by Tara Janzen
She took a small digital camera out of her purse and leaned back to take a picture. When she turned the camera around and gave it to him, he glanced down and was instantly taken back.
He looked up and met her gaze, amazed.
“Do you know what you are?” she asked, an excited smile playing about her lips.
“Yes.” He knew what he was, what she'd made him. He knew exactly what she'd painted on his face, and it did nothing short of astound him.
“Well?”
“A goshawk.” Not a Cooper's hawk, or a red-tailed hawk, not a gyrfalcon or a golden eagle, but a goshawk—the largest, deadliest hawk. They were fierce predators, skilled hunters coveted by falconers all over the world. “I had one as a kid. We called him Gus.”
“Gus the goshawk?” She wrinkled her nose. “That's not very regal.”
“Gus was a goofball,” he said, grinning. He looked back to the digital photo. It was all there on his face, the bird's dark crown and cheek patches, a yellow stripe across the bridge of his nose, a dark gray beak, his eyes done in a narrowed, raptor gaze. “You are so good.”
“Do you want to do me?”
Oh, yeah. His gaze snapped up to meet hers. He wanted to do her all night long.
“I mean, my face,” she hurriedly explained, a faint wash of color coming into her cheeks. God, she was pretty.
His own cheeks had to look the same way, but she would never see it through the mask she'd brushed on his face.
His instinct was to say no, he wasn't much of an artist, but for once, he didn't follow his instincts. He needed to expand his horizons if he was going to keep up with her, and he definitely wanted to keep up with her, maybe even get ahead of her if he could. They were at Steele Street. They were safe. He could let down his guard a while longer—long enough to play her game, even if he didn't have a clue about the rules.
“Sure,” he said, reaching out and taking her chin in his hand, the way she'd done to him. He turned her face from side to side, acting as if he knew what he was doing, when all he really wanted to do was touch her. Her skin was so soft, her bones delicate within his light grasp. “Close your eyes.”
That was better, he thought, when she did. Now he could look his fill.
“Don't forget the base,” she said.
“Right.” He picked up the biggest brush and dusted it off on his pants, getting rid of any color. Then he dragged it across her cheeks, first one and then the other, down the length of her nose, across her forehead, letting the soft bristles fan out on her skin. He took his time, covering her whole face in gentle sweeps, and suddenly he understood what Hawkins had said. He was sinking into feminine mystique faster than snowballs melting in hell, playing makeup with a girl. And he liked it. A lot.
He'd be the first to admit he'd grown up in a rowdy, raucous, and sometimes sexually crude household, lots of guy jokes, a few—okay, more than a few—pinups here and there, and he'd be the first to admit that he'd been known to approach sex as sort of a two-person team sport with a definite goal in mind and the whole point being to score.
But this.
This was wildly different.
He hadn't known he liked this sweet, teasing sensuality and the way it was wrapping around him from a thousand different directions.
He switched brushes, to something smaller, and made sure to wipe all the color off on his pants. With small, measured strokes, he started feathering invisible lines down each side of her nose and across the tops of her cheeks to the corners of her eyes.
“Are you doing a bird, too?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He leaned in to studiously and invisibly color in the area beneath her eyebrows. She had the sexiest eyebrows.
“What kind?”
“Sparrow.” He reached for her tube of cherry lip gloss.
“Don't goshawks eat sparrows?”
“Yes. They do. Open your mouth.”
And she did.
Wow.
He twirled up the lip gloss and touched it to the center of both her lips.
“Sparrows don't use lip gloss,” she said quietly, trying not to move her mouth too much.
“This one does.” He twirled the tube back down and tossed it aside, then smeared the little dabs of gloss with the pad of his thumb, giving her soft, glossy, cherry, cherry lips. They felt like wet satin.
His breath caught in his throat, and his thumb drifted to a slow stop in the middle of her lower lip.
“Are you finished?”
