Chesapeake Blue
Page 61
He frowned, then glanced down at his wrist for the watch he'd once again forgotten to put on. "Probably hit the hour."
"At least." She worked up a smile.
"You need a break. You want some water? Juice? Did I buy juice?"
"Water's fine. Can I sit up now?"
"Sure, sure." He wasn't looking at her now in any case, but at the work.
"And can I see what you've done so far?"
"Uh-huh." He set down his brush, picked up a rag. And never took his eyes off the canvas. Dru slipped out of bed, picked up the robe and, wrapping herself into it, walked to him. The bed was the center of the canvas, with much of the outer space still white and unpainted. She was the center of the bed.
He'd yet to paint her face, so she was only a body—long limbs adorned with rose petals. Her arm covered her br**sts, but it wasn't a gesture of modesty. One of flirtation, she thought. Of invitation. Of knowledge.
Only a fraction done, she realized, and already brilliant. Did she ever look and see light and shadow playing so beautifully?
He'd chosen the bed well. The slim iron bars offered simplicity and a timelessness. The delicate tone of the sheets warmed her skin and was yet another contrast to all the rich, bold strokes.
"It's beautiful."
"It will be," he agreed. "This is a good start."
"You knew I wouldn't stop you once I'd seen what you'd done."
"If you'd looked and hadn't seen what I wanted you to see, I'd have failed. Drusilla." She studied him. Her pulse scrambled when she saw that same narrowed intensity on his face, the strength of focus, of purpose. The need that vibrated around him when he worked. But now, it was for her.
"I've never wanted anyone like this," she managed. "I don't know what it means."
"I don't give a damn." He pulled her against him, captured her mouth. He was already yanking off her robe as he dragged her toward the bed.
A part of her—that had been born and bred in luxury, in grace—was shocked at the treatment. Shocked more by her response to it. And the part that responded triumphed. She tore at his shirt even as they tumbled onto sheets strewn with rose petals.
"Touch me. Oh, touch me." She clawed her way over him. "The way I imagine you touching me when you're painting me."
His hands streaked over her, rough and needy, stroking the flames that had simmered as she'd lain naked for him. It energized her, sparked in her blood until she felt herself become a quivering mass of raw need tangled with reckless greed.
Her mouth warred with his in a frantic battle to give.
He was lost in her, trapped in the maze of emotions she'd wound through him. Steeped in the flood of sensations she aroused by every caress, every taste, every word.
Hunger for more stumbled against a rocky ledge of love.
When he drew her close, held—held tight—he fell over.
Some change, some tenderness eked through the urgency. It swamped her, and she went pliant against him.
Now mouths met, a long, sumptuous kiss. Now hands brushed skin delicately. The air thickened, filled with the scents of roses, of paint, of turpentine, all stirred by the breeze off the water. She rose over him, and looked down at love.
Her throat ached. Her heart swelled. Unbearably moved, she lowered her lips to his until her throat ached from the sweetness.
This, she knew, was more than pleasure, beyond desire and need. This, if only she could let it, was everything.
If it was consuming, then she would be consumed. And she took him inside her, gave herself over to the everything.
Slow and silky, deep and intent, they moved together. Trembled as they climbed, sighed as they floated. It seemed to her colors, the rich bold tones he'd used in the painting, spread inside her. He lifted to her, finding her mouth with his again as his arms enfolded her. Wrapped tight, they surrendered.
For a time they didn't speak. She kept her head on his shoulder, looked at the light through the window. He'd opened a window, she realized. One she'd been so certain needed to remain shut. Now the light, the air was streaming through.
How could she ever close it again?
"I've never made love on rose petals before," she said quietly. "I liked it."
"Me too."
She plucked one from his back. "But now look what we've done." She held it out to him. "The artist is going to be very annoyed with us."
"He should be, but he's not. Besides"—joy, pure joy, was running inside him in long, loose strides—"the artist is very inventive."
"I can verify that."
"Give me another hour."
She leaned back to stare at him. "You're going to paint again? Now?"
"Trust me. It's important, really important. Just—here." She was still gaping at him when he shifted her and gave her a light shove back onto the bed. "Do you remember the pose, or do you need me to set you?"
"Do I… oh, for heaven sake." More than a little miffed, she rolled to her side, flopped her arm over her br**sts.
"Okay, I'll set you." Cheerful, energized, he moved her, redistributed rose petals, stepped back, then forward again to make more adjustments.
"It's okay to pout now, but turn your head toward me."
"I'm not pouting. I'm entirely too mature to pout."
"Whatever." He grabbed his jeans, tugged them on. "I need the angle of your head… chin up. Whoa, not that far, sugar.
That's better," he said, grabbing the brush he needed. "Tilt your head, just a… Ah, yeah, that's it. You're amazing, you're perfect. You're the best."
"You're fall of shit."
"Now, that's mature." He went to work. "And a little crude coming from you."
"I can be crude when the occasion calls for it." As far as she was concerned, having a man more interested in his work than in holding her when she'd just fallen in love was the perfect occasion.
"Okay, shut up. Just look at me now, listen to the music."
"Fine. I've nothing to say to you anyway."
Maybe not, he thought, but her face had a great deal to say. And he wanted it all. He painted the arrogant angle of it, the strong chin with that lovely shadow in the center, the sculpted cheekbones, the gorgeous shape of her eyes, eyebrows, the straight patrician line of her nose. But for the rest, for her mouth, for the look in her eyes, he needed something more.
