I hadn't felt this good in a long time. I went to the club last night after Erik called to ask me to keep an eye on Alix. There'd still been no word from Alix's girl, and he wasn't getting any better. He hadn't showed, and I was pissed considering I'd been wearing a fucking mask...but then I'd seen her.

After I left Gilded Cage last night, I kept waiting for the good feeling to fade. Sure, the encounter had been the best sex I'd had since I couldn't remember when, but it was more than just sex. I couldn't deny that. I'd never understood the appeal of having a complete novice, but the moment I saw my mystery woman across the room, I hadn't cared about her experience or anything other than having her.

I didn't use my hands. Ever. I used floggers and whips and crops and even belts, but I never used my bare hands to spank a one-session hook up. Somehow, it seemed too personal. It had never been an issue before, because I'd never wanted to do it. Until last night...

The moment I brought my hand down on that perfect ass I knew that I wasn't going to be using anything but my hands on this woman. I had to feel every inch of her, had to know the silken whisper of her skin against my palms. She gasped as I slapped her ass hard enough to sting, but she didn't ask me to stop, just like she hadn't protested when I pinched her nipples until she groaned. That had been my test to determine if she would be open to what I wanted. I planned on testing her limits, but I'd never make a woman do something she truly didn't want to do.

The music from the club played in the background, but I focused on the sound of my hand against the firm muscles of her ass, her harsh breaths, and little gasps of pleasure. My cock pressed painfully against my zipper, and I knew I wouldn't be able to take as much time as I wanted tonight. I excelled at self-control, but this was one battle I knew I would lose.

I wasn't so sure I could actually consider anything that happened last night a loss, but I definitely hadn't been as much in control as I would have liked. But after her skin turned hot and pink under my hands, after I touched every inch of her, I hadn't been able to draw things out. She'd been writhing under me, making these insanely hot noises, and I hadn't been able to wait. It hadn't mattered that I wanted to taste her, to make her come with my mouth and tongue, to make her beg for it. I barely remembered to put on the condom, and then I'd been buried inside her.

I'd come so hard that my vision had gone white.

Afterwards, we hadn't talked, but the silence between us hadn't been awkward. She handed me my shirt, and I zipped up her dress. We smiled and walked back into the club, then had gone our separate ways. No names. No exchange of phone numbers or promises to meet again.

Hell, I didn't even know what she looked like beyond being a brunette.

But I knew what she felt like.

And now I was back in the studio, itching to create, wondering if I could somehow make my mystery woman come alive. The thing was, I didn't think I could do it with paints or charcoal. I was a talented artist, though the human form wasn't usually my subject, but I didn't think I had the skill to do her justice.

At least not on canvas.

There was another option though. One that I hadn't used in more than twenty years. Not since...

I shook my head and forced that memory back. I didn't want any shadows around today. Not when I was feeling so good. Not when I was walking over to the closet where I kept my supplies, hoping that the unopened package would still be there.

I hadn't used any form of clay since I was a child, but about six months after I moved in here, my father told me that I was able to buy whatever I wanted. Any other child who'd been given such carte blanche – and the money to pull it off – might have gone nuts with electronics and games. I'd bought paints and canvases and pencils and everything I needed to draw and paint to my heart's content.

And I'd picked up a small box of clay.

I'd thrown in away a year or so later, but the pattern had repeated itself every couple years, as if a part of me couldn't quite bear to give it up completely. As I carried the box back to the table, I was glad I'd gotten it, because I had a feeling it was the only medium that might be able to capture the picture in my head.

I sat down, took a deep breath, and opened the box.

* * *

"Mr. Randall." My housekeeper stuck her head into the studio. "Sorry to bother you."

I stared at her for nearly a full half minute before I realized I hadn't even heard her come in. I glanced toward the clock and saw that I'd been working all morning. I hadn't lost time like that in years.

"Yes?"

"There's a woman here to see you." She didn't look happy about delivering that particular message. "She's in the kitchen and refuses to leave until–"

"Jace, sweetheart, I tried explaining to the help that you'd be thrilled to see me."

Everything in me turned to ice as the owner of the unfortunately familiar voice stepped around my housekeeper and pushed her way into my studio.

Shit.

Bianca Evison. All curves and milk chocolate skin, both of which she loved to show off. Judging by the tight, low-cut, daffodil-yellow dress she was wearing, that hadn't changed since she dumped me four years ago.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out a little more bluntly than I intended, but I was still too stunned to manage the mask I'd always needed with her.

"I came to see you, of course." She gave me the same seductive smile that had drawn me to her seven years ago at the Gilded Cage. "It's been too long, Jay."

I didn't bother correcting her. In the time we were together, I'd told her more than once that I didn't like the nickname Jay. She hadn't listened during the three years we'd been together, so why would this be any different?

I stood but didn't move any closer to her. "It's been four years, Bianca."

Her gaze dropped to my clay-covered hands and her nose wrinkled in disgust. Suddenly more self-conscious than I'd been in years, I rubbed my hands on my pants, then stopped as I realized what I was doing. This was my home. My studio. If she didn't like it, she could get the hell out.

"Seriously, why are you here?"

She came even closer, moved as if she meant to lean on the table, then thought better of it. She'd cut her raven-black hair even shorter than it was before, but those dark eyes were the same. Teasing while lust hid something sharper.

"I just moved back to the city and thought I'd look up some old friends." She looked around, then delivered one of those back-handed comments I'd ignored for far too long. "I knew you'd still be here, by yourself, and thought you'd be as happy to see me as I am to see you."

I turned my back on her and walked across the room to the sink. I knew the question she wanted me to ask, and if it would get her out of here faster, I'd play the game. "Where were you?"

"You haven't heard?" She almost sounded offended. "I married a French diplomat. I've been all over this country and France."

I had heard. In fact, I heard he claimed to be some sort of French aristocrat who'd been made a diplomat on the request of his father...but that he'd neglected to mention that said father had been arrested in some sort of scandal involving a barely legal babysitter and her mom. Bianca had dated me because I was rich, but when I hadn't proposed after three years, she'd traded up for someone who could give her the money and prestige she felt she deserved. And when that hadn't panned out, she'd filed for divorce.

Irreconcilable differences, of course.

"It didn't work out though," she said, a note of sadness so real in her voice that I would have believed it...if I hadn't known her intimately enough to know all of her tells and lies.

"Sorry to hear that," I said flatly. "If you don't mind, I'm working."

She shot another disgusted look around the room. "Oh, yes, I can see that."

I turned to see her poke one finely manicured nail into the hand I'd been sculpting, and my temper snapped. "What the hell, Bianca? Why would you do that?"

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "It's just some...actually, I don't know what the fuck it is, but it shouldn't be more important than seeing your girlfriend after so long."

"Ex," I growled. "And I don't have time for this. I have a show coming up, and an art critic who's doing a piece on me. I have work to do."

I walked over to the door and opened it, then looked back at her. "You saw yourself in, so see yourself out."