“No.” His gaze slid over her, from the thick sweep of lashes lying across the tops of her cheeks, down the delicate symmetry of her nose, to her cherry lips. This was it. He'd reached the absolute end of his rope. His whole body was pulsing. He felt hot everywhere, and the only thing that could possibly save him was to make love with her.
“No,” he confessed again, leaning in closer. “Just getting started.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, just his mouth, and tasted her cherry lips. God, she was sweet and as ready for a kiss as he'd been. She instantly softened, flowing toward him, touching her tongue to his. Her sigh escaped into his mouth, and Kid felt the whole world shift on its axis.
With one arm firmly around her, he lowered her back onto the bed, kissing her the whole time, and more by miracle than design, he ended up between her legs.
Geezus.
“Oh,” she said, when he lifted his head.
He knew what she meant. There was no mistaking how turned on he was, not when he was pressed up against her, right where he'd dreamed of being.
“Don't worry. I won't, uh, you know . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassed confusion. She turned him around more than any girl he'd ever known.
“Force yourself on me?” she finished for him, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
He nodded, totally turned around now. She simply upended him.
“Don't worry. I won't force myself on you, either.” A teasing light lit the soft gray depths of her eyes. “At least I don't think so. I've never done it before.”
Of course she hadn't. Girls never did—well, except once he remembered a girl getting a little sexually aggressive with him. Not that he hadn't been able to fend her off or anything, but it had been a real eye-opener, and he'd been real careful after that to make sure he never . . .
Wait a minute.
“Never?” he asked, picking up on a subtle inflection in what she'd said. He wasn't embarrassed now. He was focused, fascinated, and he didn't want to misunderstand her in any way.
“Never,” she said, her gaze turning oh-so-serious. “Not once. Not with any of them.”
Well—he took a breath—there was no way to misunderstand that. He knew who she was talking about, all those ripped, naked guys in her studio and on her living room walls.
“You're a virgin,” he said, and even to him his voice sounded oddly flat, but she'd done it again, completely turned him inside out. The wild girl who painted naked men was a virgin? What did that mean? Had she seen enough of them and just wasn't interested? Hell. He'd let one kiss go to his head and give him all sorts of ideas. Okay, that was a lie. He'd had all those ideas long before he'd kissed her. Damn.
“Does that bother you?” she asked.
Okay, take a breath. That one had trick question written all over it. Don't lose your head, he told himself. Think.
“No . . . no, not really,” he could honestly say. She was saving herself for someone special, and he had to admire that, even if it broke his heart, not to mention a hundred other places in him he couldn't even name. “Actually, I think that's pretty cool.” Cool for some lucky guy who he didn't think was going to be him. Hell, all he'd done was drag her around and get her shot at. She barely knew him—and yet he felt like he knew her.
He felt like he knew her through and through, as if she were a piece of him he'd never known he'd been missing. When she'd opened her door, the connection had been that sudden, that intense.
Looking down into her eyes, he smoothe
d his hand up the side of her face and ran his fingers into her hair. It was hard to imagine she hadn't felt something of what had hit him so hard.
She shifted beneath him. It was a small movement, but it was enough to send a bolt of pleasure shooting straight through his body. God help him.
“Nikki, I . . .” What could he say?
“Would you look in the makeup box for me? On the bottom?”
No. He didn't think he could. He was done playing with makeup. Now all he wanted to do was play with her. But a virgin—he wasn't sure what she wanted.
He glanced at the box anyway, past all the doodads, and a disbelieving grin slowly curved his mouth. How could he have missed it earlier, tucked into the bottom like that? And how could he get this lucky?
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking back at her, not daring to believe what he was seeing in her eyes and hearing in her voice. Not figuring he could possibly be this lucky, this—Holy Mother of God—this blessed, that she, the woman of his dreams, could want him as much as he wanted her. A virgin. Sweet Jesus.
“Will you call me ma'am and take all your clothes off for me if I say yes?”
