The Collector
Page 58
Took her mouth with his.
He’d wanted her, maybe from the first, when he’d sat across from her in the little coffee shop. When he’d been so swamped with shock and grief, and she’d reached out to him.
He’d wanted her when she’d made him smile even through the morass of grief, and all the impossible questions. When she’d stood in his studio, in the light, posing for him, self-conscious and flustered.
She’d offered him comfort, given him answers and lit something in him along the way that helped burn away the raw edges of that grief.
But now, as the floor rose slowly beneath them, he realized he hadn’t understood the depth of the want.
It spread through him, a living thing, tightening his loins, his belly, his throat as she rose on her toes, wrapped around him, fisted her hand in his hair.
So he didn’t think; he acted.
His hands dropped from her face to her shoulders, gripped the straps of her dress to yank them down her arms. The move trapped her arms for just a beat, just long enough for him to close his hands over her br**sts. Smooth skin, a frill of lace and the quick, quick pump of her heartbeat.
Then she wiggled, fast and agile, tugged the dress down over her hips. Rather than step out of it, she boosted up, rose up to hook bare legs around his waist, strong arms around his neck.
The elevator thudded to a stop.
“Hold on,” he told her, letting go of her hips to drag the gate open.
“Don’t worry about me.” And with that little purr in her throat, scraped her teeth down the side of his neck. “Just don’t trip.”
He kept his feet, pulled the band out of her hair. He wanted it free. Winding it around his hand, he dragged her head back and found her mouth with his again.
In the dark, blued by the backwash of streetlights, he carried her into his bedroom, across the wide-planked floor, and fell with her onto the bed he hadn’t bothered to make since he’d last slept in it.
Immediately she rolled, using the momentum of the drop to flip him onto his back. And straddled him. Her hair fell in twin curtains around his head as she leaned down, took a quick nip of his bottom lip. Her fingers were already busy on the buttons of his shirt.
“It’s been a while.” She tossed her hair back, and it fell silkily over one side of her face. “But I think I remember how this goes.”
“If you forget a step . . .” He slid his hands up her thighs, down again. “I’ll cue you.”
Spreading his shirt open, she stroked the heels of her hands firmly up his chest. “Nice build, especially for a man who works out with paints and brushes.”
“Don’t forget the palette knife.”
On a low laugh, she ran her hands over his shoulders. “Very nice.” She lowered again, brushing her lips over his—touch, retreat, touch—then down his throat, over his shoulders.
“How’m I doing?”
“Haven’t missed a step.”
He turned his head until her lips came back to his. As she sank in, he rolled, reversed their positions—and added heat to lush.
She’d intended to set the pace this time, this first time, sort of ease herself into it. Keep it light, build up from there.
Now he undermined those intentions so they crumbled to dust.
How could she plan her moves, her rhythm, when his hands raced over her? He touched and took the way he sketched, with sure, strong strokes, with a skill that knew how to awaken the passion he wanted. As it rose in her, she reached for more, arching under him, offering, wrapping around him, taking.
Hard muscles, long lines, all hers to explore and possess in that soft wash of blue light.
They rolled together now, a little frantic, groping and grasping, pulses pounding as blood swam faster, faster under heated skin.
He flipped open the clasp of her bra, tossed it aside and, rearing up, took her breast with his mouth.
She arched, cat-like, purring with it, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode the wave of sensation. His tongue swept over her, his teeth tormented, all laser-focused on that single point of her body—until the whole of her rocked, trembled.
Open, so open to the pleasures, to the speed of them layered over each other, over her.
Skin slick now, his and hers as they tangled, as her fingers fought with the button of his pants. Then his mouth raced down her torso, down, down, down until her world exploded.
She cried out, embracing the glorious shock, riding it to its breathless peak, holding on, savoring the endless fall.
Now, oh God, now. Her mind all but wept the words, but she could barely moan his name as she all but clawed at him to come back, come back to her. To take her, finally, completely.
He watched her, watched those dark, gypsy eyes, black moons in the night. Then the graceful arch of her neck as he drove into her. His own body quaked as he struggled to hold on, just to hold on to the moment of discovery. Inside her, caught there, with her eyes on his, with her hair spread wild over the sheets.
She shuddered, then took his hands, gripped tight.
Joined, they broke the moment, surrendered to need, to speed, to the movement and the drenching, drowning heat.
She lay spent, hands sliding limply from his slick shoulders to drop onto the tangled sheets. She felt beautifully used, and wanted nothing more than to bask in that until she worked up the stamina to be used all over again.
She said, “Oh boy.”
He made a sort of grunt she took as agreement. He sprawled over her, full weight, which she found absolutely fine and dandy. She liked feeling the gallop of his heart against her skin, the lines of his most excellent and sated body limp over hers.
“Do you usually cap off an art session this way?”
“Depends on the model.”
She let out a snort, would have given him a light punch or pinch if she’d been able to lift her arms.
“Usually I have a beer. Sometimes I take a run or hit the treadmill.”
“I don’t get treadmills. You get all sweaty and go nowhere. Now, sex? You get all sweaty and go everywhere.”
He lifted his head to look at her. “Now I’m going to think about sex whenever I’m on the treadmill.”
“You’re welcome.”
He laughed, rolled off her and onto his back. “You’re unique.”
“A major goal achieved.”
“Why a goal?” When she just shrugged, he hooked an arm around her, turned her onto her side so they lay face-to-face. “Why a goal?” he repeated.
