Chapter 2 #3
She bit her lip and smiled, staring at his hands around hers for several long seconds before she brought her other hand up to complete their connection.
She held his hands like they were something precious.
Her touch was almost reverent, and he imagined her clasping his hands to her cheeks or hugging them against her heart.
Slowly, her thumb inserted itself between his hands and stroked the center of his palm, making his breath stall in his throat.
He gulped audibly, and there was nothing reverent about the slow smile that curved her lips. It was carnal, and it made him want to drag her straight out the front door of the gallery to the nearest bed. Or the beach. Yeah, the beach would be amazing.
“Shall we?” She walked backward, tugging him toward his exhibit.
He followed, shaking off his misgivings, half-thrilled and half-horrified that his opening night nerves had been replaced by arousal.
He hadn’t been joking about his discomfort in the crowd.
He was accustomed to having attention centered on him during Shabbat services every Friday evening, but he’d been taught to lead a service.
There was something very unsettling about having the most private, secret part of himself displayed on the walls.
The photos he shared on the internet were anonymous.
No one knew him, and he didn’t interact.
The paintings on the gallery walls exposed a side of himself that he rarely shared—actually, one he’d never shared—and he was standing with someone who knew he’d created them.
He looked at Libby, who was now the only person in the world who could connect him with M. Waterman, and was shocked to discover he wasn’t terrified to be discovered by her. In fact, he was eager to share more—and learn more about her. “Can I see your work?” he asked.
A happy grin lit her eyes, and she pulled out her phone, scrolled, and held the screen out to him. “I made this yesterday.”
An elegant wedding cake sat on a skirted table.
Flowers cascade down at least five tiers, and the closer he looked, the more amazed he was.
Some of the flowers were real, but others looked stylized, and he would bet they’d been made by hand.
Underneath the flowers, subtle detailing made the cake far more interesting than a perfectly smooth canvas.
“Can you see the resemblance?” She held her phone up to the first painting in his Iris series.
Of course, he could. Her cake was an edible representation of Iris minus the kiss. “It’s incredible.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shined. Now they were the color of his favorite gin, the one infused with butterfly pea blossoms. “Have you ever considered sculpture? Your figures are so evocative. They’d look amazing made out of wire or cast in metal, particularly if you made them small enough to put on a wedding cake. ”
“Never occurred to me.” But he could instantly see it. Too bad he barely had time to paint. His main focus was on God and serving his congregation, and he spent his vacations and days off painting. Learning another medium was out of the question
She sighed. “This cake would look even more amazing with an outline of that sexy kiss on top.”
He dragged his gaze from her lips and arched a brow. “Are you angling for permission to use my intellectual property for your cakes?”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Just planting a seed for your next business venture. Do you live here in Palm Beach?”
“My parents do,” he said. “They’re in Spain, so I’m using their place. It’s great to have a studio.”
She frowned. “You don’t have a space to work?”
His heart stuttered. She was so easy to talk to, he forgot he needed to lie.
He laughed, hoping he sounded casual. “Of course I do.” The light was great in his guest bathroom, and he didn’t have to hide the mess unless he had visitors.
“How do you want to do this?” He cleared his throat. “Your VIP tour, I mean.”
She smiled up at him. “We should stay close, so we aren’t overheard, don’t you think?” She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Let’s pretend we’re on a date.”
The touch of her breath went straight to his cock. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Oh man, you are in trouble. When was the last time he’d been this attracted to a woman? Way too long. Had it really been a year?
Good grief. He breathed out slowly, unable to stifle a quiet groan at the end.
She stiffened. “Sorry, I’m just fooling around. Am I crossing a line?”
“Not exactly.” He tightened his arm around her, holding her in place.
“I like it. I—uh—I’ve been very focused on my work lately, and I just realized it has been a very long time since I went on a date.
” He stumbled slightly over the last word.
It wouldn’t have been polite to say ‘since I had sex.’ “I think I’ve forgotten how. ”
“Relax—no worries. Just pretend we’re two huge Waterman fans geeking out over his first show.” She wrapped her arm around his waist and herded him toward the next painting.
Show? What show? The press of her breast against his side was commanding his full attention.
They fit together, in lock step with her arm around his waist and his arm encircling her shoulders, as they moved toward his favorite dahlia painting, the wild abandon of the petals only rivaled by the passion of the lovers.
“I love this one. The colors are intense, and that angle right there.” She pointed and made a strangled noise. “Hot.”
She would have to drag me to the most erotic painting in the room. “He’s only touching her hair,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “He has control of her head, and from the angle of their hips, that’s not all he’s controlling.
I love it.” She fanned herself dramatically.
The flower placement intensified the impact by leaving the details to the viewer’s imagination.
Apparently, Libby had an excellent imagination because her cheeks were pink.
When she met his gaze, her pupils were huge, leaving only a thin ring of violet around them.
He could hardly even see the painting because her perfume was going straight to his head—and his groin. Pull it together, man.
She moved to the next painting, tugging him with her since they were still connected. “I love this one because of that shade of blue right there.” She pointed.
“That’s my favorite part, too,” he admitted.
Her deep sigh echoed in his body.
The next hour was the sweetest torment he’d ever experienced.
She unerringly pointed out all of the best parts of his work, her voice animated, her appreciation crystal clear.
She seemed to understand his techniques better than he did, using big words that made his paintings sound professional, instead of like an expensive hobby.
Every so often, she’d pull out her phone and beam as she shared a photo of a cake, a cake that somehow translated the vibe of his art into an edible form. It was uncanny—and damned impressive. He wondered what she would see in his new sketches.
His fingers curled around her hip. He sucked in a breath as his palm registered the band of her thong.
His heart throbbed wildly. “I just sketched a new series. They’re in my condo.
Would you like to see them?” His voice completely bypassed his brain, which was shrieking that this was a terrible idea on so many levels, not the least of which the devastation he’d left in his wake when he’d rushed to get to the art gallery on time.
She looked up at him, deep violet gaze shining. “Yes, please.”