His grin broadened even as his pulse raced. She wanted him. “Yes, ma'am.”
She laughed at that, a soft, giggly laugh, and he kissed her, lowered his mouth to hers and simply indulged himself. She touched him with her tongue, tasting him, and he returned the favor, letting himself just get high on her kisses, her mouth so wet, and warm, and lush. Easing onto his side, he pulled her close and slid his hand down her back, molding her to him.
He didn't mean to move too fast, but her skirt was damned short, and his hand ended up under it before he even knew that's where he was headed. God, it was heaven to touch her. He wanted to touch her everywhere, naked, but told himself to take it easy, to slow down. Then he felt her hands at the front of his pants, felt her fingers undoing his belt, and he gave up all thoughts of going slow.
“Take off your shirt,” she murmured, breaking off their kiss.
With her hands on his zipper, he was only too happy to comply, shucking out of his clothes even as he helped her remove hers, skimming the skirt down her legs and her T-shirt up over her head. She giggled a couple of times when one thing or another got stuck, but by the time they were done with each other, all her laughter had turned to sighs and soft sounds of encouragement, soft words of love.
“You're so beautiful, Kid.” Her hands were all over him. His mouth was all over her. Every place he kissed her, she tasted like a promise kept. Every place she touched him, she left a trail of fire.
When he'd taken all he could, he emptied the makeup box on the bed and retrieved the condom from the bottom. He wanted inside her, and she was whispering in his ear that she wanted the same.
“I'll be careful.” He sheathed himself with the prophylactic before settling over her. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek.
“I know, and I'm not worried, really, even though . . .”
He met her gaze and grinned, and felt shy even as he did. “Yeah. I know.” He was big, but he would be careful—and she was so ready for him. He'd made sure of that.
He entered her in careful degrees, kissing her the whole while, being careful not to put too much of his weight on her, or too much of himself inside her too soon.
“Kid—” He heard the note of panic in her voice, felt her tighten her grip on his waist.
“Shhh. It's okay,” he murmured, pulling back out and trying again, taking it even easier.
He'd never made love to anyone so slowly in his whole life. He felt like they'd fallen into a time warp—but every breath was filled with the scent of her, and every kiss was filled with the taste of her, and he never wanted any of it to end.
Her first time—oh, yeah. He was finally in deep enough to thrust. When he did, he felt a slight barrier give way and heard her gasp.
Holding himself perfectly still, he nuzzled her ear, kissed her cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Mmmmm.” She moved against him, lifting her hips ever so slightly, and relief flooded through him. He pulled almost all the way out of her, before slowly sliding back in. She arched her head back on a soft purr, and he ran his tongue down the length of her throat. She was so beautiful. Her breasts small, her nipples softly pink. He leaned down and captured one with his mouth—and sucked, so gently. She groaned, and the sound went straight to his balls, making them tight. God, this was heaven. She was so responsive, so languorous, and so incredibly hot. She was melting for him, and she was so wet.
The briefest grin curved his lips, and he slid his mouth up to nuzzle her throat. She wasn't weatherproof. It was one of the wonderful things about girls. When they got wet, they melted like sugar in the rain. The first time he'd heard J. T. and Quinn discussing this amazing phenomenon, he'd been way too young to understand, and they hadn't been the least inclined to explain girl stuff to J. T.'s baby brother. But he hadn't forgotten, and in a few more years, he'd gotten a pretty good idea of what they'd been talking about, especially from the guy's side, the weatherproof side. When guys got wet, they were vulcanized. They got hard and stayed hard, and the wetter they got, the harder they got. They were weatherproof.
He was the living truth, vulcanized right down to his soul by her body's response. No melting for him. Oh, no. Except in his heart, where she'd turned him into mush, and his brain, which was operating strictly on autopilot. She was so beautiful—her nose so delicate and refined, her cheeks so soft, and her mouth . . .
God, her mouth.
