He wished she didn’t think she was boring.
“You disappeared,” she murmured. “You disappeared, and your work changed, and you don’t want the same things anymore.”
He nodded.
“And you only ever seem to paint at night.”
He stiffened before she did. Realized what she’d just admitted before she did. It took her a moment to freeze, to flick a nervous glance at him, to stutter, “Um . . . ah . . .”
This was the part where he said, How do you know I only paint at night? After all, he’d just been perilously close to revealing every one of his secret scars. He should be dying for a subject change. Instead, he was dying for . . .
She took a breath, sat up straight, and said, “I have a confession to make.”
Her voice was soft and wavering. He found her hand, flat on the cold stone, and laced their fingers together. Hand-holding had never been his thing, exactly, but it felt natural—or necessary—with Chloe. Like an anchor.
“All right,” he said, as if he didn’t already know. “So confess.”
“I don’t know if I should. No, no—I have to. Especially because we’re friends. You said that, didn’t you, Red?”
“Yeah. We’re friends.” Although he’d never wanted to kiss his other friends’ wrists just to feel their pulse racing under his lips. For example. But still, friends.
“All right.” She smiled, but it was a nervous sort of smile. “Well, you know the list I showed you is . . . censored, I suppose. And there’s an item you haven’t seen that, um, that you’ve already helped me cross off.”
His eyebrows rose. This wasn’t going where he’d expected it to. “Okay?”
“I wanted to do something bad.” She sounded tortured.
He found himself smiling. “Uh-huh?”
“So I . . . well, I . . . Oh God.”
“Just spit it out, Chlo. You’re killing me.”
She spat it out, all right. “Imighthavemaybekindofspiedonyoualittlebitlikethroughthewindow?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I spied on you.” Her voice was clearer this time, since it was a banshee-level wail. “Like a weirdo. I mean, the first time was an accident, and I only did it twice after that, but that’s twice too many, and you were basically naked—which is not why I did it—”
“So why did you do it?”
She bit her lip, her eyes widening slightly. Probably because he’d asked like it was fucking life or death. He held his breath, wondering if her answer would ruin this. Ruin everything.
It didn’t.
“I watched because . . . when you paint,” she said softly, “you seem so vital. It was addictive. It felt like coming to life.”
Something in his chest, sort of . . . skipped. Pleasure rolled through him the way fire warmed cold hands: slow and intense and so sharp you weren’t quite sure if it hurt, but didn’t mind either way. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her in silence until she begged, “Oh my God, say something.”
The nerves in her voice squeezed at his heart. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I already knew.”
Her jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“About the spying, I mean,” he clarified. “Not about the, er . . . coming to life part.” He was grinning as he said it.
She set her jaw and stared at her knees. “I shouldn’t have said that. And how did you already know?” She had the nerve to sound irritated with him, which, for some reason, he liked. He liked a lot of things about her, in fact, with a summer-sky-blue intensity that almost made him want to look away.
“Rule of thumb,” he told her. “If you can see someone, they’ll probably see you.”
“But . . .” She spluttered helplessly. “It was dark outside!”
“Your lights were on. My lights were on. Do you know how windows work?”
“Oh, shut up.” All at once, her indignation faded. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You should hate me.”
He’d expected to. He’d thought her reasons would drag him back to dark places—that she’d been consuming him for her own amusement, that maybe she’d been watching him the way she’d watch animals at the zoo. But she hadn’t been. Her explanation was nothing like he’d once expected. It was . . . sweet, as if she’d put a hand on his heart for a moment. And really, he didn’t actually care who saw him painting—hence why he did it in front of a bloody window.
But, all things considered, he thought she was bullshitting just a little bit. “Not that I don’t believe your flattering explanation, but are you sure you didn’t watch partly because I was half naked?”
She gasped. “Of course not. Outrageous. As if I would ever. I’m not a pervert, you know!”
“Then why’d you feel guilty?”
Her pretty, pillow mouth formed a perfect O. It was getting so dark he could barely see her, but strips of orange streetlight sliced over her jaw, glinted off her glasses, illuminated her sparkly, skirt-covered lap. Maybe he should take that as some kind of sign. Maybe the universe was telling him to kiss her, take off her glasses, and push up her skirt.
Yeah, right. What had they just said? They were friends. F R I E N D S.
But then she pursed her lips, and sighed, and said with an air of confession, “I suppose you’re right.”
He stilled. Cleared his throat, because it suddenly felt rougher than sandpaper. “Right about what?”
She glared, as if he was being difficult. “You know what you look like.”
You know what you look like. Coming from Chloe, that might as well have been a fucking ode to his attractiveness. And now she narrowed her eyes at him, chin up, as if daring him to have a problem with that.
There was only one problem, really: the fact that they weren’t touching. So he stopped holding back, and his free hand cupped her cheek, cradling that beautiful fucking face. She breathed in sharply, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he teetered on the edge of a possible mistake. Would she regret him, after tonight? Would she see him as a failed plan, a thing she couldn’t control and wanted nothing to do with? Would she leave him, and everything wonderful growing between them, behind?
He couldn’t let that happen. But he couldn’t let this moment pass, either.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said softly, studying her face—the V between her eyebrows, the heat in her eyes, the vulnerable flash of pink inside her mouth, revealed by her parted lips. He wanted that mouth. He wanted that vulnerability. “I’m going to ask you, and I don’t want you to worry about anything. Not a fucking thing, Chlo. We’re friends. This doesn’t have to be complicated. I’m not going to make it complicated. Okay?”
He heard her breath hitch slightly as she nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. So ask.”
“Should I make you moan again?”
Her answer was so fucking sweet. “Please.”
Chapter Fourteen
She’d thought he would kiss her. He bit her instead.
The tip of his nose bumped hers, his big hand cradled her jaw, and his teeth grazed her lower lip. Soft and slow. Tugging slightly. She felt that tug right between her thighs, a molten rush. He bit again, harder, and arousal shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, as if they were trying to catch his attention like a pair of shameless hussies. She approved. More bites, everywhere. Clearly telepathy wasn’t his strong suit because he didn’t rip off her clothes and devour her, one breast at a time; he licked her lip instead. His tongue swept out to soothe the tingle left behind by those bites, except it didn’t work. That wet slide turned the tingle into a spark, a current, a bolt of lightning. She moaned.
He pulled back, slowly, slowly. “There,” he whispered.
“More,” she told him.
“Know what I’d do with you, if you were in my bed?” His voice was gravel and bittersweet longing. “Kiss you until I couldn’t taste myself anymore. Just fruit tea and too much mouth. Put my hands on every inch of you. So soft, Chlo.” He swept hi
s thumb over her skin. “How do you do that?” His voice cracked as if she’d ruined his life by moisturizing after she showered. He shook his head and laughed, apparently at himself. “I want to make you cry. I bet you get like that, don’t you? When it’s too much. When it feels too good.”
She’d been wrong about his lack of telepathy. He was an excellent mind reader. “Maybe. Sometimes.”
He groaned. The thumb stroking her cheek moved lower, parting her lips. She bit him back. He swallowed so hard she heard it. She sucked his thumb into her mouth. He groaned again. Then he ruined everything. “Tell me why you stopped me. Before.”
She hesitated, uncertainty draining most of her pleasure. She couldn’t tell him, not without revealing too much of herself. What was she supposed to say? That she already liked him far too much? That he made it too easy to be intimate, to be honest, to be weak in a way that felt so good but also left her open to so much hurt?
She didn’t want to have that conversation, to admit how she’d worried then, or how she wanted him too badly to worry now. She could see how easy it would be to fall for this man. She could see the phantoms of all the feelings she could develop for him, like premonitions. And she could see him throwing those feelings in her face, the way people always did.
