Beauty Becomes You

by Skye Warren

  Her mother leaned on her arm as she stood from the table and crossed the short distance, proving that Erin was needed here for the time being. She found a blanket for her mother’s feet and also a few beloved books for her to look at. She told herself she was just taking care of her mother, but at least partly, she was distracting her. A burning, aching need had formed inside her—to talk to Blake, to hold him, and she couldn’t very well do that with her mother looking on in the small space.

  The television roared with laughter and voices as a morning talk show flickered on and captured her mother’s attention. Erin bustled back into the kitchen under the pretense of cleaning up to find that Blake had already done so. He cooked, he cleaned. For her sick mother. God, if she weren’t already in love with him…but she was. Completely, whole-heartedly in love.

  He glanced up from the sink of soapy water. “What is it? Why are you smiling?”

  She went to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his solid waist and resting her head against his back. “Just imagining doing this in your house when I get back. In our house.”

  He tensed in her arms. “Erin.”

  She laughed at the note of warning in his voice. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about me moving in with you.”

  “You know I won’t. There’s no need to rush.”

  “Good, because it will probably be a couple of weeks until I can come back. I want to stay and make sure my mom is okay.”

  He turned around and pulled her in for a hug. His hands were wet and slippery on her arms, her hair, and she didn’t care.

  “I can stay with you,” he murmured. “And get a motel room if I’m getting in the way.”

  “Of course not. You need to go back and prep for the fall semester.”

  “How did you know I was accepting the job?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure,” she admitted. “But I am now.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Very nice, my little socialist.”

  She groaned, remembering the Robin Hood story. “You’re going to actually call me that from now on, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. And I might need to see a costume. With tights.”

  “Fine, but you’re playing Maid Marian.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish.”

  She laughed. He probably would go along with that or anything. His masculinity could hardly be threatened when he stood there, so strong and solid, smelling of soap and a faint musk she could recognize in her sleep. And had recognized in her sleep, she realized, thinking of last night. A blush stole up her cheeks.

  His gaze honed on the color, and he bent to nuzzle against her neck. “Were you serious? You’re coming to stay with me?”

  “I couldn’t joke about that,” she said honestly. It meant too much. She felt too much. And she’d resigned herself to the fact that it wouldn’t change anytime soon. Love had turned her into a raw, exposed nerve, and the only choice left was to seek the shelter of his embrace.

  Tension ran through him, though he was silent. For a long moment, he said nothing, pressing light kisses down her neck and across her shoulder. “I’m grateful,” he said thickly, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who needed shelter. She wrapped her arms around him, barely spanning him at all, but she felt him shudder. Her eyes half-closed, she blindly sought his mouth, finding it warm and firm against hers. She was in a daze, but he guided her, commanded her, until she found the sweet rhythm of their kiss and knew herself to be home—with him, holding him and being held.

  “Wait for me,” she whispered.

  “Forever,” he murmured. “I’d wait for you forever. Though if you came back sooner, I’d make it worth your while.”

  She laughed softly before tugging him closer for another kiss.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Three weeks later

  Despite the number of times Erin had undressed in Blake’s bedroom, it felt strange to do so without his solid, sexy presence. The draft from the air conditioning raised goose bumps on her skin. The slim light from between the closed curtains painted yellow light across her bare skin as she shucked her skirt and top. She paused with her thumbs tucked into her panties. Was she really going to do this? For all she knew, she’d look ridiculous splayed out on the bed. Blake hadn’t, but then his body was hard, masculine, and completely unyielding. Hers, she admitted ruefully, was soft. He seemed to like her curves, but that didn’t mean she needed to display them.

  No, what was she thinking? He was far more on display every single day—to strangers, no less. And on that unlikely afternoon when she had caught him masturbating, he had exposed himself to her. His pleasure, his body. His heart. It was only fair she return the favor.

  She toed off her panties and unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor amid the other puddles of clothing. Half-bending, she almost picked them up to fold them…stalling, of course. Even determined, the urge to delay, to hide, tugged at her. But Blake could pull up at the house any minute. She couldn’t reproduce the element of surprise, considering her repaired car was out front. But she could make the vulnerability real.

  Climbing onto his bed, she settled herself back, feeling unaccountably raw. Her nipples pebbled in the chilly air even while her face heated with embarrassment. When she slipped trembling fingers down to her sex, she found her lips dry and curled up tight. Swallowing hard, she shut her eyes. Clearly this required a little imagination. What had he been thinking of that day? She remembered now. Her mouth, his cock. She’d sucked him in that little fantasy, and goddamn, it worked for her too. She loved the taste of him, the shape of him, the little ridge underneath, perfect for hooking her tongue around and making him shudder. Imagining it now, she touched two fingers lightly to her clit, warming herself up through contact alone. No pressure, no friction—just touch.

  Letting her mind drift, she fell deeper into the fantasy. The hair on his thighs abraded the sensitive outer curve of her breasts as she knelt between his legs. His hands shifted restlessly through her hair, clenching and releasing as if he couldn’t decide which to do. He groaned on every stroke of her lips down his slippery cock. His whole body drew up tight when she angled the point of her tongue into the slit, and she could almost taste the salty pre-cum.