He slanted his lips over hers and thrust into her again. It was her first time, and he wanted her to come. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to know she'd come for him—and he wanted to give her pleasure, mind-blowing pleasure, because he wanted her to stay.
To stay with him for days, and weeks, and months, maybe forever. She rocked his world hard, and he wanted to know everything about her. She could paint all the naked men she wanted, because he'd been the first to make love to her. Maybe he would be the last. Maybe.
Carefully pulling all the way out, he moved down her body, kissing her softly on her belly, following her itsy-bitsy tan line down to the silky insides of her thighs. His heart was racing. She must cause riots at the pool.
Sliding his fingers through her dark curls, he opened her for his kiss. She caught her breath on a shocked gasp, then released it on a soft whimper when he licked her, his tongue gliding over the soft, silky, hot, sweet center of her arousal again, and again, and again. She stiffened, and a rush of pleasure so intense it made him groan shot through him. His hand tightened convulsively on her waist, holding her still for his delicate assault.
She cried his name and opened her legs for him even wider, surrendering to his mouth, to his fingers sliding in and out of her so very, very gently. It was her first time, and he wanted to push her right to the edge and take her down the other side in a long, long fall. He wanted it to be exquisitely sweet for her, more pleasure than she could ever have given herself. He wanted to give her a guaranteed, soul-shattering orgasm she would never, ever forget, not if she lived to be a hundred.
Caressing her, he slid his hand up her torso and down her arm, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his mouth. He sucked on her fingers, then moved back up her body to suck on her mouth. He kissed her over and over again, loving being with her, being on top of her and feeling her getting more and more turned on.
Cradling her head with one hand, he took hold of himself with his other and checked to make sure his condom was still in place, before he fitted himself back inside her. He pushed in just a little way and held himself still.
“Mmmm.” She murmured a soft sound deep in his mouth, her hips lifting toward his, and he pressed himself deeper, dying just a little, but not going all the way, not yet. The torture was too sweet. He wanted to play with her and tease her for as long as was humanly possible, with no rules save one. He wanted her to come. He wanted her to have that for her first time, for every time.
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nbsp; He lifted himself above her, resting on his forearms, and moved himself in and out of her in a lazy, heat-inducing rhythm. They smelled like sex, the two of them, warmly animal, their skin damp with sweat and pleasure. She was small, so slight, and yet so female. She was taking him easier now, her body having adjusted, and when he gave her all of himself, she took all of him with a groan of longing, not pain.
“Kid.” His name was barely a breath, uttered with such need he leaned down and kissed her cheeks, her brow. He was here, with her. He wouldn't leave her, not ever. Her leg came around his waist, holding him more closely to her as he pumped, and she groaned his name again.
God. He felt it, too, the edge of pleasure turning sharp and sweet.
“Kid.” She tossed her head, her hands grabbing him on either side of his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him tighter.
He hesitated, then thrust, making her wait for a heartbeat or two in varied intervals, slipping his hand between them to stimulate her. It didn't take much before her body went taut beneath him, his name sighing from her lips, urgent and wanton.
“Kid . . . don't . . . please, yes.”
He was in such a haze. He understood her perfectly, his mouth wet on hers, her body slick and balanced on the edge. He slid his other hand up the length of her arm, twining his fingers through hers, rocking into her again and again, until she came, her breath catching, her body pushing up against his, holding him deep. She gasped his name, and he went rigid, releasing on wave after wave of the purest, sweetest ecstasy. It rolled through him, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.
At the end, he felt transported, his body in some sort of limbo. He rested his forehead on hers, but other than finding his breath, didn't even try to come down. He was so high. His muscles were twitching with latent pleasure, his mind floating in the ozone of total physical and mental relaxation—and he would have stayed there for as long as he could have possibly ridden it out, if he hadn't bent down to kiss her and tasted her tears.
“Nikki?” He rolled to his side and wiped her cheek with his thumb. He knew he hadn't hurt her. She'd been with him, right there with him, every single second. “What's wrong?”
