by Laura Moore
The hot pleasure of his mouth on her aching breasts had her clutching at Alex’s shoulders, arching and pressing closer, offering him more. The pleasure spread, coursed through her, made her greedy. Her hands raced over him, glorying in his lean strength. Desperate for the taste of him, she pleaded, “Kiss me, Alex.”
Lifting his head, Alex gave her a smile filled with promise. A smile that had her toes curling in anticipation when he murmured, “My pleasure.” Instead of returning to her mouth, though, his lips blazed a trail southward, down the valley of her breasts and across the flat, shivery plain of her stomach. Breathless gasps escaped her as his tongue and teeth continued their exploration. Molten liquid pooled and pulsed, shooting off fiery sparks deep in her center. Gently, Alex’s hands parted her trembling thighs. His fingers brushed her dewy curls, opening her.
At the feel of his finger gliding down her cleft and entering her, her breath caught then raced uncontrollably as the finger slid in and out of her again and again. Her muscles clenched around him, drawing ever tighter as his thumb began rhythmically circling and rubbing her clitoris. Then his mouth descended, hot and wicked, joining the erotic dance of his fingers. And the sparks inside Gen erupted in a glorious shower of colors. Exploding with pleasure, she arched into him, crying his name. As her body quivered with silvered aftershocks, he calmed her with languid caresses and gentle kisses. Slowly, slowly she returned to herself, only to realize that his seemingly lazy petting was stirring the wild need in her once more.
“Alex,” she moaned, twisting in his arms.
“Shh, sweetheart, easy. There’s no hurry,” he murmured. “I want to go slowly with you. . . .”
Her eyes traveled over him. For all his calmness, there was a fierce tension in him. It was there in the taut line of his muscles, in the faint sheen of sweat that dotted his brow. And she knew he was holding back out of consideration for her. The thought made her heart sing. “But, Alex,” she said, beginning to kiss her way across his chest, “I don’t think I can go slowly. I want you too much. And something tells me you’d rather not wait, either,” she whispered, as she slipped her hand around his penis. Lightly she stroked his engorged length, exulting when Alex closed his eyes, his entire body shuddering violently with need.
When her fingers traced the tip of his penis, Alex groaned deep in his throat. Rolling over, he pinned her. His fever-bright eyes locked with hers. “Are you sure, Gen?” he demanded huskily.
“Mmm, yes,” she assured him. Raising her head off the pillow, she brushed her lips against his and murmured, “This time I want to see all those colors with you deep inside me, Alex,” smiling when his erection pulsed against her palm. Above her, Alex reached for the drawer of his night table, opened it, and withdrew a foil packet. Levering himself up, he sat back on his heels, looking pagan and absolutely magnificent. Gen sat up, too, smiled, and held out her palm. He looked at her and hesitated.
“Uh, Gen, maybe I should do this . . .”
Her smile widened. “Please, Alex?” she asked. “I’m very good with my hands.”
With a hoarse groan he shut his eyes. “I don’t doubt it,” he whispered.
“Please? If I promise I’ll be very gentle with you?”
“Minx,” he growled softly, handing her the condom.
At the feel of Gen’s fingers smoothing the latex skin over him, Alex sucked in a ragged breath. God, she was right, she was good with her hands. Her touch was pure magic. Spellbound, Alex could barely breathe as her hands moved down, reaching the base of his cock. She was still holding him when she raised her eyes to his.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he asked.
“You make me feel beautiful,” she told him softly. “You make me feel beautiful things. Make it happen again for me, Alex.”
More than happy to oblige, he clasped her hips, tumbling Gen backward, his body following hers. “Lift your legs and wrap them around my waist,” he instructed. “Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart,” he breathed, a rampant urgency seizing him as the blunt tip of his penis pressed against her slick heat. “Now hold on to me,” he whispered, his own fingers tightening reflexively around her hips. With a single thrust, Alex bore down and entered her, sheathing himself.
