Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A soft stroking sound teased Libby awake.
She drifted, listening, trying to identify the noise. Did she need to do something about it? What day was it? Did she have an event today? Something felt important, like she needed to remember—
Palm Beach. Hanukkah. The Levine’s party.
The Waterman exhibit.
Mike.
Finally, she caught up to herself with a gasp.
Her eyes snapped open.
“Gah!” He was right there next to the couch with a paintbrush in his hand, gazing down at her with a bemused expression. She grabbed her phone to check the time.
“Three o’clock in the morning? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Have you been painting this whole time?”
He nodded. “My schedule is wacky when I’m on vacation. I don’t sleep much.”
He’d opened another bottle of wine. Slowly, she eased to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and checking her mouth for drool crust. None, thankfully, but her mouth tasted like day-old garlic and onions. Lovely.
She spotted his half-full glass of wine on the coffee table he’d dragged over to the couch. She snagged it, taking a drink and swishing. Better to have wine breath than death breath. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of his canvas.
“Wow.” It was an understatement.
He’d painted her sprawled in a field of flowers. One hand cupped her breast, and the other curved lower, disappearing under a deep purple dahlia. Her cheeks caught fire. “Please tell me I wasn’t sleep masturbating.”
His lips twitched. “Then I wouldn’t have gotten any work done.”
Desire curled through her body, swiftly and easily, as if her dreams had been filled with visions of his work, an erotic parade of lush sexuality, leaving her aching and unfulfilled. “Are you done painting now?” she asked, swallowing hard.
“Almost,” his gaze drifted back to the canvas. She knew that look. He was still in the zone, chasing a vision only he could see. She was surprised he could hear her and respond.
“Okay if I move?” she asked.
He nodded without looking at her.
Silently, not wanting to distract him but dying for a better look at the canvas, she eased to her feet and stood behind him, just off to the side, where she could see what he was doing but he couldn’t see her.
The painting was gorgeous, so much more beautiful than she’d ever thought she could be. Sensuality blazed from every line. Vibrant colors filled in her lush curves, pink petals blending with flesh. It was difficult to see where she ended and the garden began. They were one, blooming.
Her breath caught in her throat. The woman in the painting—her—looked abandoned to pleasure, and the image packed a sensual punch, making her core clench.
Her limbs felt heavy, liquid, and sensitive.
She was relieved she hadn’t been touching herself in her sleep, but she wanted to now.
Had he intended to evoke a visual orgasm?
She peered around his left shoulder, watching him stroke a highlight onto her breast. She swallowed a tiny moan. His button-down shirt was gone, leaving him in a worn white t-shirt and dress pants. The warmth of him radiated against her breasts, making her want to crowd closer.
He leaned back, making contact, a wordless invitation.
She didn’t hesitate, slowly circling her arms loosely around his waist. “This okay?” She didn’t want to restrict his movement.
“Mmm-hmm,” he answered, nodding, carefully dotting yellow daisies on her nipples and making her squirm.
He fussed with colors, adding highlights and deepening contrasts.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the canvas as he delicately stroked, dabbed, and brushed colors onto its surface, bringing her vibrantly to life.
She’d always been physically affected by his art, but seeing him create in person got her a thousand times hotter.
She felt every brushstroke on the answering part of her body until she was an aroused, sweating, tingling mess, plastered to his back.
Her hands start wandering, gently teasing each corresponding area of his body as he touched up the paint on hers. It was only fair. He should feel what he was doing to her.
She flattened one hand on his lean abs while she circled his pebbled nipple with the fingers of her other hand.
His belly clenched under her palm, and his hips jerked.
Satisfaction unfurled from her center, spreading outward, until her breath came fast and light in her throat, and she had to bite back a moan.
She was falling apart behind him, enthralled by the man and his art.
There was no way she could hide how wrecked she’d become.
He was going to know the minute he was finished.
She should excuse herself and pull herself together before he turned around, but she couldn’t look away. Just a few more minutes.
He sighed, the sound reverberating in his body. “Done.”
She pressed her face into his back. “Oh no.”
He tried to turn. “What do you mean? You think it needs more?”
“It’s perfect—incredible.” She tightened her grip, holding him in place. “But don’t turn around.”
“What? Why?” He twisted until she was forced to let him go.
He gripped her arms.
She could feel him looking at her, but she kept her gaze on the floor. She bit her lip, feeling her cheeks get even hotter. Her eyes were probably glazed with lust. Her lips felt swollen from imagining what it would be like to kiss him. She clenched her hands into fists to keep them off his body.
“Look at me.” He squeezed her arms. “Did I go too far? Too personal? You saw the sketches. I assumed you knew—”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s fine.
I knew. But seeing myself literally on your canvas, under your hands, looking about five seconds from the best orgasm of my life—” She tried to turn it into a joke by fanning herself.
“Hot, hot, hot. I need a second to pull myself together before I can be polite company. I’m just going to go… ”
But she didn’t pull away.
She could feel the heat of his strong body, focused and intense, and smell clean sweat, wine, and paint. He still had a paintbrush in his hand. Who knew that the smell of paint was an aphrodisiac?
“I’ll be right back—” She gestured in the general direction of the bathroom, but she still couldn’t make herself move away. Not when he was looking at her with warmth and humor in his gaze—and maybe something else?
“My painting got you hot and bothered?” He stroked her arms, holding her in place with the barest touch of his fingertips.
She shivered. “You’re kidding, right? You think I wrap myself around every artist I meet? Help a girl out and back away carefully. I honestly think your virtue might be in danger. Just kidding.” Not kidding.
“I could back away,” he said slowly. “Or I could step closer.”
She swallowed hard, heart hammering. “At your own risk.”
One side of his mouth curved, and she wanted to lick it. Nothing weird. Just a little nibble. “I’m feeling very brave,” he said. “Are you?”
“Super brave.” Her voice cracked.
He pulled her closer, until their bodies connected at thigh and chest. His hands pressed the back of her waist, urging her even more firmly against him. She wrapped her arms around him, erasing the last inches between them.
His hard cock pressed into her belly. An arrow of lust shot straight to her core, making her gasp helplessly.
“Did you think you were the only one feeling it?” He throbbed against her, nearly taking her out at the knees. “I’ve been hard for two hours. And that was before you started tormenting me. I could barely finish the painting.”
They fit together, hollows and curves aligning, arms banding each other’s waists.
She rested her head on his chest, breathing in his clean scent, every brain cell focused on the way his hand felt, slowly sweeping up and down her back until she was sure she was on fire and he was spreading the flames around with his fingers.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she sighed, lifting her face. His gaze was molten, heating her further.
He grasped her long-unraveled braid and took her mouth in the exact way of the painting that had first caught her eye tonight.
It was a kiss that conquered. His lips were soft yet firm, moving over hers with confidence and skill.
His hands supported her, one arm hooked around her waist, lifting her into his kiss, the other hand angling her head.
She felt weightless, and if he hadn’t been holding her up, she might have fallen to her knees.
She wanted to fall, wanted him like that. In her mouth. At her mercy, as she’d been at his for hours, sleeping while he painted every inch of her.
She broke the kiss and grasped his hands, pulling them away from her body and holding them with one hand while she sank to the couch and gazed up at him.
“May I?” She grasped the clasp of his pants. “Please?”
He caught her hand and pressed it to his taut belly.
Then he smoothed her hair back and caressed her cheek.
“I’m not saying no, but I’ve been looking at you spread out on my couch for hours, imagining what you’d feel like.
” His gaze seared her. “Taste like.” He licked his lips and smiled, looking every inch a predatory male about to pounce.
“Sound like when you come. I’ve been covering you with flowers when I wanted to cover you with my hands and mouth.
Drinking wine when I wanted to drink you.
Wondering if I’d have the nerve to kiss you when you woke up.
So, as much as I love the idea of your mouth on me, I need to get my mouth on you, if that’s all right. ”
Wordlessly, she nodded. “More than all right. A dream come true, actually.”
He dropped to his knees next to the couch. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t take the privilege of touching you lightly. Your trust is a blessing.”
The appreciation in his gaze made her heart pound wildly.