Taylor began to eat slowly, savoring both the food and the company. “That sounds incredible. And it seems like the work had a profound impact on you, just from the way you made it sound.” He smiled gratefully at her. “So why didn’t you stick with it?”
He shrugged, grappling within himself to come up with a valid answer. “Wanderlust? I received a grant to do some Wyoming-centered art. It only made sense to come back home at that point.” He shot her a wistful gaze. “I was searching. Even after I got back here, I kept looking for something to fill up the loneliness. Does that make any sense?”
She eyed him warily atop her wine glass. “That’s part of the reason I came home, too. To find some way to feel again.”
“Did it work?”
“To be determined.”
He nodded, pressed his lips into a flat line. “I was thinking about leaving again, before I bought this building.” He swallowed hard, but the lump didn’t leave his throat. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
Chapter 14
“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” she said as Chandler loaded the dishwasher. “But don’t tell my mom I said that.”
“Don’t tell Miss Alice that I’m a better cook than she is.” They shared a laugh. “Got it.” She followed him to the couch and they sat facing one another. The wine bottle, its contents quickly evaporating, was situated on the coffee table. Aside from a task light over the kitchen counter and a small lamp, they were seated in darkness. Even in the shadows, though, her green eyes haunted him. An unasked question lingered upon his lips, but he wasn’t sure if either of them were ready for that. This thing was still too new, unconstrained by commitment. Or maybe it only felt that way.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
He poured more wine into his glass and drank entirely too much in one gulp. “I basically gave you a rundown of the past ten years of my life, but I didn’t let you get a word in edgewise.”
Her eyes drifted away from him. “Yours sounded a lot more exciting than mine was.”
“Don’t be so sure. You’ve had a full life. I was just a swinging bachelor.” The way he drawled out those words, particularly the last two, caused a violent eruption of laughter between them. It felt great to laugh, especially with her. When the joyful sounds trailed away, she gave him an earnest smile.
“You were my first, you know.”
“Same here.”
“I know,” she replied, her words carrying unintended bluntness.
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
She waved her free hand dismissively at him. “There’s no need to feel embarrassed. You always were a tender lover.” In the dim light, she couldn’t see that he’d turned crimson from head to toe—only that his smile was uncomfortable. “If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn’t choose anyone else for my first.”
He stared at his knee for a silent minute, feeling unsteady on his feet even though he was sitting. “This is gonna sound technical, unromantic, even unfeeling, but I’d researched it beforehand. You can find out a lot from books.” His face remained sheepish.
She rested her hand atop his, the charge palpable, practically luminescent in this space between. “I would have expected nothing less. And there’s a comfort, an intimacy that safety brings with it. We could give all of ourselves, freely, because we had a soul-deep connection.”
“I loved you.”
“And I, you.” Her fingers clasped around his hand. “Which is why I had to let you go.”
“I think I hated you for it, sweetheart, for all of five minutes,” he said candidly. “But things were never the same with us after your father died.”
“It must have felt like a betrayal,” she countered repentantly. “You were there for me when I needed you most, and as those final months together passed, I pulled our relationship out of the sunlight and let it wither in the darkness. I shoved you away.” It was a mistake, she longed to say.
Chandler turned his gaze away from her as he sipped the wine. It clouded his mind, his judgment, his conscience. He wasn’t drunk—just stupid. But he had to know…
“Did you date much after you got to college?”
She waited for his eyes to come back to her, but they didn’t. “Yes. Barely. I found someone completely opposite of you. Far more urban but far less sophisticated, if that makes any sense. Rough around the edges, charming but not like you. He had to work at it.”
Chandler nodded slowly. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” She swallowed emotion along with the alcohol. “It was definitely a learning experience. The next man I became interested in was Liam. I stopped looking after I met him.”
“What was he like?”
“Quiet. Dignified. Handsome. He passed those good looks and sandy hair on to our son. Anyway, we married while still in college. I packaged us together, vowing to go wherever he did.”
“Riley came along.”
“He did.” She noted a touch of sorrow in his expression when their eyes met again. “I was so happy. We were so happy. Everything was perfect for a long time.” She cleared her throat. “You know what I mean. Perfect on the surface.”
“You loved him.”
Taylor knew he wasn’t talking about Riley; a mother’s love was absolute. “I did.” Her lips trembled. “If our son was still alive, we would be married. I never would have left him without extenuating circumstances.”
He nodded without comprehension. He didn’t understand a damned thing she was saying. Maybe that was the point—he wasn’t meant to understand what he’d never experienced.
“What about you?” she asked softly.
“Me?”
“There must have been other lovers. Countless women…broken hearts across two continents.”
He gave her a dispassionate glance. “Bottle’s almost empty.” She held her empty goblet to him, heard the clink of glass as he poured nervously. He set the empty bottle on the table and frowned. “There were a few women after you. That’s all.”
Her eyebrows rose skeptically. “A few? Come on. You were the most handsome boy in our entire high school. Women from 8 to 28 used to break their necks just to get an eyeful of you. You could’ve had your choice of women, any day of the week.”