"At least." She worked up a smile.
"You need a break. You want some water? Juice? Did I buy juice?"
"Water's fine. Can I sit up now?"
"Sure, sure." He wasn't looking at her now in any case, but at the work.
"And can I see what you've done so far?"
"Uh-huh." He set down his brush, picked up a rag. And never took his eyes off the canvas. Dru slipped out of bed, picked up the robe and, wrapping herself into it, walked to him. The bed was the center of the canvas, with much of the outer space still white and unpainted. She was the center of the bed.
He'd yet to paint her face, so she was only a body—long limbs adorned with rose petals. Her arm covered her br**sts, but it wasn't a gesture of modesty. One of flirtation, she thought. Of invitation. Of knowledge.
Only a fraction done, she realized, and already brilliant. Did she ever look and see light and shadow playing so beautifully?
He'd chosen the bed well. The slim iron bars offered simplicity and a timelessness. The delicate tone of the sheets warmed her skin and was yet another contrast to all the rich, bold strokes.
"It's beautiful."
"It will be," he agreed. "This is a good start."
"You knew I wouldn't stop you once I'd seen what you'd done."
"If you'd looked and hadn't seen what I wanted you to see, I'd have failed. Drusilla." She studied him. Her pulse scrambled when she saw that same narrowed intensity on his face, the strength of focus, of purpose. The need that vibrated around him when he worked. But now, it was for her.
"I've never wanted anyone like this," she managed. "I don't know what it means."
"I don't give a damn." He pulled her against him, captured her mouth. He was already yanking off her robe as he dragged her toward the bed.
A part of her—that had been born and bred in luxury, in grace—was shocked at the treatment. Shocked more by her response to it. And the part that responded triumphed. She tore at his shirt even as they tumbled onto sheets strewn with rose petals.
"Touch me. Oh, touch me." She clawed her way over him. "The way I imagine you touching me when you're painting me."
His hands streaked over her, rough and needy, stroking the flames that had simmered as she'd lain naked for him. It energized her, sparked in her blood until she felt herself become a quivering mass of raw need tangled with reckless greed.
Her mouth warred with his in a frantic battle to give.
He was lost in her, trapped in the maze of emotions she'd wound through him. Steeped in the flood of sensations she aroused by every caress, every taste, every word.
Hunger for more stumbled against a rocky ledge of love.
When he drew her close, held—held tight—he fell over.
Some change, some tenderness eked through the urgency. It swamped her, and she went pliant against him.
Now mouths met, a long, sumptuous kiss. Now hands brushed skin delicately. The air thickened, filled with the scents of roses, of paint, of turpentine, all stirred by the breeze off the water. She rose over him, and looked down at love.
Her throat ached. Her heart swelled. Unbearably moved, she lowered her lips to his until her throat ached from the sweetness.
This, she knew, was more than pleasure, beyond desire and need. This, if only she could let it, was everything.
If it was consuming, then she would be consumed. And she took him inside her, gave herself over to the everything.
Slow and silky, deep and intent, they moved together. Trembled as they climbed, sighed as they floated. It seemed to her colors, the rich bold tones he'd used in the painting, spread inside her. He lifted to her, finding her mouth with his again as his arms enfolded her. Wrapped tight, they surrendered.
For a time they didn't speak. She kept her head on his shoulder, looked at the light through the window. He'd opened a window, she realized. One she'd been so certain needed to remain shut. Now the light, the air was streaming through.
How could she ever close it again?
"I've never made love on rose petals before," she said quietly. "I liked it."
"Me too."
She plucked one from his back. "But now look what we've done." She held it out to him. "The artist is going to be very annoyed with us."
"He should be, but he's not. Besides"—joy, pure joy, was running inside him in long, loose strides—"the artist is very inventive."
"I can verify that."
"Give me another hour."
She leaned back to stare at him. "You're going to paint again? Now?"
"Trust me. It's important, really important. Just—here." She was still gaping at him when he shifted her and gave her a light shove back onto the bed. "Do you remember the pose, or do you need me to set you?"
"Do I… oh, for heaven sake." More than a little miffed, she rolled to her side, flopped her arm over her br**sts.
"Okay, I'll set you." Cheerful, energized, he moved her, redistributed rose petals, stepped back, then forward again to make more adjustments.
"It's okay to pout now, but turn your head toward me."
"I'm not pouting. I'm entirely too mature to pout."
"Whatever." He grabbed his jeans, tugged them on. "I need the angle of your head… chin up. Whoa, not that far, sugar.
That's better," he said, grabbing the brush he needed. "Tilt your head, just a… Ah, yeah, that's it. You're amazing, you're perfect. You're the best."
"You're fall of shit."
"Now, that's mature." He went to work. "And a little crude coming from you."
"I can be crude when the occasion calls for it." As far as she was concerned, having a man more interested in his work than in holding her when she'd just fallen in love was the perfect occasion.
"Okay, shut up. Just look at me now, listen to the music."
"Fine. I've nothing to say to you anyway."
Maybe not, he thought, but her face had a great deal to say. And he wanted it all. He painted the arrogant angle of it, the strong chin with that lovely shadow in the center, the sculpted cheekbones, the gorgeous shape of her eyes, eyebrows, the straight patrician line of her nose. But for the rest, for her mouth, for the look in her eyes, he needed something more.
