by Mari Carr
“It’s not really safe for me to answer that question.”
Heat flooded Dylan’s groin. “I didn’t…ah fuck, that’s not what I meant.”
Monet’s head popped around the side of the easel and she smiled. “I know. Now just relax. Be natural.”
Dylan grinned, wishing like hell the urge to stride over to Monet and kiss her senseless would just bugger off. “Natural? Like this?” He assumed the position of Michelangelo’s David. “Or this?” He changed to that of Rodin’s The Thinker. “How bout this?” he asked, moving into the famous Ancient Greek discus-throwing pose he remembered from his mum’s art books.
“How about you just sit on the stool?”
He laughed. “I can do that.”
He perched his butt on the edge of the high stool in the middle of the light, resting one heel on the lower footrest and folding his arms across his chest. “Better?”
“Mmmm. Where’s your hat?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “My hat? Don’t life-drawing models normally strip off their clothes, not put more on?”
It was a stupid thing to say. He was trying to be funny, to forget how much he wanted to bury himself in her wet heat and instead, he sounded like a desperate wanker.
For a long moment, Monet didn’t answer. Silence filled the apartment, the only sound the soft noise of New York on the other side of the window. And then he heard her let out a ragged breath and she was looking at him from beside the easel again. “Take off your shirt, cowboy.” She paused. “Please?”
Dylan’s pulse turned to a rapid hammer in his throat. He studied her, knowing what he was about to do was dangerous. Dangerous and dumb and wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong.
And he did it anyway.
Without bothering to unbutton his shirt, he hooked his fingers under the hemline and pulled it over his head.
The apartment’s cool air licked over his exposed flesh, pebbling his nipples to tight points.
He heard Monet suck in a swift breath.
He met her stare, the pit of his stomach clenching. “Okay?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, her lips parted, her gaze roaming his chest, his torso.
And then she dipped her head in a single nod and stepped back behind the easel. “Tell me about Farpoint.”
The command was uttered on a husky breath. Dylan looked at the space she’d just occupied, wishing he could see her. “It’s been in our family forever. My great-great-great grandfather established it when the new Governor of New South Wales granted him the land back in 1815. Australia was still a convict colony back then and the British rulers were running out of food for the prisoners and settlers. Apparently he became one of the most successful station owners in the country within a year.”
“Only cattle? Don’t you Australians grow sheep as well?”
He shook his head. “Only cattle at Farpoint. Well, if you don’t count the ’roos we get all over the place. And the dingoes, snakes, wombats—”
“Okay okay.” Monet’s snicker came from behind the board. “I get the point.” She was quiet for another stretch, poking her head around the side of the easel occasionally only to duck back behind it immediately. “Have you lived there forever?”
“Yep. Born and bred, I’m afraid. Every time I go to Sydney, Hunter reckons the gum leaves fall off me like a trail of breadcrumbs.”
“And what do you do on the ranch?”
“Station. Cattle station, remember?”
“Sorry, station.” He could hear her gentle sarcasm in her voice. “What do you do on the station?”
He shrugged. “Everything. Round up the cattle, muster them. Feed them in drought, sell and breed them. Build fences, fix fences. Go out shooting wild pigs when they threaten our stock. It’s not boring, I can tell you that. We grow our own feed for when the rains don’t come, so I even spend quite a bit of time in the combine harvester. Gotta say, those days are pretty sweet, sitting in a cushy air-conditioned space on a comfortable seat.”
“Do you ride a horse?”
“Bloody oath. I think I was on a horse before I could walk. Had my first saddle sore on my arse at five, I reckon.”
She peeked at him from beside the easel, her lips twitching. “What about kangaroos? Do you ride those as well?”
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing around the quiet apartment. “Absolutely. Hunter and I used to race ’em on the weekend.”
When Monet didn’t snigger at his woeful joke, he looked back at the easel, only to find her standing beside it. Staring at him.
Or rather, staring at his bare chest and stomach.
He drew in a slow breath, the undeniable desire in her eyes making him straighten on the stool.
“Oh, don’t do that.” Monet’s low murmur met his ears across the small space. “When you move, it just… You have an amazing body, Dylan. I don’t think I’ve seen one like it, and I spent a lifetime at art school looking at naked men.” Her gaze rose to his face, their stares melding. “The definition of your muscles…the perfection of their shape…it’s like you’re sculpted from marble.” She stopped. Caught her bottom lip with her teeth and took a step back, looking everywhere but at him. “You’d make a fortune in New York as a life-drawing model at all the art schools.”
Dylan studied her. His groin grew tight. “I’m very particular about who I strip in front of.”
Monet’s stare jerked back to his face and he couldn’t miss the way her breasts heaved as she hitched in a quick breath. “Really?”
Holding her gaze, he rose slowly to his feet, released his buckle, unzipped his fly, pushed his jeans down and kicked them aside.
“Oh god, Dylan.” An expression flickered across her face, like pained torment. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”
He swallowed, unable to look away. “No contact. No touching. Just drawing…or whatever you’re doing behind the easel. We’re adults, Monet. We can control ourselves.”
