Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena)

by Marina Adair

  “We’re just having fun while it lasts,” Harper said, closing up the lids on the paint jars.

  “And what if it lasts longer?” Shay asked.

  A scenario Harper was too scared to even hope for. Outside of her friends, no one in her life had ever lasted. Not her dad or her mom or her family on the sets. Clovis was the only real family member who had stood the test of time.

  Then there were her friends. Always there, always loyal, always happy to fill up that place in her heart when she became lonely. Oh, Harper knew the secret to making friendships that lasted forever.

  This thing with Adam, she feared, had already gone past friendship. Past being charmed, past a simple crush, and into something much deeper. She’d seen it happen to her friends, more times than she could count, seen the moment when they fell in love, and, even better, had that love reciprocated. But it had never happened to her.

  She knew she was capable of great love, she just wasn’t sure the reciprocated part would ever happen.

  “I don’t think he’s looking past next week.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Harper plastered a smile on her face. “Mark Antony’s here to get his queen.”

  “I can tell him to come back,” Shay said. “Emerson’s right—this is girls’ night.”

  “And this is romantic.” Harper pointed to the door. “He rushed to come and get his woman, and you want to let him doubt that your urgency equals his?” Harper shook her head, then stood to walk to the door. The spring in her step was much lighter than her heart.

  Harper looked through the peephole and—sweet holy mother—her entire body sprang to life at the sight of the best backside in wine country.

  “Is it Mark Antony?”

  “Right gladiator body,” Harper said. “Wrong hero.”

  Because facing her apartment door, leaning a shoulder against the wall, was everyone’s favorite firefighter—who was supposed to be on duty. But he wasn’t wearing the standard-issue SHFD uniform. Nope, he wore a fitted gray T-shirt that clung to his body, proving that the back would be as impressive as his front, and a pair of battered jeans that hung way too low on his hips to be decent. But it was what he held in his hand that had her heart pounding.

  She looked over her shoulder at Shay and whispered, “What’s the other thing about Baudouin men? That says they want to be caught?”

  Shay smiled, big and knowing. “That when there’s dessert involved, they’ve started casting their bait.”

  Harper swallowed at the implications, her heart picking up at the possibility.

  “And this here is double-chocolate-chunk bait.”

  Harper jumped at the sound of Adam’s voice. It came through the wood door, but sounded as if he were right there—on her side.

  She peeked through the hole.

  “Crap.” He was facing Emerson’s door now with a big, badass smile on his face, waving the proverbial carrot—a double-chocolate-chunk proverbial carrot, which now that she put it like that almost seemed healthy.

  “They’re homemade,” he said. And when she didn’t open the door he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite. A big bite. “My stepmom’s recipe. A real keeper.”

  Harper reached for the doorknob, but Emerson beat her to it and yanked open the door.

  “Wait, you bake?” Emerson asked, face wide with shock.

  He smiled. At Harper. “I can cook too.”

  “How is that possible? If it isn’t on a grill, Dax burns it.”

  Adam shrugged, then took another bite of the cookie. The big jerk. “You picked a cop. They think it’s all about the size of the gun. Real men, like firefighters, don’t have props to rely on, so we have to be the real deal.”

  “Real men fight fires?” Emerson asked.

  He winked at her and she rolled her eyes and went back to the couch, but not before snagging a cookie from the bag, which she sniffed and licked before tasting. And if her dreamy eyes meant anything, then those cookies were the real deal.

  And Harper was beginning to think Adam was too.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” she asked.

  “One of the guys needed some overtime, so I gave him my hours,” Adam said. “I told Roman I wanted to help you get ready for tomorrow. You know, loading up the cars, lifting heavy objects, lending a hand with the face painting.” He looked down at Harper and grinned. “Anything you need.”

  Her friends’ brows perked up in question at Adam’s offer, and Harper’s nipples did some perking of their own.

  Adam looked at Shay’s face mask. “I see you already got started.”

  “I’m Cleopatra,” Shay said, turning her face side to side, modeling it.

  “I know. Mark Antony was at the station helping me organize the tents for tomorrow when you drunk-texted him.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Shay slurred.

  Adam looked at the three empty bottles and lifted a brow.

  “Okay, maybe I’m a little tipsy.”

  “Which is why Jonah is on his way.” He shifted those blue pools to Harper. “And I came here to make sure you got home safely.”

  “I’m still on my first glass and I live across the hall.” She pointed at the door two feet behind him to prove it.

  “Then I guess the cookies will still be warm when we get there.” He picked up her backpack from the entry table and flung it over his back. “Oh, and sunshine, don’t forget your paints.”

  “Take your shirt off.”

  “That’s not how this works, sunshine. Fair is fair, so if I lose mine, you lose yours.” Adam sat back on her couch, making himself comfortable. Arms behind his head, legs stretched out so that they were brushing hers, he said, “Ladies first.”

  “That’s the problem,” Harper said, picking up her paintbrush. “If I take my top off then you take off yours, it will be ladies first and I will never finish your face mask.”

  “Ladies first is never, ever a problem.”

