Sculptor: An Ex-Navy SEAL Romance

Part I

Whirlwind

1

Derek

Iturn angrily with a How the fuck did you get in here? on my lips, but I am knocked off my ass—almost literally—by the vision before me, a mouth-watering feminine form neatly wrapped in an immaculate navy skirt suit.

Fuck. Me.

I was fully prepared to rip the head off of the intruder who, by the way, had the balls to shut my music off, but the second I lay eyes on the stately goddess who stormed my studio, interrupting my work session, I know I’m up shit creek without a paddle.

I can’t blink now, my eyes not wanting to miss a millisecond of this beautiful intruder filling my sight.

She is truly stunning—smooth brown skin I think actually glows, sort of almond-shaped dark eyes with lots of lashes, flawless eyebrows, long, straightened dark hair, and obviously expensive, perfectly fitted clothes.

And I can see a hint of red on the bottom of her heels from here.

I immediately know this girl has a powerful daddy—biological or not.

My cock stirs, nudging me to turn my words of rebuke into words that’ll get it closer to being buried inside her, but my brain reminds me that that’s a no-no.

The girl is ridiculously gorgeous, and I want her desperately, but I have a strict rule about sex when knee-deep in a project this size.

Like those Olympic athletes who abstain while training and have a big old orgy once the Olympic games end, I stay focused until the goal is met.

But my resolve is weakening the longer she stands there like a perfect, fuckable statue.

Almost too neat and perfect—she looks ravishing with her lips stained red and every hair in place, but all I want to do is mess her up, smear her lipstick with rough kisses.

Her slender frame would fit perfectly in my muscled arms.

May I help you? I ask as evenly as I can, considering everything raging inside of me.

I can’t let on how much the goddess is affecting me, how desperately my cock wants to find out what it’s like to be buried deep between those killer legs.

Yes, you may, she responds almost mockingly, and I kind of want to make her pay for that.

My cock twitches again.

"I’d like to commission you for a piece. I want you to sculpt an orisha with the likeness of my mother…"

Sweetheart, I didn’t understand half the words you just said, I say dryly, not letting on how close she got to getting fucked hard. Either way, I’m busy; I’ve got a piece due in four weeks and I don’t begin another with that kind of deadline over my head.

Her composure cracks a little.

I’m struck by how tall she is—she could easily be a model—although her statuesque height isn’t an issue for me because even at what I’m guessing is 5’10" without heels, I have at least half a foot on her.

In fact, I’d love to drop everything and make her my next project.

I’d do a nude of her, but it enrages me to think of someone stumbling across it and seeing what should be for my eyes only.

But her birthday’s soon here! she says almost like a little girl, but then she snaps back to refined ice queen mode. So how fast can you get it done? I’ll pay you handsomely.

I almost chuckle. I’m sure you would! But it’s not about the money for me, luv.

Truthfully, I have plenty of money.

Starving artist, my ass—I’ve been selling my work for years and my usual clients have deep pockets and their referrals are gold.

Things took off when one satisfied extra-wealthy client led to curious copycat others a few years ago, and the requests haven’t stopped coming.

It’s funny the way some of the super-wealthy feel the need to keep up with each other, one way or another.

It’s like they all need a piece of the artist known as Dagor now.

I’ve had enough lucrative projects to set aside a hell of a nest egg and set me up for life, so I definitely don’t need the goddess’s money.

Not that I’m dismissive of anyone who comes asking—I’m just careful about how much I take on at a time; I’ve learned to budget my energy wisely.

I take breaks, but when opportunity comes knocking at the right time and at the right price, I answer.

The client I’m working for now has extra deep pockets, plus the project intrigued me so it was a no-brainer.

"Babe, did you not hear me? I can’t promise anything until this project’s done," I say, pointing at my pile of raw materials.

Truth be told, I’m a bit behind already.

I can still pull it off in time, but only with zero distractions.

That’s the whole point of getting a studio in the middle of goddamned nowhere that can’t be traced back to me easily.

Wait a minute, how did she…?

So you’ll do it, then? she asks as if I hadn’t already said no in five different ways.

No matter how much she pouts those pretty lips and bats those pretty eyes, I can’t take it on.

I let out a deep breath. "Sure, angel—if your mom doesn’t mind a belated gift."

She suddenly squares her shoulders, her chest lifting and making my eyes go straight to her perky tits.

Man, I’d love to rip that perfectly ironed blouse off her and see how much composure she can pull off then with her titties out, reddened lips finally smeared by my hungry mouth while I’m grabbing her by her hair.

When I glance back at her face, I see that her jaw has tightened.

Oh, boy—here it comes: the spoiled princess I-get-everything-I-want mode.

I almost have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Her head is held high and proud when she says in a smoother, lower voice, I saw the way you looked at me earlier. Perhaps I can convince you to change your mind?

Now we’re talking.

But then she says, For example, I’ll have lunch with you if you’d like.

That does it.

I collapse into unstoppable laughter, hard and long, again almost falling off my work stool.

I’m practically doubled over at this woman thinking a mere lunch can make me put a huge billionaire client aside for her, despite her sweet ass.

We’re talking about a powerful, influential man who could ruin my reputation in the blink of an eye, reducing the likelihood other wealthy clients continue to take a chance on me.

Yeah, I can already retire early, but I actually like the shit I do.

Hon, it would take a lot more than eating pasta with you to get me to shelve what I’m doing and take you on. A LOT.

Her manner softens, though she still looks resolute.

Like what? she asks.

Is she kidding me right now?

I let my eyes slowly run over her—from her stunning heated face to her tits, then straight down the rest of her curves to her Louboutins.

When I look back up at her face, she doesn’t look as confident as she did at first; she looks almost scared.

But didn’t she just pretty much offer herself up to me?

It enrages me she’d be so easy, but my cock hasn’t stopped swelling since I laid eyes on her, and if the goddess wants to give it up to me, I’ll gladly take it.

At least then maybe I can get her out of my head and get back to work because let’s face it—she’ll just be an even worse distraction if I don’t take the opportunity.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Or is that my cock speaking?

I give her a slow smile and her eyes dart away from my face shyly.

How about you leave your panties here? I say softly, deceptively tentative and almost sweet if I say so myself.

Her eyes widen and I have to fight to keep a straight face.

What the hell else was she expecting?

And that’s the least of my request—wait till she hears the rest.

She seems to relax in relief, and I look forward to dropping the bombshell.

Is that it? she says shakily.

Her eyes look hopeful and I can tell she’s trying her best not to look scandalized.

What the heck’s really going on with this one? Is she a confident, sexually liberated woman or not?

I don’t answer her; I just watch as she delicately starts pulling her panties down from underneath her designer skirt, avoiding my eyes again.

She must love her mom a whole goddamned lot to be doing this right now for a perfect stranger.

She’s out here alone, isolated, and getting my dick hard just by existing, but she’s determined to get me to take on her project.

Once she has freed the lacy red fabric, she stands tall again, extending her arm toward me, the tantalizing undergarment hanging off her perfectly manicured finger.

I take it from her and bring it to my