A short, sharp snort came from her. “Speak for yourself, buster. Looking at you naked…I don’t think it’s drawing I’ll be doing behind this easel.”
“Do you want me to put my jeans back on?”
His question seemed to scratch at his throat like sandpaper.
She shook her head, lifted her chin and then stepped back behind the easel again.
Fifteen minutes later, Dylan swore he’d never boast of being able to control himself again. Every time Monet looked at him, her inspection moving over his naked form, he had to grit his teeth. His cock was already semi-hard. It was all he could do to keep it in that state. Conversation became stilted. He knew why. They were both fighting it, the attraction they felt for each other. They may be talking about Farpoint and Australia, but they were thinking about sex. With each other. Taking off his jeans had been—
“Finished.”
He started at Monet’s soft proclamation.
She was standing beside the easel again, one hand resting on the edge of the board, the fingers of the other gripping a stub of charcoal. A black smudge streaked across her right cheek and above her left eye. Her hair tumbled about her face in a cascade of waves. Her color was high, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He’d never seen her look so sexy.
He straightened from the stool. “May I look?”
She took a step backward and nodded.
His heart thumped fast. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Snatching up his jeans, he shoved in one leg and then the other. Being beside her naked would only be asking for more trouble than he was already in. Jesus, he couldn’t even tuck his dick into his jeans without ropes of pleasure unfurling through his body.
It took him forever to zip up his fly. His hands shook, for fuck’s sake.
Jesus bloody Christ, Sullivan. Get a grip.
Monet waited. Silent.
Six steps later—she counted them in an attempt to calm his charged state—he stood at the easel and let out a long, ragged breath.
“D
amn, Monet.” He stared at the drawing before him, his image captured with such powerful, confident strokes he was at a loss for what to say. “That’s incredible.”
“Thank you.”
Heart wild in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, he turned to her.
She was studying her work, an expression of revelation lighting up her face. “I was wrong,” she said suddenly, her voice hushed. “It’s not your accent, it’s your grin.”
“What’s my grin?”
“What gets me so much about you. I thought it was your accent but it’s your grin. It’s the sexiest, most infectious, most honest smile I’ve ever—”
He kissed her before she could finish. He simply had no hope of stopping himself.
No fucking hope at all.
His mouth laid claim to her lips with savage greed. He buried his hands in her hair, held her head still and plundered her mouth with his tongue. He nipped at her bottom lip, flicked at her teeth. When she whimpered, unable to keep the wanton sound silent, he kissed her with greater ferocity.
It was as if he was branding her with his kiss. Staking claim.
She melted against his body and surrendered to his possession.
His kiss.
When he pulled away from her, she let out a cry, dismay tearing through her pleasure.
“Shh, love,” he murmured, a second before he hooked his fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up over her head.
“Oh god. Is this…should we…”
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He cupped her breasts with his hands, his stare devouring her exposed flesh as he drew the pads of his thumbs over her taut nipples. “So gorgeous.”
“Dylan!” She reached for his fly, needing to feel the pleasure in his body that she saw in his eyes. “I want—”
He shook his head. “Not yet, love. In a moment.” Without warning, he scooped her off her feet, carried her to the sofa and lowered her to its cushioned seat. “I want to worship your body with my mouth and tongue first.”
And with that, he kneeled over Monet and captured her right nipple with his mouth. One hand cupped and squeezed the pleasure-heavy swell of her breast, the other smoothed down her rib cage, over her hip to her thigh. He tugged her leg upward, off the sofa, wrapping it around his hip as he settled between her spread thighs. Something long and thick and hard nudged at her folds and Monet gasped, knowing it was his erection, still contained by his jeans.
Oh God, I should…Dylan…stop…Annie…
The unhinged thought had barely finished whispering through her mind when Dylan’s mouth left her breast, scoring across the skin of her chest to lay claim to her other breast. He suckled hard on her nipple, his hand finding her abandoned breast and kneading with increasing pace. His cock jerked in his jeans and he pressed it against her sodden sex. She didn’t need to swipe her fingers over her pussy to know her juices slicked her folds. She’d never been so aroused. So ready to be fucked.
“Want…” The word tore from her throat in a choked cry. “Want you inside me.”
Dylan hummed against her flesh. “Not yet, love.” He sucked on her nipple again, mimicking his mouth’s rhythm on her other breast with pinching fingers. She moaned, pulling him closer to her heat with her leg.
Or trying to. He wouldn’t let her. Instead, he slid down her body, his mouth charting a path down the center of her belly to her navel. He lingered there, his tongue dipping into the shallow well, sending tickling waves of pleasure radiating out from the point of contact.
She closed her eyes, trying not to giggle. Giggling simply wasn’t done in such heightened moments of forbidden pleasure, and that’s what this was—forbidden. Dylan wasn’t hers and what they were doing shouldn’t be happening. But the way his tongue explored her bellybutton, the teasing flick it delivered to her sensitive flesh…it was deliciously wonderful. It tickled and there was nothing she could do but laugh.
Dylan hummed his appreciation. “I love the way you laugh,” he said, his voice deep and husky. As if to show her how much, he dipped his tongue into her navel again, holding her firm as she squirmed beneath him. She didn’t just giggle this time, she laughed outright, arching her back as the most surreal waves of bliss rolled through her. Bliss forged not just by Dylan’s hands and mouth on her body, but by his humor and personality. She’d never had a lover want to make her laugh during sex before and she reveled in the uninhibited, unabashed joy of it, even as her clit throbbed for attention and her stomach knotted in anticipation.
“I love the way you make me laugh,” she panted back, fisting her hands in his hair. She thrust her hips upward, wanting his lips on her flesh.
“What if I do this?” he asked, a second before he tugged her track pants over her hips and off her legs—and lapped at her pussy with his tongue. From her perineum to her clit. “Do you love that?”
She wanted to answer him. She really did. She wanted to say, Oh yes, I definitely love that. But she couldn’t. All she seemed capable of was making some sort of whimpering, hiccupping moan of acquiescence. Especially when, without waiting for her answer, he did it again.
Monet rolled her head from side to side and held on tightly to the sofa. She needed an anchor, a fix point, something to keep her from washing away in the pleasure rolling through her.
He circled her clit, flicked it with the tip of his tongue and then circled it again. All the while, his hands pressed with gentle force on her inner thighs, spreading her wider. She lay naked before him, a man she’d known less than twenty-four hours, and couldn’t stop her smile of rapture. Couldn’t stop her hips rising up to his masterful mouth. Offering herself to him completely.
“Don’t stop.” She heard the rising urgency in her voice. “Please, don’t stop.”
His tongue swiped over her clit again before dipping into her sex. She whimpered, the invasion too sweet for words.
“Fuck, you taste good, Monet.” His groan vibrated against her pussy. “I could stay here forever and just eat you out. Fuck you with my tongue,” he murmured, said tongue delving in and out of her sex with wriggling, stroking thrusts. “Paint my lips and chin with your come.”
His words caressed her senses, building the squirming tension deep in the pit of her belly.
“Make you come over and over again on my face,” he continued on a hot breath before nipping her clit then sucking it. “Make you scream my name.”
He thrust his tongue back inside her, his hunger evident in the fierce groan she felt rumbling in his throat. In the way his fingers gripped her inner thighs.
“Dylan! Oh Dylan, I’m going to…” She pushed her hips higher, pushing her pussy closer to his mouth. Her head swam, the soles of her feet tingled. “To…come! I’m going to…”
He laved his tongue over her clit again and again and then, just as she couldn’t hold on to her orgasm any longer, as the words “going to oh god going to oh oh oh” tumbled out of her mouth in gasping pants, as the pleasure swelling through her turned to a tsunami, he thrust his tongue back into her sex.
She came. Her release gushed from her. She bucked her hips upward, her nails scraping at the sofa, her toes curling.
She came and Dylan continued to fuck her with his tongue.
Until she came again.
And again.
Chapter Six
His luggage was still AWOL. That, of course, made flying back to Australia a bit tricky. Add to that fact Thanksgiving was in two days and Hunter hadn’t bothered to call him back, and Dylan was a tiny bit frustrated. If nothing else, he would have expected Annie to call.
Dylan pulled at the collar of the shirt he was wearing, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror before him. He should be angry. The troubling thing was, he wasn’t.
Not at all.
After their night of…discovery, they’d curled on the sofa together and watched the sun rise over the New York skyline.
The silence had drawn out between them, each lost to their thoughts. Dylan could tell Monet
wanted him to make love to her. She didn’t have to ask; he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body, in the way she touched him, moved beneath him. He wanted that too, so bloody much, but both held back, an unspoken name between them.
Annie.
Until he spoke to Annie, he couldn’t make love to Monet. Not the way he wanted to. Couldn’t completely take possession of her body. When the sun finally flooded Monet’s apartment, he’d known they had to leave, get out in public. If they hadn’t, whether he’d spoken to Annie or not, he wouldn’t have been able to maintain control any longer.
He wasn’t a man used to denying himself what he wanted, and he wanted Monet. But nor was he a cheating wanker. He and Annie had never told each other they were committed, they weren’t a couple, but he still couldn’t shake the fact he was being a bastard.
The second Monet had emerged from her morning shower, he’d told her he needed to buy some clothes. She’d cocked an eyebrow and said, “I was thinking the same thing. Otherwise you’ll have to wear my robe while we wash your jeans, and as appealing as that is, I don’t think red silk is your thing.”
Eight hours later, they’d explored the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim, eaten street vendor hotdogs and laughed so much their faces ached. Now, however, Dylan wondered how a bloke from the Outback could end up where he currently stood—a changing room inside a Hugo Boss store being fitted for a dinner suit.
He bit back a sigh, shaking his head at his reflection in the mirror.
The last time he’d worn a suit was at his father’s funeral. He and Hunter had been fourteen. That suit had been bought at the local Target store, nine hundred kilometers from Farpoint Creek. It had looked nothing like the designer get-up he wore now.
He looked…different.
“Dylan?” Monet’s voice floated to him through the door. “Is everything okay?”
He plucked his hat from the changing room chair, started to put it on his head, stopped and looked at his reflection again.
He was wearing a suit that cost more than his work truck. Did his hat really go with it?
