Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light that pierced the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse studio. The space smelled of damp earth, linseed oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of chisels. In the center of the room, Sloane stood atop a white marble plinth. She wore nothing but a sheer silk robe that clung to the curve of her hips, slipping off one shoulder to reveal the creamy expanse of her collarbone.
Maximilian circled her with the slow, predatory grace of a man who owned everything his eyes touched. He held a charcoal stick in his long, calloused fingers. His silver hair was swept back, and his tailored black shirt was rolled up at the elbows, revealing forearms corded with the strength of a lifetime spent wrestling stone.
Shift your weight to the left, Sloane, Maximi