She flinched at the flash of pain and for a second instinctively struggled against the invasion. Above her, Alex stiffened and said, his voice tight with fierce tenderness, “Oh, God, sweetheart, you didn’t say . . .” Then he was kissing her, stroking her, and she felt herself relax against him. “That’s it,” he whispered as she began to move against him tentatively. “I’m sorry it hurt. Let me make it better.”
Alex was a man who kept his promises. The pain that flashed when he entered her soon disappeared, to be replaced by a dazzling array of colors and hues. He showered her with kisses that were lush and warm, like crimson velvet. She gazed into the saturated cobalt blue of Alex’s eyes, while his hips rocked and danced with hers. His flat, pebbly nipples were dark, a rich, burnt sienna, and salty beneath her tongue. The feel of Alex moving rhythmically, deliciously inside her, over and over again, filled her with a sweet, liquid gold. The colors he gave Gen multiplied, grew more and more brilliant, as glorious and magical as a rainbow.
A piercing happiness filled her. Overcome, she climaxed, her body arching like a bow, crying Alex’s name. With one final thrust, he joined her. Holding Alex’s lean body close to her, feeling him shudder his release, Gen’s eyes brimmed with tears. He’d touched something in her, she thought, a secret part of her. She was forever changed. Her lips curved in a smile that was bittersweet.
His eyes closed, Alex dragged air into his lungs, needing all his concentration to perform this simple act. The intensity of his orgasm left him dazed, shaken, perhaps a little afraid. He’d come with a force so strong, it had felt as if he were pouring his very soul into Gen’s welcoming body.
Alex didn’t bother kidding himself that he felt like this because he hadn’t had sex in weeks. What he’d felt when he was inside Gen wasn’t merely physical, the rush of getting his rocks off. No, it had to do with the profound awe and tenderness that filled him when he’d broken through her virginity, the fierce gladness that spread through him as he watched Gen’s eyes grow enormous with discovery and her smile shine as her lithe body began moving in concert with his. It had to do with the soul-stirring pleasure he felt when she’d come, tightening around him and calling his name with such sweet desperation—as if he were the center of her world. It had to do with wanting to give Gen everything he had. . . . It had to do with never wanting to let her go.
It frightened Alex how important Gen had become to him—all the more so now that he’d touched her. And as his first instinct was to stay sheathed inside her, he forced himself to roll gently off her, despite her whimper of protest as he left her—despite his own aching sense of loss.
He couldn’t, however, resist the urge to gather Gen close, settle her so that she lay with her head over his heart, her silky hair teasing his overheated skin. He couldn’t prevent his fingers from skimming over her satin-smooth skin and gentle curves, couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face when he felt her breath fan his skin. His arms tightened their hold and he closed his eyes so he could feel her heart beating next to him.
Adrift in a sated semidoze, Alex came to consciousness by slow yet infinitely pleasurable degrees. Opening his eyes, he found Gen poised above him, her legs straddling his thighs. Hands as delicate as angel wings lightly traced his features. Doubtless feeling the shift of his muscles as he smiled, Gen opened her own eyes to gaze into his. “I’ve wanted to touch you so much, for so long. Do you mind?” she asked in a hushed voice.
The idea of him ever objecting to Gen’s touch had his smile widening. Shifting his head he pressed a kiss into her palm. “Do with me what you will, Gen,” he invited. “I’m putty in your hands.”
He watched her expression become eager, excited, and delightfully naughty. “Putty, huh?” she said and cast an arch glance at
his erection, which had sprung to life the second he looked into her face. She shook her head. “No, I’d say we’re looking at a different material altogether. One that’s far more responsive. One I think I’d like to experiment with.”
“Feel free to experiment to your heart’s content,” Alex offered huskily. Tracing the pale flesh of her inner thighs, his need soared as they clamped reflexively about him and he saw her nipples grow taut with arousal. Where he and Gen touched, he could feel her body warming, stoked by the same fire that consumed him. His hands moved closer to where he wanted to be the most. But before he could explore her nest of silky curls, Gen manacled his wrists, holding him at bay. With a smile she said, “I’m sorry, but I need you to lie back and stay very, very still.” Dragging his hands back down to his sides, she added, “And no distractions, please. I need to concentrate here while I learn more about this material.” Gazing down at his pulsing erection, she bit her lower lip, the artless provocation fanning the fire in him to flare wildly.
He wondered whether he might incinerate from lust.
Then even that thought was too much as Gen’s gifted and stunningly talented hands closed around his straining cock, and he gave himself over to Gen’s artistry.
Hunger and Murphy finally drove Gen and Alex from his bed a few hours later. The causes occurred simultaneously while Alex was pleasantly engaged in one of his own studies. He was scattering kisses across Gen’s quivering stomach. One for every freckle he counted. By the time he reached the shallow dip on the inside of her hipbone, he was at 212. An impressive feat of mathematics, considering that Gen was being very, very distracting—moaning as her body undulated beneath his mouth and hands. But at 216, a foreign sound intruded, one that had Alex pausing and cocking his head. From the other side of the door came a single bark followed by a piteous whine.
“Murphy!” Gen exclaimed with the guilty horror of a mother who was late picking up her child at school. “He must be desperate to go out—and he’s probably starving!” At which point her stomach chimed in with a rumble that put Murphy’s bark to shame, and had Alex rocking with laughter.
Gen gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Okay, yes, I admit it, I’m starving too,” trying in vain to suppress her own laughter. “But I have definitely worked up an appetite.”
“Well, then, let’s feed you both—you realize, though, that this means I get to have a recount. Starting from the top,” he said, grinning as he dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.
Gen looped her hands around his neck and angled her face so that his lips landed on hers. Loving the taste and texture of him, she kissed him eagerly, unconcerned that she was perhaps being too obvious, lacking the sophisticated wiles to which he was no doubt accustomed. Yet even if she’d possessed those useful tricks and ploys, she wouldn’t have bothered using them. Honesty was too important to her; the feelings Alex aroused in her were too precious. She wasn’t going to sully them with pretense and silly games.
It was only after they’d rolled off the bed and were helping each other dress, a laughing, oft-interrupted process, that Gen noticed the painting hanging over the headboard. “My God, that’s lovely,” she said, gazing at the large oil landscape of marsh grasses bordering a dawn-lit pond.
“My uncle Alexander painted it. You recognize the view, of course.”
“That’s Georgica pond, isn’t it? Your uncle captured the light perfectly. That filmy, golden glow as it hits the water is wonderful.”
Slipping his hand around the back of Gen’s neck, Alex stroked her sensitive skin. “Yeah, I love it. I’ve been out mornings when the pond looks exactly the way it does in this painting. You know, I’ve been thinking that I’d really like to have a kind of companion piece to this painting that I could hang here, over the fireplace,” he said, pointing to the opposite wall.
Intrigued, she glanced at the fireplace, encased by a white marble mantel. Placed on the center of the mantel was a black lacquer vase filled with a tangled spray of branches. Though dramatic and calligraphic, the visual effect was also somewhat austere, at odds with the wealth of emotion, the love evident in each stroke of Alexander Miller’s brush. Gen’s brain whirred with possibilities, already taking in the dimensions of the wall and its high ceiling. “Would you want a landscape?” she asked, curious to know what Alex envisioned.
He glanced at her in surprise. “The subject matter is irrelevant. I’ve always thought what makes truly great art is what the artist brings to the work. . . . That was what drew me to your paintings, Gen. They come alive because there’s so much of yourself in them—your spirit, your insight, your humor. That’s what makes us want to look at the subject you’ve chosen as deeply and as generously as you have. That’s what makes you such a powerful artist.”
Gen swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in her throat. “Thank you. I think that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said. It was true. And she knew she would treasure Alex’s words forever. She smiled mistily. “I’ll see what I can come up with,” she whispered, sealing her promise with a kiss.
SEVENTEEN
As Alex’s housekeeper had emptied his refrigerator of everything except a lone stick of butter, a jar of mustard, and a bottle of Sancerre, they opted to go to the park, where they bought six hot dogs, two for each of them, a bottle of water for Murphy, and iced tea for Gen and Alex.