  To prove it, he sat forward and rested his hands on her knees, slowly sliding them up her thighs—and higher until Harper’s body wept to give in. And what was wrong with giving in? She’d had a particularly long day, he looked like a tall drink of exactly what she needed, and the bulge in his pants said he felt the same kind of need.

  Her eyes wandered down his body and he flashed her a knowing grin, pure badass and challenge. It matched the positively naughty look in his eyes. His lips twitched higher and his hands were back on the move. She allowed this for a moment, long enough to feel her body tingle, her eyes slide closed, and—

  “Stop.” She gently snapped the back of his hand with the brush. “Unless you want me to get paint all over your shirt, lose it.”

  “I like it when you’re bossy.” Reaching back with a single hand, Adam lost the shirt in an innately male, testosterone-fueled move that had her imagination spiking—along with her pulse.

  Sinking her teeth into the wooden tip of her paintbrush, Harper focused on his masculine jawline, shadowed stubble, and strong, full lips. The lips of a man who knew how to kiss a woman. She allowed her eyes to follow the lines of his body, across his broad shoulders, over his perfectly sculpted pecs, and down every succulent ridge of his stomach, to the happy trail leading into the promised land.

  He was impressive.

  The body of a fighter, the air of a leader, and the mouth of a lover. A powerful combination that was impossible to resist. And exciting to paint.

  Dipping her brush into the metallic gray paint, she placed the bristles on the curve of his neck and followed the ridge of his collarbone.

  “I thought you were making me into some kind of firefighting superhero,” he said, and she noticed that he flexed his muscles.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Is this where you tell me you’re making me a bunny?” His pecs bobbed up and down every time she tried to paint over them. Her body tingled.

  “Stop doing that.” She laughed. “And no, I’m making you m
ore you.”

  He looked down as she worked. “Well, I can promise you that the real me doesn’t wear glittery gray.”

  “It’s chainmail. Is that manly enough for you?” She didn’t stop to hear his response. She just let her instincts take over. “Body painting is an artistic representation of the real person inside. It’s supposed to enhance all of the hidden qualities, as well as the obvious ones, to give a visual voice to the subject.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Harper looked up at Adam, and given the vulnerability in his eyes, he wanted her to believe, because he wanted to believe. She hesitated, because when she finally put the brush down, and he realized how she saw him, there was going to be no more hiding. Art was about expression and truth, and maybe Shay was right. Maybe it was time for Harper to put herself out there.

  Allow the hope of extraordinary to outweigh the fear of rejection.

  Eyes locked on his, holding his gaze for what seemed like an eternity, she whispered, “I do.”

  He thought about that for a long moment, watched her silently as she worked to cover his entire arm, before moving on to the rest of his body. She was lost in the work, highlighting every hard-won muscle he had and smoothing out a few to show the softness beneath the strength.

  She tugged his pants lower on his hips, worked her brush in soft, sure strokes across every inch of his exposed skin. It was intimate and erotic, and she could feel his desire wrap around her and take hold.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, her putting out all of the respect, reverence, and sheer adoration she’d come to feel, and him silently watching. Giving in to the moment made her exposed and vulnerable, and yet she’d never felt so much power flow through her body.

  Hands tired, body sweating, muse satisfied, Harper dusted him with a light powder to set the paint, then stepped back to admire her work. To admire the man she was pretty sure she was falling in love with.

  “Can I look?” he asked quietly.

  Heart in her throat, Harper nodded.

  She watched Adam turn to look in the mirror. Watched him inspect her work, taking his time to see the piece and all its parts. His silence grew, took on a shape, until finally his eyes met hers in the mirror—and held.

  “This is how you see me?” he asked, his voice husky, stripped down and raw. “As a gladiator?”

  “Not just a gladiator.” She stepped up behind him and smoothed her hands down his shoulders. “Spartacus.”

  His face went carefully blank. “As in one of the most badass rebels in history?”

  She would have laughed if he hadn’t sounded so offended. “Yes, Spartacus was a badass.” She reached around him from behind, sliding her hands over his armor of paint. “Strong, loyal, a great warrior. But he was first a leader, determined to lead his men to safety.” Her hand came to rest on his heart. “Contrary to popular belief, and Hollywood interpretations, Spartacus never attempted to overthrow Rome. He just understood the power that came with freedom.”

  Adam’s eyes never left hers, proving that rule number three, when combined with rule number one, equated an appeal powerful enough to win hearts and launch wars.

  Without moving he said, “It’s my turn, sunshine—lose the shirt.”

  You want to paint me?”

  “Not want to, going to.” Adam turned around and picked up the brush. He dipped it in daffodil yellow and walked back over. “So unless you want that top of yours to get dirty, I suggest you lose it.”

  Harper didn’t mind losing the top. After what they’d just shared, her body was already humming with anticipation. But painting her, seeing his true thoughts about how he saw her, that didn’t sound like something she was ready for yet. She was just coming to terms with her feelings for him, and if his didn’t match hers, she didn’t want to know just yet.

  Cold paint seeped through her top, instantly hardening her nipple. “Hey. This is my favorite dress.”