  She imagined him finding her. Would he be surprised? Or maybe not. The things they had done were far dirtier than fondling her clit or pinching her own nipples. And yet, a shaky feeling had begun in her center, warning her, berating her. Don’t put yourself out there, it said. Wait. Just wait. For what, though? She’d never quite understood. For the man to make the first move. For her mother to direct her safely through life. For Blake to decide she was strong enough to stay.

  Well, screw that. Her relationship with Blake may have started awkwardly, and mortifyingly, but she had always been an equal participant. Her mother may have raised her, but these past few weeks, Erin had taken care of her. And she hoped Blake didn’t doubt her anymore, she truly did.

  But the important thing was that she knew she was strong enough to stand beside him, whatever problems he might face. His physical injuries, which still pained him. The PTSD which probably always would. And the incipient self-doubt that would always lurk in the shadows of this powerful, confident male. She could handle any of it, all of it. She had done so for their entire time together, and she’d never been happier. And she knew, without ego or artifice, that he had never been happier either.

  Love wasn’t a lightning strike, a sharp point with a definite beginning and an inevitable end. Love was a shelter from the storm, respite from her fears and relief from the reality of his pain.

  The air around her shifted, but instead of cold, her skin grew warm. Little sparks on her nipples and aiming down to her core let her know she was being watched. The sense of contentedness that entered her body let her know who it was. Her sex grew slicker under the regard, but she kept her eyes firmly shut. This was for him…and for her. A wintry undercurrent of shame made her arousal burn hotter. Soft footfalls on the carpet drew
closer.

  A gentle caress touched her lips. “Beautiful,” he said.

  Above all, she knew him to be honest, and the fact that he found her beautiful, the fact that he found her mouth or face beautiful when her whole body was exposed to him, made her heart clench. A tear leaked from her closed eyelid. He caught it with his finger and traced its path back up her cheek.

  “Don’t be sad,” he said, and she heard the sadness in his voice—an ineffable sorrow for what he had seen, for what he had been through. If there was anyone who understood suffering, it was him. And yet, he seemed to derive more joy than anyone she knew. He found it in her body, in her company. He found it in books and teaching. He found joy in living again, and her love for him was boundless, expanding.

  “Oh, Blake,” she said, too choked up to say anymore. Her tears fell in earnest then.

  He released himself; at least, that was how it felt to her. He scooped her up and cradled her. She didn’t fail to notice the nudge of his arousal, but he wouldn’t use it until he knew she was okay. She was okay. Better than okay, which spilled over into sadness and then back again in an eternity knot of powerful, life-affirming emotions. One couldn’t be separated from the other. She couldn’t have known love without heartache. He couldn’t have found solace without pain.

  “Don’t cry,” he murmured against her hair. “What was this about? To show me that you want me, that you care. I know that, sweet girl. Don’t you think I know that? You show your heart in every expression, and it’s beautiful to see.”

  Somehow she found her voice. “You can’t talk like that and expect me not to cry.”

  His chest expanded on a quiet laugh. “There’s my girl.”

  She turned her face into his chest, her cheeks wet and slippery against his shirt. Fumbling, she tugged it over his head, desperate to feel him, skin-to-skin, nothing between them. His body felt sharp after the long absence, the rigid planes of muscle, the hair tickling her tender skin. She shuddered against him, leaning closer, aching to feel him harder, more deeply. And thank God, he seemed to understand; he seemed to need it too, holding her flush against him, almost bruising her, needing her.

  He turned them over, so she lay on her back, the sheets cool against her skin. His mouth held her down, his hands explored her, caressed her all over, and then he began to move down. Nipping kisses down her neck and in the valley of her breasts, gentle kisses over the curve and suckling at the tip. Then he trailed lower, as her belly quivered beneath questing lips.

  “Blake,” she said, in warning, in plea.

  “Just take it,” he murmured. “Be good for me,” and she was lost and lax in his arms. Her legs fell open, letting him explore the insides of her thighs. He made a small sound of pleasure as he felt the wetness at her core. Possessive fingers dipped into the moisture and spread it across her swollen flesh. He drew damp circles around her clit until any traces of reserve had fled. Spearing her, he pulled more of her arousal to the entrance. He removed his hand from her, and with damp fingertips, drew a heart on the low flat of her belly. She smiled in her sensual haze and reached for him. He caught her hand in answer and sucked on the tip of her finger, sending shocks down her center. Then he ducked his head to lick up the mess he had made of her—her belly first, his tongue mapping the shape of the heart. Then lower, down to the outer lips, then inner. He roamed to her clit, which had grown too sensitive, and she jumped, startled, entranced.

  “Please,” she groaned, not sure what she was asking for. Relief or respite, more or less. It all blended together in a miasma of desire. “Blake.”

  “You can take it,” he said, softer now, encouraging. He pushed her legs up, farther and more firmly than he usually did. Her knees pressed against her chest, capturing her, exposing her. His eyes burned with a hungry light as he stared down at her.

  “Please,” she repeated.

  Keeping both hands on her thighs, he bent to place hot, open-mouthed kisses against her sex, sucking and licking until she squirmed. But he held her too tightly to move much or escape—and thank God, because she didn’t want him to stop, not really. She wanted more and harder. Her secret muscles clenched in silent question, begging to be filled, but empty as he teased her clit to oblivion.

  “You’re mine,” he muttered, his breath a phantom caress against her sex. “I won’t let you go now.”

  Yes. His. “Please.”

  He chuckled darkly. “You’ll have to learn patience. Well, we’ll have a lot of time to practice.”

  Then he put his mouth to her clit and her whole world went black, with stars bursting behind her eyelids. Before she recovered he entered her, thrusting roughly, without rhythm or finesse, so perfect that tears slipped down her cheeks. She came two more times before he became rigid above her, still rocking as he poured himself inside her. She accepted it all. His come, his sweat. His love.

  He leaned on her, breathing hard. She caught him when he wanted to roll off, mumbling something about being heavy. He was heavy, and perfect, and she wanted to feel that lovely weight forever.

  “Marry me,” she whispered.

  He stiffened. After a moment, he pulled back, searching her expression, her eyes. “What?”

  She smiled. “You heard me, Professor.”

  “Did you…did you plan to ask me?”

  Admittedly, it was unconventional. Other couples arranged champagne and fancy dinners. “I thought we should start the way we meant to go on. Or go on the way we started.”

  With sex. Masturbation, to be specific. But more than that. With an attraction so deep they had to act on it. With respect so strong they’d been careful and mindful and joyful every step of the way. Unconventional, unique, or just freaking weird—she didn’t care. This was the way their relationship had started, his moment of vulnerability a gift to her, and she’d wanted to propose to him and return the favor.

  “Well, Professor?” Her heart started to beat faster.

  A slow smile spread over his face. “Erin.”

  Which wasn’t an answer, really. She raised an eyebrow.

  “God, you’re beautiful.” He reached over to the side table.

  Still not an answer. “If you’re going to grab a sex toy right now, I might have to rethink my proposal.”

  But he didn’t have a sex toy, judging by the little black box. If she’d thought her heart was beating fast before, it was nothing compared to now. He opened it to reveal a sparkling princess cut diamond with small, even diamonds circling the band. Her heart stopped.

  The words came to her in a rush: If you can paint…I can walk… If he could move past his scars, return to the world, the very least she could do was move past her own fears and trust him not to leave. The world can turn upside down… And it did.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I’ll marry you.”

  He did more than answer her; he asked, with the ring that had been stowed away in his side table drawer…for how long? Happiness squeezed her throat, robbing her of breath. She had to force the words, to feign levity or she’d never be able to speak at all. “Now, I said no sex toys. But I have to tell you, that right there is very sexy.”

  His mouth curved in a self-satisfied little smile. “I think it’ll look great on you. Wearing nothing else.”

  “Oh, so this was all a ploy to get me naked,” she said, clearly teasing since she was already naked and so was he.

  “It seems to be working,” he said, slipping the ring on her finger. It sparkled in the dim evening shadows, reflective even with barely any light. But no glittering facets or sleek metals could compete with the stark, painful beauty of the man in front of her. The man she loved.

  * * *

  Blake lingered in the hallway, watching Erin flip a page in the newspaper. His body tightened at the sexy sight. Sun streamed in through the bay windows, glinting golden off her hair and illuminating the lines of her body within her white dress shirt. His dress shirt, although she still wore it much better than he ever would. The top buttons were undon
e, allowing him a glimpse of the curve of her breast as she bent her head, intent on her reading.

  She glanced up and smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” He wandered into the breakfast nook, feeling reluctant to disturb her. As if it were her room, her house. And God, it was.

  She’d agreed to marry him, which meant all this was hers as much as his. A sense of contentment filled him at the thought. He’d be able to take care of her. And, he thought wryly, he’d be taken care of in return.

  He didn’t slow until he reached her, standing beside her chair, tilting her chin up to look at him. He brushed his thumb over her lips, loving the way she shivered in response.

  “You’re happy,” he said. A statement, a question? He wasn’t sure.

  “Too much.” She smiled shyly. Was she blushing? “I’m not sure what I did to deserve this.”

  Jesus, she killed him. Humble and proud, kind and fierce. A study of contradictions in a beautiful package he would never get tired of worshipping. Like a magnet, his lips sought hers; he bent to kiss her, leaving them both breathless.

  Sometime during the onslaught, her hands grasped his bare shoulders. He was wearing only his dress pants from last night, picked up off the floor. It seemed they could only find a full set of clothes between them—and no underwear. No bra, that much he could see. Damn, he was going to have a hard time leaving her in peace today. And every day. Especially considering the ring that sparkled on her finger. His ring. The sight of it filled him with possession.

  With peace.

  “I’m not going to let you go now. You know that, don’t you?” He didn’t know why he was always warning her. Even now.

  Maybe because he knew she wouldn’t balk.

  She grinned. “Do you think I’d let you go either? Not a chance. So get comfortable, mister.”

  Ah hell. No way was he leaving her in peace today. He pulled her from the chair, flush against his body, molding his hands to her curves. “God, I already am.”