She watched his chin shake now—whether in anger or humiliation, she couldn’t determine. “I always thought Mark was the more handsome one, between the two of us. I look enough like my brother that I could be his carbon copy.”
“Mark was dedicated to your sister,” she conjectured. “Unattainable. CJ looks a lot more rugged than you. You’ve got what I’d call sensitive beauty. You don’t hide your emotions well. You don’t play games.”
“Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out, Taylor.” His words carried a touch of reproach.
“No, Chandler.” Her hand gripped his forearm. “Don’t clam up on me.”
Shit, he thought. How did she know he was getting ready to clamp his jaws shut? “I dated two women in New York,” he revealed. “I thought I loved them. I know that might seem a little skewed but I could never share intimacy with someone I didn’t have a genuine depth of feeling for. Sex doesn’t make any sense for me without love, emotion, need…”
“College was a long time ago,” she argued, the lust evident in his eyes, swirling like the arms of a hurricane. “There’s been no one since then?”
“There was one in Kentucky,” he expounded, “another student of the equine program. I really thought I was in love with her, but we were headed in different directions. She wanted to work in animal rescue, travel the country, and I wanted to put down roots somewhere.” He laughed at himself. “Kind of ironic, huh?”
She drained her glass and set it atop the table. She was woozy as hell, drunk off her ass. What a lightweight. “It happens. Was that the end of your romantic history?”
He finished his wine and inched closer to her. “There was another woman I pursued for several months. It was a major error in judgment. She didn’t want me and I s
pent all that time beating my head against the wall.”
“Would you do it all over again?”
“Probably,” he said miserably. Before he knew what was happening, Taylor had slid into his arms, pushed him back onto the couch, and his hands were inching up and down her spine. The heels of his palms were dragging her to him, the intoxicating taste of wine unmistakable as their mouths met furiously. Every ounce of restraint left him, his tongue venturing past her lips and tracing the inside of her mouth. When he needed to come up for air he pushed her away from his chest, held her far enough aloft to keep from humiliating either of them.
“I had entirely too much wine, Chandler Adams.” She slurred her words and gaze him a glazed look. “And I ruined our date.”
He laughed nervously. Her hips were locked around him and it was hard, in that moment, to be chivalrous. “You ruined nothing. But there’s no way you can drive home, and I’ve had one too many myself.”
She nodded, shivering pleasantly when his hand pushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Why aren’t you drunk?” she quizzed him.
“I never get drunk,” he explicated. “On the rare occasion I imbibe, it runs straight though me. Must have something to do with my metabolism.”
She could feel the hardness of his body through their clothes—he was definitely in great shape. What she wouldn’t give to undo those buttons and see it for herself…
“There’s no furniture in the guest room, which is a huge gaffe on my part. But you can take my bed and sleep there tonight.”
“I don’t want to put you out,” she stammered.
“Believe me,” he promised with a warm smile, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fallen asleep on this couch.”
She rested her head against his shoulder, mortified but glad for his steady, reassuring presence. “Do you need to use the bathroom first?”
“There’s a guest bath. I’ll use that one. And if you need them there’s toothbrushes in the closet and plenty of clean towels.”
“Aren’t you prepared?” she teased.
He laughed at her; smashed as she was, she was still incredibly witty. “Blame my mother again. She makes us pile in enough supplies to survive the apocalypse.”
“What am I going to wear?”
He ran a hand skillfully along the curve of her shoulder and neck. “Pull whatever you’d like from my closet. Nothing is off-limits.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “I really need to head home.”
“No,” he stated firmly. “It’s my fault for pouring too much wine and I’m going to take care of you.” He sighed. “It’s awkward and crazy but it’s just for one night.”
“I think I’ll take a nap.”
“Okay.” He helped her to her feet, led her toward the door of the bedroom. He watched her stretch out across his bed and fall into a quick slumber. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured to himself.
Afterward he emptied the dishwasher and rinsed out the wine glasses by hand. He rinsed out the bottle and set it aside for recycling. With the kitchen cleaned he turned out the lights, closed all of the blinds and drew the curtains closed. He brushed his teeth in the guest bath, feeling too tired to shower. He pulled a blanket from the closet, removed his boots, then his shirt, and fell dead asleep on the couch.
***
Taylor stirred at some point, the alcohol slowly wearing away but still very much in her system, affecting every part of her brain, her emotions, and her basic logic. She pulled a hairband from her pocket and secured the strands carefully atop her head. She found the bathroom and took a warm, restorative shower. The water soothed her frayed nerves, took away some of the residual humiliation from earlier in the evening. She’d launched herself at Chandler like a hawk pursuing a mouse, not that he’d complained. There was some salvation in that, at least. She wrapped herself in a large towel and opened a new toothbrush. She enjoyed being in his bathroom, seeing the odd framed portraits along the wall. Some people might consider that hubris, an artist hanging their own work in their private bathroom. For Chandler, though, she knew it was a way to keep pieces of himself close. He was obviously homesick, no matter how much he loved this apartment. For all that had passed between them, the missing years that she was now educated about, one thing was unchanged—his love for the ranch.
She searched through his closet until she found a faded shirt, smooth to the touch, and comforting as she buttoned it over her breasts. The rest of the apartment was silent, aside from the beating of her heart. She slipped under the covers this time and fell asleep once more.
***
She awoke in the middle of the night, cold sober and full of regret. The alarm clock angrily displayed in vivid numbers a time of three AM. Dammit. She burrowed her face in the bed, was saddened to discover it smelled like fresh-washed laundry. Had he changed the sheets the morning before, anticipating she might share his bed? She missed the woodsy scent of him, a realization that further pissed her off. Had she not gotten hammered, she could have been sleeping in his arms at that very moment. She thought, maybe, an apology was in order.
A warning raced through her mind, now clear of any cobwebs: you are playing with fire.
She quickly dismissed it.
Quietly she opened the door, adjusted her eyes to the open space. There was no illumination, and barely a trace of moonlight crept past the windows. She tiptoed in the general direction of the couch, toward Chandler’s shallow breathing. She knelt down near him, touched his elbow gently. He didn’t stir.
“Chandler?” Still nothing. “Chandler? I need to tell you something.”
He groaned something unintelligible and his eyes fluttered open slowly. “Taylor?” He struggled to sit upright. “Are you okay? I have something for nausea…”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I have to speak to you.”
He rubbed his eyes sleepily. “What time is it?”
She could decipher the faint outline of his disheveled straw hair. God, he was sexy, and didn’t even have to try. “Around three.”
“Okay,” he said roughly. “Talk to me.”
She perched herself on the edge of the couch, the naked flesh of her thigh rubbing the denim of his jeans. “I’m sorry I got plastered earlier. You probably had this evening all planned out in your mind and I screwed it up.”
His eyes found hers in the blackness. “Bullshit. I wanted to have a good time with you. I wouldn’t have cared if you’d thrown up on me.” Easy on the sweet talk, loverboy. “And there was no way I was letting you drive home like that. I care too much about you, Taylor. I always have. Anything else I told you would be a lie of the highest order.”
“Chandler…”
“Shh.” He placed his hands on either cheek, pulled her mouth to his. His kisses were gentle, tender, each one filled with a silent plea for her love, her touch. He scooped her beneath him, pressed her body into the couch. He went hard as steel, not just in his groin but everywhere. He was tense, pulled tighter than a fresh piece of barbed wire. He ripped open the shirt, not giving a damn that he’d just destroyed the buttons, and ran his hands along her breasts and stomach.
His body felt like it was carved from granite, a solid surface that surprisingly yielded to the touch of her fingertips. She unfastened his jeans and he squirmed out of them, barely coming up for air in the process. His mouth seemed magnetized to hers, his lips pressing against hers so firmly that it literally hurt—hurt in every vein, every synapse, low in her stomach. She craved him like he was made of sugar, like he was the last meal she’d ever consume in her life. He accidentally bit her lower lip and she cried out.
“Sorry,” he whispered in a ragged breath.
“That’s okay,” she crooned. “It’s been a while for me.”
He rested his forehead atop hers, reluctantly admitting, “For me, too.”
He freed her, at last, of the shirt, and teased her gently with his fingers, each touch sizzling between her thighs. He entered gently, trembling as he lowered to her depths. Her l
imbs went limp and she clawed at his back, drawing satisfied pangs of joy from him. They worked into a rhythm, seeming to know just what the other needed, how they wanted to be held and touched. Every muscle of his body appeared to move in unison, thrusting into her, pulling her tighter to him, to his mouth, to the flat plane of his chest. She melded to him, flicked her tongue against his, felt the cling of sweat, the wonderful beading of water across his body, falling slowly onto hers.
They came together, the climax unspooling, ripping them down the middle, causing them to crash relentlessly until it eventually subsided. The sensation of falling was temporary. When his thumb slid against her nipple she found the safety of him once again, his huge frame resting atop her so easily that they could have been lock and key. Her hands gripped his shoulders and he shuddered like a frightened horse. He kissed her again and again, until neither of them could breathe. When it seemed like they would die of suffocation, he rolled to his side, held her facing him, separating their bodies just enough to run a hand between them. He flatted his fingers on her stomach, felt it rise and fall. He’d done all of that—made her react, made her cry out in pleasure. And in return she’d given him the best orgasm of his life, the cells in his brain slamming together as they tried to comprehend it. Just the sweep of her eyes across his face was enough to arouse him with renewed vigor. But the rest of his body was replete, and her face was sated. He watched her eyes fall closed, his own mirroring them as he followed her into the dreamlike haze, the slow-burning afterglow.
***
Taylor felt a chill against her bare shoulder as the light of morning compelled her eyelids to open. A flash of remembrance swept over her, brought back to the forefront of her mind the reason she was unclothed, and provided a happy explanation for the whisker burns on her chin. She adjusted the blanket over her, careful not to wake Chandler. Though waking him up before had been more than worth the risk. She stared at the walls, their white paint hued with grey where no shards of light tumbled. The curtains made it seem darker, more intimate, but there was no mistaking what had gone on undercover of night. She was glad it’d happened, and couldn’t help but hope he’d share the same lack of regret.
The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) Page 15
