by Diana Gardin
“Blow my mind? Are you sure?” Her forehead breaks into those wrinkles I love. “That’s placing very high standards on my reaction to whatever surprise you have in store for me this evening, Dare. My mind is not easily blown.”
Releasing her hips, I smirk and clasp her hand, pulling her around to the passenger side of my truck. “That sounds suspiciously like a dare.”
As I place her on her seat, she reaches for her seat belt. Just before I close the door, she grabs my collar and pulls me until I’m millimeters from her full lips. She brushes them, like the sweetest whisper, against mine. Then she groans softly.
She releases me, and slams the door.
Groaning loudly, I head to my side of the truck.
She just undid me.
I’ve been trying so hard to tell myself that I’m taking time to get to know Berkeley, to learn about her and spend time with her. I’m not trying to fall in love with her. But then she goes and does something ridiculously sexy and cute, which shouldn’t even be a legal combination.
And I slip just a little further off the steep incline that leads to certain doom.
She’s wearing a very self-satisfied little smile when I climb in on the driver’s side. I remind myself that she can be as righteous as she wants right now. Because wait till she sees what we’re doing tonight.
Or rather, what she’s doing tonight.
We drive to the trendy, artsy section of town that’s just past the cushy boutiques and restaurants and just before you enter the warehouse district. After I park the truck, I lead her into a coffee shop with a CLOSED sign on the door.
Inside, the rich aroma of coffee beans swirls around us. The place has a Bohemian feeling that you can only achieve with a free-spirited approach to décor. It’s colorful, with a youthful vibe that sings to people in their early twenties. The chairs and tables are an eclectic mix of iron, colored wood, and wicker. Contemporary-inspired artwork adorns the walls in a variety of forms, from a dog wearing a straw hat to a coffee mug amid a strikingly colorful background.
Berkeley’s gaze swings around, her eyes piquing with interest. “You realize the sign on the door said ‘closed,’ right?”
I nod, taking her hand tightly in mine and leading her to the iron stairwell. “I know. But I know people that know people. There’s a loft space upstairs I want to show you. Come on.”
She allows me to tug her up the ultramodern spiral staircase, her eyes soaking in the paintings surrounding us. “My God. These are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” an answering voice offers when we reach the top. The man standing there is in his mid-thirties, with long, blond hair secured off his face in a ponytail. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt splattered with color, and his feet are bare. He holds out a hand to Berkeley after nodding at me.
“I’m Thomas Callo,” he introduces himself. “I’m the artist of said ‘beautiful’ art, and the owner of the coffee shop downstairs.”
Berkeley smiles warmly at him. “Berkeley Holtz. It’s nice to meet you.”
He returns her smile, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Berkeley. Your boyfriend here”—he indicates me with a sweep of his hand, and I quickly glance at Berkeley at the mention of the B word—“has arranged an evening here for you.” He gestures behind him, and I take Berkeley’s hand and lead her around Thomas.
There’s a small, round table laden with hors d’oeuvres that I hoped Berkeley would love. Little crepes filled with cream cheese, mini-crab cakes, shrimp on toast. I tried to give her plenty of choices from the sea, because I know that’s what she loves. Her eyes widen as she takes in the table of food, and the bottle of white wine breathing right beside the plates. Two glasses stand beside it.
“Holy shit,” she gasps, her eyes wide.
I smile. I like that reaction. At lease I think I do, unless I have the meaning of “holy shit” completely wrong. Women are complicated. She could very well be saying “Holy shit, I hate this!” Scowling at the thought, I watch Berkeley’s face carefully.
A few feet away from the table stands an easel with a blank canvas. A wooden stool waits for Berkeley to take her seat.
She turns from the food and spots the easel. She stills.
“Dare?” she asks, her voice low and raw as she turns toward me.
Thomas drops a hand on my shoulder as he retreats. “I’ll leave you to it. Be downstairs when you’re finished.”
I nod, keeping my eyes glued to Berkeley’s face as I move toward her. “That day at the university…I saw your face when you looked at your paintings. You missed them. You miss”—I gesture toward the easel—“this. I wanted to put it back into your life. So, until we find you your very own place to paint, Thomas says you can paint here. And he’ll store them for you, too. He owns the gallery next door.”
Her eyes are alight as she stares at me, two big, shining pools of pure happiness. She blinks rapidly once, twice, and then swipes a finger under her eye. “I can’t believe you did this for me,” she whispers. “No one’s ever…I mean, no one understands…”
I reach out and pull her across the remaining distance between us. I look down into her eyes, using my thumb to brush away the line of water cascading from her eyes. “I understand.”
“You do, don’t you?” Her voice is filled with wonder. “You’re amazing, Dare.”
I nod. “I know.”
She half laughs, half sobs. “Cocky.”
“Confident?”
She shakes her head and looks again at the easel. “I wanna paint now.”
“You don’t want to eat first?” My stomach rumbles as I say it, giving away the selfishness behind my question.
She grins. “You eat. I’ll paint, then I’ll eat. You can pour me a glass of wine, though.”
I nod, liking this plan. “Okay.”
Joy radiates through me, starting in my chest, as I watch her settle herself on the stool. Her black shorts barely cover her ass when she sits down, the fabric riding up her thigh. I gulp, and then I look away. I will not distract her while she paints. No matter what kind of fire she sets to my body just by breathing in the same room I’m in.
I bring her the glass of pinot, then hastily retreat. I don’t trust myself to stand next to her for too long. But the beaming smile she gives me before I walk away sends my heart thumping in my chest and I can’t help but grin as I fix myself a plate.
Then I sit down, facing where she sits behind the easel, and wait for my girl to finish her painting.
Even though to me, the real masterpiece is sitting on the stool, not on the easel.
22
Berkeley
We don’t talk while I paint. He eats, and I can feel his eyes burning into my skin, even from the other side of the easel. I sip my wine in between brushstrokes, eyeing the canvas while I add brushes of color here and there. But my mind isn’t empty the way it normally is when I paint.
Usually, I paint to escape the pressure. Whatever kind of pressure my parents have placed on me, or the pressure that I’ve put on myself. Sometimes I feel like I could crumble beneath the weight of it all. And that’s when I leave it behind, sit down, and put brush to canvas. My paintings are always full of rich, bold color and texture, reflecting the very heart of me.
What I capture tonight is no different, except for the way my mind feels while I’m doing it. Instead of empty, it’s full of whirring, swirling thoughts of the man sitting just behind my canvas.
He did this for me. I’m thinking it over and over again, stunned by the sentiment behind this date. Dare didn’t just take me to dinner and a movie, even though I would have been completely fine with it if he had. But this is so much deeper than that. He listens when I talk. He understands what I need. He asks for nothing in return, effectively eliminating the concept of pressure from our relationship. When I told him I wasn’t ready to sleep with him yet, he wasn’t fazed or disappointed. Most guys would have thrown their hands up then, running away full speed from that kind of effort.
/> But not Dare.
Maybe I really did put a spell on him. Why else would he stay? Especially after my father made an appearance, pulling me out of the club like a twelve-year-old out past curfew.
I don’t get what keeps him with me. Even more, I don’t get what makes him do incredibly sweet things like what he’s done tonight. But I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose Dare. My heart flutters around in my chest, a caged bird trying to take flight, at the thought of it.
My heart grows fuller as I think of him, and my skin begins to flush, starting at the tips of my ears, when I imagine how I’m going to thank him for this incredible gift.
Peeking out from behind the canvas, his light-green eyes pierce me, and I lean back quickly behind my barrier. I hear his deep chuckle, and when I peek around again his mouth is tipped up in his crooked smile.
Ducking back behind the easel, I can feel my cheeks blushing a furious scarlet.
“What are you doing, baby?” he asks.
