,” he said, “but even I know the bed will make a more visually appealing background.”

The bed. He reclined on it, lounging against the pillows.

Tremors plagued her as she set up shop. “You’ll have to be still.”

“I can do anything you need me to do, lover.” His voice had gone low and husky again, stroking over her with the power of a caress. “All you have to do is tell me, and it’s done.”