Release me pdf

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My Account. About Musicnotes. Subscribe to our Newsletter Stay Connected. We think your country is: Germany Change Country. My turn is next, and Carl presses his hand to my shoulder, pushing me subtly forward. His palm is sweating, and it feels clammy against my bare skin. I force myself not to shrug it off. I extend my hand. Now hardly seems the time to remind him that I once paraded before him in a bathing suit. He looks from Carl to Evelyn, pointedly avoiding my eyes. Uncharacteristically quiet, Evelyn simply gapes at me, her expressive mouth turned down into a frown.

My moment of mortification hangs over the three of us for what feels like an eternity. Then Carl takes my arm and begins to steer me away from Evelyn. I feel strangely numb and very confused. Did you piss him off? Did you apply for a job with him before me? What the hell did you do, Nichole? I cringe against the use of my given name. How the hell could it have been?

To breathe. I squeeze my left hand into a fist so tight my fingernails cut into my palm. I focus on the pain, on the simple process of breathing. I need to be cool. I need to be calm. Beside me, Carl runs his fingers through his hair and sucks in a noisy breath. Come on. Or as alone as I can be in a room full of people. I can see that he wants to argue. Approach Stark again?

Leave the party and pretend it never happened? I exhale, the tension in my shoulders slipping away. I head toward the balcony, but stop once I see that my private spot has been discovered. At least eight people mingle there, chatting and smiling. I am not in a chatty, smiley mood. I veer toward one of the freestanding easels and stare blankly at the painting. It depicts a nude woman kneeling on a hard tile floor. Her arms are raised above her head, her wrists bound by a red ribbon.

Her stomach is smooth, her back arched so that the lines of her rib cage show. Her face is not so prominent.

That she would break free if she could. My own skin prickles and I realize that this girl and I have something in common. And like that model I was left feeling awkward and ashamed. Well, fuck him. End of story. Time to move on. I look hard at the woman on the canvas. I start to move away, my own confidence restored—and I collide with none other than Damien Stark himself. His hand slides against my waist in an effort to steady me.

I back away quickly, but not before my mind processes the feel of him. My palm. My breasts. The curve of my waist tingles from the lingering shock of his touch. I realize that I have stopped breathing. I wait, but he says nothing else.

Instead, he turns his attention to the painting. But you would have made a much better model. Desire and shame. But I prefer something bolder. A more confident sensuality.

I decide to consider his words a compliment and go from there. He takes a step back and with slow deliberation looks me up and down. His inspection seems to last for hours, though it must take only seconds. The air between us crackles, and I want to move toward him, to close the gap between us again.

But I stay rooted to the spot. He lingers for a moment on my lips before finally lifting his head to meet my eyes, and that is when I move. For someone who just a few moments ago mentally told this man to fuck off, I am doing a piss-poor job of keeping the upper hand. I soldier on. So thank you. I ignore it and answer the question seriously. A straight-A average.

Glowing recommendations from all your professors. Acceptance to Ph. I stare at him, baffled. The Stark International Fellowship Committee awards thirty fellowships each year. How the hell can he possibly know so much about my academic career?

Immediately, though, I regret speaking. What I should have done was slap his face. What the hellkind of question is that? My thoughts, in fact, have taken a sharp left turn and I am undeniably, unwelcomely turned on. I glare at the woman in the portrait, hating her even more, and not particularly pleased with Damien Stark or myself. I suppose we have something in common, though. I smile, liking that we have this one small thing in common.

Carl glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. I rinse my hands in warm water, then caress my skin with my fingertips. My hands are soft now. Slick and sensual. I meet my eyes in the mirror. My fingers dance across my knee, then trail lazily up my inner thigh.

I meet my gaze in the mirror, then close my eyes. His eyes I imagine watching me from that mirror. A lazy eroticism that some other time could build to something hot and explosive. I stop when I feel it—the jagged, raised tissue of the five-year-old scar that mars the once-perfect flesh of my inner thigh. I press my fingertips to it, remembering the pain that punctuated that particular wound.

I wrap my restored confidence around me like a blanket and return to the party. Both men look at me as I approach. He looks like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. Lots to do. Lotsto do. I came here to find a painting for a particular room.