Her body was vulnerable enough without her heart following suit.
So she reminded him gently, “You said you wouldn’t make this complicated.” Please don’t make this complicated. I really want to put my mouth on you.
He gave her a rueful smile and murmured, “I did, didn’t I?”
“Your rules, Mr. Morgan. Please abide by them.”
As she’d hoped, her crisp, mocking tones widened his smile. “Shut up. Come here.” Her stomach dipped as he lifted her, then put her between his spread thighs. Her back was against his chest. He leaned against the stone pillar of the monument they were absolutely not about to defile. From his position behind her, he murmured in her ear, “Comfortable?” His breath shivered over her skin. She felt his voice rumble in his chest, pleasure zipping down her spine.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” Because he’d wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from the night air with his big, warm body. And because all she could feel at this moment was a painful mix of pleasure and frustration.
“Good,” he said. His lips brushed her frantic pulse. “Let’s play I want.”
She settled against him, put her hands on his thick forearms as if she could stop him from letting go. “I want? As in, I want to trace the tattoos on your chest with my tongue?”
A long breath shuddered out of him. “Yeah. Like that.”
The fact that he was turned on by something as simple as her words made her brave. Reckless. Wild, for a woman like her. “As in . . .” She thought for a moment, flicking through fantasies she’d never let herself fully acknowledge. “I want to lie naked with you just to know what your skin feels like against mine?”
“You’re good at this.” He shifted behind her. The hard jut of his erection hit the base of her spine.
“I want to see your cock,” she blurted, then bit her lip.
He groaned. Pressed his face against the back of her neck. “My turn.”
“Tell me.”
“I want to see you. Right now, in the light. I want to see how you look when you’re so turned on it’s making you shake.”
He was right, she realized; she was shaking. “Oh.”
“I want to put my hand under your skirt and feel how hot your pretty cunt is. But I bet you wouldn’t let me do that in public.”
She sucked down a gulp of cold air to stop herself from burning up inside. “Certainly not,” she lied.
“I want to know how wet you are right now.”
“Very,” she whispered.
He put a hand on top of hers, laced their fingers together. “Touch yourself, if I can’t. Will you do that in public?”
When she slid her hand under her skirt, his came along for the ride. But she didn’t lead for long. He took over, as if he couldn’t help himself, all firm, easy strength. Slowly, he trailed their interwoven fingertips over her inner thigh. Chloe swallowed a gasp. “This is cheating,” she breathed.
“Nope,” he said softly. “Ain’t this what they call creative problem solving?”
She couldn’t speak. She had no oxygen left; the hypnotic circles he made, the sensations he sent dancing over her skin, had stolen every last breath from her lungs. There was too much blood in her veins, too much need pulsing through her clit. Her belly was tense and trembling, her body rigid, every muscle taut. She was on the verge of overloading in the best way possible.
The uneven click of stumbling heels floated to her ears. Happy shrieks, too-loud chatter: a group of drunken women walking by, just up the street. Friends, probably, out having fun. On any other day she’d feel a pang of jealousy; irritation at herself for holding back from that; annoyance at the world for flinching away from her. Today, though, all she felt was frustration because Red’s slow, addictive circles over her thigh had stopped.
She tried to tug his hand back into motion, and he laughed. “You always surprise me, Chloe.”
“They can’t see us.”
“You’re bad tonight.” His voice was all gravel. “Don’t know why I’m trying to behave.”
“Feel free to stop trying.” She was done pretending to be demure.
He caught her earlobe between his teeth and an arrow of sensation flashed through her. “All right.” Rough, wicked words. A switch had been flicked. Beneath her skirt, his hand disentangled from hers. He was bolder without her. He squeezed her thigh and whispered hot against her cheek, “I want to hold you open like this when you take my cock.”
When she closed her eyes she could see it: him kneeling over her, forcing her legs apart, fucking deeper and deeper. She whimpered and the sound seemed to spur him on. He pressed his palm against her pussy, cupping her possessively over her underwear, and the same moan shuddered through both of them at once.