Murphy was a forgiving soul. His tail wagged double time as he scarfed down his share of the hot dogs in two noisy chomps and then busied himself sniffing out the rich scents of Central Park and marking his presence for New York’s canine world.
Content to follow in the dog’s wake, they let Murphy’s nose lead them where it willed. Their only desire was for each other. Alex and Gen walked hand in hand, shoulders brushing, heads inclined as they spoke in soft undertones or exchanged whispers with lips a feather brush to the ear.
At the boat pond, they bought a warm pretzel from a vendor then sat on a bench and tore the pretzel into thirds, Gen feeding Murphy tiny morsels at a time to distract him from chasing the pigeons and squirrels. Alex’s arm was extended along the back of the bench, his fingers idly stroking her shoulder.
“Is there any place you want to go?” he asked.
“Before we go back, you mean?”
Alex nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hmm,” Gen thought for a moment. “Well, there’s the Met—I’d love to show you my favorite paintings— but I don’t want to be away from your aunt Grace too long.”
“Ahh, I see I’m not the only one who has a protective streak,” he teased, squeezing her shoulder to draw her close and press his smiling mouth to her temple.
“Guilty as charged,” she admitted, turning on the bench to face him. Her fingers sought his. “I can’t help it. Mrs. Miller’s wonderful. I’m so glad I’ve had the chance to know her. And if your aunt could see the two of us now, sitting on a park bench worrying about her, she’d throw her hands up in disgust.”
Alex laughed. “You have gotten to know her.”
Gen nodded, smiling widely. “Alex,” she began shyly.
“Yeah?”
“There is one place I’d like to go—but only if we have enough time.”
“We’ll make the time. Where do you want to go?”
“Pearl Paint,” she answered, naming one of the city’s premier art supply stores. Leaning close she whispered, “I find myself greatly inspired . . . I need more colors.”
His eyes twinkled. “Inspired, huh?”
She nodded. “Greatly.” Leaning forward just a little more, she saw his blue gaze darken with desire. Her lips parted in invitation.
“Next stop Canal Street,” he murmured then claimed her in a kiss that inspired them both.
Alex parked the Aston in a garage not far from Pearl Paint. Trying to park in that neighborhood would have been an exercise in futility. Furthermore, there was a high probability that the sports car wouldn’t be waiting for them when they returned from Gen’s shopping
excursion. Canal Street was jammed solid with pedestrians and street vendors hawking their wares, yet seeing Murphy amble down the sidewalk had the most amazing effect on the people hurrying toward them: they parted like the Red Sea. “I’ve got to walk with Murphy more often,” he said to Gen as they paused in front of the art store’s double doors.
“Yes, he’s like an ambulance without the sirens and lights,” she said, patting the dog’s shaggy head. “Hey, Murph, we’re gonna see Bruno, so behave.”
“Gen! Long time no shop! It’s good to see you, kid. And Murphy, too, what a treat! So what are you in for today, beautiful?”
Gen grinned at Bruno. Bruno, Pearl Paint’s manager, looked like a cross between Danny DeVito and Billy Crystal—short and wiry, with an irrepressible, near-manic energy. He’d been kind enough to take Gen under his wing the very first day she walked into the immense store, which for artists was more like Aladdin’s cave. Bruno, an artist’s encyclopedia with a Brooklyn accent, had become Gen’s guide, pointing out specials and sales, offering advice on papers and canvases, brushes and glazes. She’d learned more wandering the aisles with him than she had from some of her teachers at college.
“Hi, Bruno. I love the shirt,” she said, nodding at the puce Hawaiian print.
“Thanks. Check out the pants, too,” he said, and came around the counter from behind the register to show off shiny, orange bell-bottoms. “Something told me this morning that I should go all out. I’m glad I did. You are looking more beautiful than ever. How about you and I go out—” Then, as if he’d suddenly realized that Alex was with Gen, and not just another customer who’d trailed in on her heels, he shook his head dolefully. “Damn! Missed again.”