He’d wanted her, maybe from the first, when he’d sat across from her in the little coffee shop. When he’d been so swamped with shock and grief, and she’d reached out to him.
He’d wanted her when she’d made him smile even through the morass of grief, and all the impossible questions. When she’d stood in his studio, in the light, posing for him, self-conscious and flustered.
She’d offered him comfort, given him answers and lit something in him along the way that helped burn away the raw edges of that grief.
But now, as the floor rose slowly beneath them, he realized he hadn’t understood the depth of the want.
It spread through him, a living thing, tightening his loins, his belly, his throat as she rose on her toes, wrapped around him, fisted her hand in his hair.
So he didn’t think; he acted.
His hands dropped from her face to her shoulders, gripped the straps of her dress to yank them down her arms. The move trapped her arms for just a beat, just long enough for him to close his hands over her br**sts. Smooth skin, a frill of lace and the quick, quick pump of her heartbeat.
Then she wiggled, fast and agile, tugged the dress down over her hips. Rather than step out of it, she boosted up, rose up to hook bare legs around his waist, strong arms around his neck.
The elevator thudded to a stop.
“Hold on,” he told her, letting go of her hips to drag the gate open.
“Don’t worry about me.” And with that little purr in her throat, scraped her teeth down the side of his neck. “Just don’t trip.”
He kept his feet, pulled the band out of her hair. He wanted it free. Winding it around his hand, he dragged her head back and found her mouth with his again.
In the dark, blued by the backwash of streetlights, he carried her into his bedroom, across the wide-planked floor, and fell with her onto the bed he hadn’t bothered to make since he’d last slept in it.
Immediately she rolled, using the momentum of the drop to flip him onto his back. And straddled him. Her hair fell in twin curtains around his head as she leaned down, took a quick nip of his bottom lip. Her fingers were already busy on the buttons of his shirt.
“It’s been a while.” She tossed her hair back, and it fell silkily over one side of her face. “But I think I remember how this goes.”
“If you forget a step . . .” He slid his hands up her thighs, down again. “I’ll cue you.”
Spreading his shirt open, she stroked the heels of her hands firmly up his chest. “Nice build, especially for a man who works out with paints and brushes.”
“Don’t forget the palette knife.”
On a low laugh, she ran her hands over his shoulders. “Very nice.” She lowered again, brushing her lips over his—touch, retreat, touch—then down his throat, over his shoulders.
“How’m I doing?”
“Haven’t missed a step.”
He turned his head until her lips came back to his. As she sank in, he rolled, reversed their positions—and added heat to lush.
She’d intended to set the pace this time, this first time, sort of ease herself into it. Keep it light, build up from there.
Now he undermined those intentions so they crumbled to dust.
How could she plan her moves, her rhythm, when his hands raced over her? He touched and took the way he sketched, with sure, strong strokes, with a skill that knew how to awaken the passion he wanted. As it rose in her, she reached for more, arching under him, offering, wrapping around him, taking.
Hard muscles, long lines, all hers to explore and possess in that soft wash of blue light.
They rolled together now, a little frantic, groping and grasping, pulses pounding as blood swam faster, faster under heated skin.
He flipped open the clasp of her bra, tossed it aside and, rearing up, took her breast with his mouth.
She arched, cat-like, purring with it, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode the wave of sensation. His tongue swept over her, his teeth tormented, all laser-focused on that single point of her body—until the whole of her rocked, trembled.
Open, so open to the pleasures, to the speed of them layered over each other, over her.
Skin slick now, his and hers as they tangled, as her fingers fought with the button of his pants. Then his mouth raced down her torso, down, down, down until her world exploded.
She cried out, embracing the glorious shock, riding it to its breathless peak, holding on, savoring the endless fall.
Now, oh God, now. Her mind all but wept the words, but she could barely moan his name as she all but clawed at him to come back, come back to her. To take her, finally, completely.
He watched her, watched those dark, gypsy eyes, black moons in the night. Then the graceful arch of her neck as he drove into her. His own body quaked as he struggled to hold on, just to hold on to the moment of discovery. Inside her, caught there, with her eyes on his, with her hair spread wild over the sheets.
She shuddered, then took his hands, gripped tight.
Joined, they broke the moment, surrendered to need, to speed, to the movement and the drenching, drowning heat.
She lay spent, hands sliding limply from his slick shoulders to drop onto the tangled sheets. She felt beautifully used, and wanted nothing more than to bask in that until she worked up the stamina to be used all over again.
She said, “Oh boy.”
He made a sort of grunt she took as agreement. He sprawled over her, full weight, which she found absolutely fine and dandy. She liked feeling the gallop of his heart against her skin, the lines of his most excellent and sated body limp over hers.
“Do you usually cap off an art session this way?”
“Depends on the model.”
She let out a snort, would have given him a light punch or pinch if she’d been able to lift her arms.
“Usually I have a beer. Sometimes I take a run or hit the treadmill.”
“I don’t get treadmills. You get all sweaty and go nowhere. Now, sex? You get all sweaty and go everywhere.”
He lifted his head to look at her. “Now I’m going to think about sex whenever I’m on the treadmill.”
“You’re welcome.”
He laughed, rolled off her and onto his back. “You’re unique.”
“A major goal achieved.”
“Why a goal?” When she just shrugged, he hooked an arm around her, turned her onto her side so they lay face-to-face. “Why a goal?” he repeated.
