The importance of the moment grew as the silence stretched. He felt vulnerable and raw, and when he caught her eyes, she looked the same.
He set the sketchbook at his hip and rose. “Where are your watercolors? It’s my turn to paint you.”
21
Lilliana’s mouth opened and closed, still processing the unexpected. When she’d turned the book around for him to see, emotions crossed his face like lightning, so fast she couldn’t tell whether he was touched or pissed or freaked out.
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“There’s a lot of things you still need to learn about me.”
Hope made her stomach flip. Probably she shouldn’t read too much into anything he said when he was wearing next to nothing and all she could think about was tugging his shorts to his ankles.
He walked past her, the heat from his bare chest somehow burning her from the inside out. She flipped the sketchbook to a clean page and pulled out a set of watercolors and two brushes for him to use—one a medium straight-tip, the other a fan.
“Perfect.” In typical no-nonsense Alec fashion, he added briskly with little emotion, “Now strip to your underwear and sit on the couch.”
“I-I beg your pardon?” She found herself doing a non-ironic faux-pearl clutch.
“Equal opportunity painting. Go strip.” One side of his mouth lifted, crinkling his eyes.
Unable to resist one of his rare smiles, she shuffled to the couch and unfastened her pants. She stopped with her zipper halfway down. “You mind if I dim the lights?”
“I’ll do it. You continue.”
While he turned on a corner lamp and flipped the harsh overhead light off, she tried to embody the confidence of a stripper. She peeled her jeans off, wiggling her hips on their downward slid. He regained the stool, sitting with his elbows braced on wide-set knees, twirling the fan brush, his gaze fixed on her.
Her pretend confidence deserted her when she lost her balance trying to pull her jeans over her feet. She plopped onto the couch, her jeans still tangled around her ankles. She extricated herself and threw them aside. A quick check of the state of her underwear helped erase a portion of her embarrassment. Thank God she’d pulled out pink bikini-cut panties instead of an ancient pair with worn-out elastic. That would have been supersexy.
“Shirt too,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Not even attempting the grace of a stripper, she shucked her shirt and dropped it on top of his, scooting back into the couch, trying not to self-consciously cover herself, but definitely sucking her stomach in.
A long moment passed, no movement or noise from him. She glanced up to find his gaze roving her body. Granted, she’d taken several good long looks at him, but she’d at least masked her ogling as a character study.
“Are you going to get started?” she asked.
“Are you ready?”
“I’m in my underwear on the couch, so I’d say that’s a yes.”
Instead of turning to the easel, he gathered the paints and brushes and positioned himself on his knees on the floor at her legs. Without saying a word, he dipped the smaller brush into paint and scored a line of orange down her bare leg, the paint cool.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Painting you.” He dropped his lips to the side of the orange streak. The warmth in contrast with the cool paint turned her shudder into constant trembles.
The need to say something to break the building tension drove her nervous rambling. “Orange, huh? What does that symbolize?”
“Your joy.” Next, he mixed orange and yellow and trailed the brush over her inner thigh. “Yellow for your laughter. You mind if I get your panties dirty?”
All she managed was a negative hum. He painted a streak between her legs. Her hips bucked, scooting her closer to the edge.
“Blue for your sexiness.” With blue paint, he circled her belly button and painted up between her ab muscles to the edge of her bra. Her nipples poked at the white lace.
“Let’s not get this pretty thing messy.” He snaked his hand around her back. