Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2)
Page 11
With strong, rhythmic thrusts he began working her towards climax—Tasha’s breath quickening, her mouth drawing open.
As if they shared a mind, she lifted her legs just as he hooked his arms under her knees, and she cried out in pleasure at the exquisite angle—their new favorite.
She liked watching him as he drank in the sight of her. She snuck a peek at his thick erection sliding in and out of her then rested her head back again and smiled.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned.
“You’ll never have to,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have me as much as you want.”
He thrust into her, holding himself deep inside, and began grinding, hitting all of her most sensitive spots. A burst of pleasure coursed through her and she knew she was close.
She held onto his muscular biceps, as a swell of heat flared in her loins. Every thrust he delivered brought her a breath closer to the peak, every grind—those creamy seconds when he’d work her good and deep—caused her to surge higher and higher.
On a trembling exhale, she whispered, “I’m coming,” and he smiled as though making her climax gave him more satisfaction than actually ejaculating.
She loved that smile.
Reflexes taking hold, her head tipped back and a long moan escaped her, as wave upon wave began rolling, the tight sheath of her body clutching and clamping powerfully around his hard penis.
He felt it and stared at her with intrigue, as he quickened his pace, eager to come now that she was.
As the wash of heat in her loins subsided, she held his face. Kevin let out a deep groan, pumping harder and faster, her body beneath him—relaxed and bouncing in rhythm.
She always knew the moment he was finished and it made her smile.
He released her legs, lowering against her, and then rolled to his side. She followed suit so they could face one another. He caressed her arm, his fingers traveling its length and then grazing over her hip and thigh before changing direction.
Kevin had a way of soothing her. Now that she knew what love—real love—could be like, she never wanted to be without it.
It gave her pause.
Love?
Was she in love with him?
The answer came smooth and swift, but only in her mind—Yes!
He stroked her cheek and said in a quiet voice, “There’s something I should tell you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Good news was never prefaced like that.
“What?” she asked.
He leaned in, kissed her, and when he drew back, he said, “I love you.”
She melted. They looked at each other for a long moment and finally she said, “I love you, too.”
Tasha and Kevin spent the morning in bed, talking and caressing each other, making love and drinking coffee when the craving for either struck. They spent the afternoon in Central Park, kissing and taking in the scenery—cherry blossoms in bloom, tourists meandering at a snails pace, jugglers and mimes panhandling for change. As the sun set, they made love again in her apartment then got ready for her art exhibition. Tasha dressed in a slinky black dress with her signature wedge-heeled sneakers, and Kevin wore a dark suit, his gun hidden in an ankle holster under the pant-leg, not that he had any use for his weapon when he wasn't on the job.
They took a cab down to Chelsea and after it had pulled up to the curb in front of Windsor Fine Art, Tasha popped the rear door open, stepping onto the sidewalk.
As soon as Kevin had paid the fare and joined her, she said, “You’re finally going to meet my friends.”
“Can’t wait,” he said easily and they crossed the sidewalk and entered the brightly lit gallery.
Inside, a crowd of tailored-looking guests were milling about with wine in their hands, their eyes on the art.
Tasha was one of five local artists whose work was on display.
She suggested they grab a glass of wine and as soon as they did, the gallery curator, Abigail Sorenson rushed up, booming out a whirlwind greeting. “Tasha, everyone loves your photographs.”
Her eyes widened excitedly and when she glanced around the gallery she saw small red stickers on the price tags of several of her prints, indicating they had already been sold.
“I’ll let you get acclimated,” Abigail went on. “Then I have a number of people I’d like you to meet.”
The curator rushed off as quickly as she had come, greeting another artist who was now arriving.
“Star of the party,” Kevin commented teasingly then grew sincere as he said, “these really are incredible.”
They crossed through the crowd to one of her photos—a homeless man sleeping on a darkened street directly in front of the 5th Avenue bedroom display at West Elm. The richest of the rich brushing up against the poorest of the poor—that was Manhattan in a nutshell.
From across the crowd, Greer called out, “Congratulations,” throwing her arms open for Tasha as she worked her way over. Jennifer was in tow with Greer’s boyfriend, Hunter Black, who smiled proudly at his photographer friend. They took turns hugging Tasha and then formed a circle.
“This is Kevin Wright,” she told them, making introductions.
“The cop,” Jennifer supplied, being the first to shake his hand and give him the once over in a way that made Tasha blush with embarrassment.
Kevin was gracious about it and made small talk of praising Tasha’s accomplishment and marveling at the gallery.
Then Hans Janz's distinct voice cut through the air, as he complained, “Utter crap.”
Tasha turned to find her employer frowning at the photo she had taken of Catholic schoolgirls sitting on one of the large rocks in Central Park near an aged homeless woman who was scarfing down a sandwich.
She told Kevin and her friends, “Excuse me,” and worked her way through the crowd. Hans didn’t even acknowledge her presence when she reached him, but began a scathing critique of all the mistakes she had made in the darkroom.
Interrupting his crass tirade, she squared her shoulders at him and used a firm tone to assert, “My work is getting a positive response.”
As if he wasn’t convinced, he shot her a sideways glance and snorted.
Quickly, she scanned the room, counting all the red stickers next to her photos—enough to get by for three months, she calculated, assuming the gallery would pay promptly.
Regardless of whether it did or not, she’d had enough of Hans Janz, that was for damn sure.
“It was nice of you to come,” she said, “but...” She hesitated, mentally checking the gate—there would be no turning back. Good, she thought as she announced, “I quit.”
“You what?” he asked, astounded.
With a smile she said, “You heard me” and then quickly joined Kevin, who was standing in front of the one photograph she had included in the exhibit even though it didn’t match the others.
Blown-up to the dimensions of four-by-four feet, the photo was a selfie of Tasha and Kevin kissing in the park as cherry blossom petals fluttered all around them.
He turned, touching eyes with her, and an unspoken conversation ensued.
She knew exactly what he was thinking.
She laced her fingers with his and as they kissed, the guests began taking photos of them, flashes bursting and her friends awing from the wayside.
It didn’t get any better than this.
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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
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Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Pla
ywriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
www.mira-gibson.com
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Copyright © 2016
Published by: Mira Gibson
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For questions and comments about this book, please contact http://www.mira-gibson.com
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