“You’re soaked. You’re fucking—Chloe—”
“Please,” she gasped, her hips jerking forward. “Please.” The heel of his hand was a delicious pressure against her swollen clit. How did he know where to touch, how to touch? He was some kind of vaginal magician. When he hooked one thick finger under the edge of her knickers she wanted to scream. Bit her lip hard. Shook with the effort of keeping quiet.
Supposedly, Chloe felt more than other people did. Chronic pain literally rewired brain pathways until you were more conscious of your own body than you should be, until you hurt more intensely than was healthy. An inescapable cycle. Only now did she see a potential upside: she must feel more pleasure than normal, too. She must. Because surely this wasn’t ordinary. Lungs tight, ears ringing, heart shaking instead of beating, and her pussy slick and swollen—this couldn’t be ordinary.
But he was shaking, too, his breaths heavy, his body tense behind her. So maybe it was ordinary with Red. Maybe this was just the way things were between them.
He tightened one strong arm around her as if he could hold her steady, keep her safe from the surge of desire threatening to short-circuit her system. But he couldn’t, because he was the cause. His fingers parted her folds with heart-stopping certainty, spreading her open like she belonged to him. He delved into her wetness and growled, “God, I’m losing my fucking mind. Kiss me. No. Don’t. I’ll lose it.”
She twisted, tipped her head back, and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. She wanted to consume him. This wasn’t quite a kiss, was it? He groaned and found her aching clit, his fingers slick with her arousal. His touch was an easy glide, barely any pressure, just electric sensation. She jerked her hips toward him but he resisted, lightly circling that swollen nub until she felt drugged with pleasure, breathless with need.
He dragged his mouth away from hers and sucked at her jaw, her throat. His usual calm had been shattered, the jagged edges glint
ing dangerously in the low light. “Turn around. Show me your tits. Please.”
She wanted to. So badly. Who was she? Apparently, the kind of woman who thrilled at coarse orders like that, and broke a little bit when they were followed with hoarse manners. She turned, rose up on her knees between his legs. Somehow, he kept stroking her, kept up his beautiful torture. Her hands trembled as she tore open his borrowed jacket and shoved down the front of her dress. He growled, then bent his head and used his teeth to drag down one side of her flimsy bra.
She felt cold air against her tight nipple for a moment before his warm, wet mouth enveloped her, the change a sweet shock, an almost-pain that she craved more of. Wasn’t that strange, craving pain? But this pain was different. This pain was good.
And then it was gone, replaced by tendrils of pure pleasure that coiled around her limbs, tightening with each lazy lick. He suckled her breast and circled her clit and she felt that frantic fluttering deep inside that meant she was going to come. She sank her fingers into his hair, hair that looked like fire but felt like cool silk. “Keep . . .” She couldn’t get the words out, but she didn’t need to. He kept. And kept.
Luckily for both of them, Chloe always came quietly. She didn’t have enough oxygen to cry out; the screams building in her chest came out as desperate gasps. Her head fell back as pure satisfaction flooded her body. Red bit her nipple gently and nudged her clit one last time, then chuckled at the strangled sound of protest she made. By the time her heart stopped ramming against her ribs, he was putting her knickers in place and tugging her bra over her breast.
“Come on,” he said softly, rearranging her dress. “You’re cold.” He zipped up the jacket for her, tapped her nose, helped her to her feet.
Was she cold? She hadn’t noticed, but she supposed she must be. She wasn’t wearing gloves. It wasn’t good for her fingers to get stiff.
As they stepped off the monument and into the light, her gaze flitted down to the hard shape ruining the line of his jeans. That didn’t look good for him, either. Pre-orgasm, her arousal had made her brave, but now she had to force her words out. “Um, Red . . . I don’t suppose—well, I mean, obviously you haven’t—and if you—”
Get a Life, Chloe Brown Page 17