Heat pools in the very center of me as I hear his endearment. Crap on a cracker, that shouldn’t make me feel so…hot. God, he turns me into a mess of quivering Jell-O on the inside, just by saying a word. His husky voice is like a rough caress on my skin.
“Uh…I’m painting?” I manage to croak.
“Yeah? Am I your subject? Do you need me to lose the clothes?”
Oh, my God. If he does that…there will be no more painting tonight. And the way I’m feeling right now, there may also be no more self-control that keeps me a safe distance away from him. My thighs clench together in response to the rough timbre of his voice, and I curl my toes against the floor.
I’m being absolutely ridiculous right now.
After about ten more minutes, I close my eyes. The electric heat that’s building in the room has reached an unbearable temperature, and my body aches from the effort of holding myself together. I haven’t peeked at Dare again, but I know he’s just on the other side of the easel…
I pick the paintbrush up off the canvas, and tilt my head to the side as I eye what I’ve done. I’m mostly finished, although I need to go back and add some shadowing.
I’m so engrossed, I haven’t heard Dare come up behind me. My nerves are a frayed mess of sensation, so when he places his hands on my shoulders I jump what must be a mile out of my seat. There goes that deep chuckle again, and my insides turn to molten lava. I close my eyes again.
“Berkeley,” he murmurs, and I’m trembling. My name is like a luscious piece of candy on his tongue. “Oh, baby…that’s beautiful.”
My eyes pop open, absorbing the painting in front of me. His hands remain hot on my shoulders. I’ve painted something impossible, a fiery sunburst in violent shades of red and yellow and orange, slammed against the backdrop of an inky-blue nighttime sky. Glimmering stars dot the scene around the sun, as if they’re falling from their heated maker.
I tilt my head again, assessing it. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as Dare moves in closer. He stands just behind me, and I can feel the pressure of his chest on my back as he leans down and places his lips against my skin. The spot at the apex of my shoulder and my neck catches fire, and the trembling my body is already enduring turns into a violent shiver. I quickly place my paintbrush on the easel before I drop it.
He freezes beside me, and I can feel his breath pulsing against my skin. “Did that feel good?” His whisper is husky and deep, and it does terrible, amazing things to the muscles in my thighs. They clench of their own accord. I say nothing, trying fiercely to stay focused on my painting.
Dare uses a hand to sweep my hair away from my neck, and dips his head low to place another kiss just below my ear. A tiny, traitorous moan escapes me, and my head drops fully to the side as I give him full access to my neck.
“Ah,” he whispers. “So you did like that, didn’t you, Berkeley? What else do you like?”
I press my lips together. If he wants to know, he’s going to have to figure it out.
Oh, that’s a dangerous thought to be having right now.
His tongue darts out to draw a tiny circle on the sensitive skin beneath my earlobe as his hands trail down my arms. They break free of my palms, which rest atop my bare thighs. Oh, why did I wear shorts this short? I silently curse myself and praise myself.
“You always feel so fucking good under my fingers,” whispers Dare the Devil. “So damn good.”
His fingers create a hot trail up my thighs as his touch moves upward. When they travel past the hem of my shorts and underneath my shirt, I shudder.
My breath is coming in heavy pants, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I basically sit helpless before him. When his fingers touch me like this, when his lips command me like this, I’m complete dough in his hands.
“Lift your arms, Berkeley.” I can hear the command in his tone and automatically want to defy it. But something about being under Dare’s command sends sexy shivers of delight through my body, so much stronger than the desire I have to push back against it.
I do as he says.
He pulls my tight T-shirt up over my head and discards it, so that I’m in just my bra from the waist up. His hands continue their path against the soft skin of my stomach stopping just beneath my breasts. I gasp, and lean back against his solid chest. His thumbs rub gentle circles just out of reach from where I want him to be, and I groan in frustration. His breath is against my ear again.
“What, baby? What’s wrong?” His thumbs continue their torturous movement while he speaks.