  “Mine too,” he said, then painted the other nipple. “And if you don’t move it fast, it’s going to be covered in paint, because I’m feeling a little impatient at the moment.”

  He dipped the brush in purple, mixing the colors and—

  “Okay.” Harper quickly removed her dress, and the second it hit the floor she heard Adam suck in a breath. Because she was in nothing but sandals and Honeysuckle.

  “That’s what you had on under there all day?”

  “It made me feel sexy,” she admitted, then realized it was another half truth. And they deserved better than half truths. “You make me feel sexy.” He looked down at her shoes and she kicked them off. “Better?”

  His smile went wicked. “Almost there.”

  Harper froze. She started to ask what that meant, but then he glanced at her Honeysuckle.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  “But I thought—”

  “Oh, you thought right.” Adam’s hand went to her waist, sliding down over her panties and up to cup her through her bra. “But tonight I want to paint my own lingerie on you, and I don’t want to ruin those.”

  Unwilling to ruin anything that this moment was offering, Harper unclasped her bra and let it fall, then slowly slid her undies to the floor. No bold clothes or lace left to hide behind, Harper straightened to face him, and the hungry way his gaze gobbled her up was heady.

  Erotic.

  Harper stood there, waiting for him to say more, make a move, anything to give a clue as to what he wanted her to do. For as many bodies as she’d painted and people she’d photographed, Harper had never been the subject of anyone’s work. And when Adam was in work mode, she was learning, he was focused, intense, and all in. Which made her heart feel as if it were going to explode right out of her chest.

  “Have you ever painted before?” she managed.

  “No. But I’m a fast learner.” He crooked his finger at her in that come-hither way that had her knees wobbling.

  She managed the final steps, and then she was in front of him, the anticipation so consuming she could feel the coolness of the paint on her skin. Gliding over her body—all of her body.

  “Do I have to paint a thing or a pattern, or can I just paint what I see?” he asked.

  “And what you feel. There is no right or wrong.” It wouldn’t matter anyway. In the end, she would be able to tell how he really felt. Was he reeling her in for more benefits, or was Shay right, and he was hoping for more?

  He dipped the brush back in the yellow and brought it up to her breast again. He did it slowly, giving himself time to think, and her time to move away if she chose. She chose to move closer instead, and lean into the brush.

  The rough bristles touched her sensitive peak, the chill of the paint oddly erotic on her heated skin. He dragged the brush around her breast, and she moaned at the sensation, prickly and smooth, thoughtful yet bold. He finished with one breast and moved on to the other, painting it the same bright yellow, then connecting it with a band of orange.

  The brush stopped and his forehead crinkled above his brows. “What I feel, right?”

  She nodded and he smiled and dropped the brush. He squeezed different shades of orange and pink and red into a paper plate, until it looked like a brilliant swirl of colors.

  “Good, because I like to feel my subject out.” Flattening his palms in the paint, Harper watched it push up through his fingers. One had orange the other pink. “And I feel I am much better with my hands than a brush.”

  A fact she knew well.

  Settling one hand low on her waist, he pulled her into him. “Do you know what I was going to paint you as?”

  “No.”

  He met her gaze. “A summer sunrise. Bright and warm and something people wake up to catch a glimpse of.”

  Her breath caught, and a warm glow started in her chest and radiated out at his words. “That’s how you see me?”

  “That’s how the world sees you, Harper. I’m just lucky enough to finally be in that world.”

  Without
another word, not that there were any that could follow that up, Adam brought his other hand up to cup her neck, then drew her in for a kiss. It was slow at first, gentle and coaxing as if he were reeling her in. Then she sank her fingers into his shoulders, letting him know that she was holding on for the ride, and things got real hot, real quick.

  Their mouths slid together. His fingers, slick with paint, traced down her spine and over her curves, leaving a trail of heat and colors as he went.

  Harper lost herself in the sensation of being seen, of being exposed for the art and cherished as a woman. She lost herself in Adam.

  When was the last time she’d allowed herself to get lost in a man? Fully and completely?

  Never.

  She’d never gotten so lost that she couldn’t find footing. But with Adam holding her as if he couldn’t get enough, her whole world shifted, and the last thing she was worried about losing was her footing. Her heart was right there, ready to find its home.

  “Sunshine,” he said against her lips. “You taste like sunshine.”

  She didn’t know what it was about that statement, but the way he said it, the things his tone implied, stirred something inside of her. Started a chain of reactions that she was helpless to stop. Emotions and realizations that she didn’t want to stop.

  Adam’s hands disappeared and she groaned at the lack of connection, but then they were back, with new paint and new direction. His hands came up to hold her breasts, weigh them, mixing the paint until it resembled the colors of a sunrise. She arched back, giving him all the room he needed to create—feel.

  He followed her ribs down to her stomach, then her hips, cupping her ass as if he owned it. A jolt of electricity raced down her spine when he scooped her up and turned her around, arranging her until she was facing away, he was standing behind her, and his big body was nudging her legs apart.

  His fingers danced down her arm, painting as they went, before lacing with hers. He drew her arm up and around his neck. He bit her shoulder, her neck, kissing his way to her ear. “Open your eyes, Harper.”