I shake my head, shifting on the stool so that his roaming digits inch higher.
He stills them. Damn. Him.
“What?” he asks again. “Tell me, Berkeley.”
“Touch me, Dare,” I ask finally. “Your hands…are driving me insane.”
“No yet,” he promises. “But they will be.”
Finally, finally, his fingers reach their destination as he palms both my breasts simultaneously, sending my body into a writhing fit and fire and drawing a heavy moan from my mouth. Pushing down the soft cups of my bra, he pinches my nipples with his fingers and pulls, and I cry out.
His body is a solid wall behind me, so when I sag back against it there’s no danger of falling off the stool. Thank God. My lips part, and I lick them as he continues to torture my breasts.
Seeing it, he leans forward and takes my mouth with his. His kiss is punishing, his tongue parts my lips and swipes against mine, tangling and teasing. I moan into the kiss, wanting more of everything he’s dishing out. He’s like a sweet, sinful dessert I can’t get enough of.
Then he leaves my tender, aching breasts, and I groan in disappointment. Chuckling, he pulls his lips away from mine.
“Stand up, baby.”
I don’t hesitate, but my legs are weak as I stand, wobbly. He holds me against him as he climbs astride the stool, pulling me onto his lap.
“That’s better,” he growls into my ear. The sexy-growly, bossy Dare is turning me into a needy mess. It’s so freaking hot.
“Is it?” I whisper.
“Oh, yeah,” he answers me roughly. He reaches down and pops the snap on my shorts.
Oh. Now I see why it’s better. He slowly undoes the zipper, and as his fingers brush against my panties I jerk back against him. He strokes one finger against the center of me gently, and I buck again. He dips his head, nipping at my earlobe.
“Fuck, Berkeley.” He groans. “I can feel how wet you are right now. This so wasn’t the plan tonight, baby. But I could see you over there, blushing, and I could hear you sighing from my chair. I couldn’t stay away from you anymore.”
His finger stays busy as he speaks, stroking me up and down, and I keep my eyes closed, barely holding myself above water as his touch and his words threaten to pull me under. His voice is a shiver dancing along my spine. My insides are burning, and the inner siren Dare is convinced lives within me slowly unfurls her wings, ready to begin her song.
“God, Dare,” I gasp.
I writhe in his arms, but he holds me steady. I can feel the harness of his very ready erection under my butt, and I grind into it. He freezes.
“Your terms, Berkeley,” he says in a strained voice. “But Jesus, you’re making it hard on me.”
“I want you to touch me…under my panties,” I whisper urgently. “Just like before. Right the hell now, Dare.”
He curses again, making a noise of pure male delight deep in his chest. It’s guttural and sexy as hell.
He slips one hand beneath the waistband of my thin, lace panties, and as soon as his fingers graze my slick, wet heat I nearly let go right then and there. My eyes roll back in my head and my mouth fills with saliva. My hips are grinding so hard into his lap that he hisses a quick intake of air through his teeth. I swivel my hips, and his answering groan makes me melt.
His other hand slides up my stomach until it’s once again cupping my breast, and he gives equal attention to my achiest bits like only Dare can. It’s unfair, really, how much of a state he can leave me in. He knew what he was doing to me the moment he leaned down and whispered in my ear.
“Dare.” His name is a needy moan torn from my lips, and his finger draws small circles right over the smallest, most tender part of me.
“Berkeley,” he whispers, his voice so deep and low in my ear that I shudder yet again. “Come for me. Right the hell now.”
And that’s all it takes. All the pieces of me fly apart as his words and his touch and his all-male, all-Dare scent surround me, overwhelm me, control me. I quake as I say his name again, and he buries his face in my neck, inhaling.
“Fuck it to hell,” he says. “You are fucking amazing, Berkeley. You’re the most beautiful, dangerous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. What have you done to me? Fuck.”
His words are uttered between kisses on my shoulder, nips on my ear, licks on my neck, and I sink into him.
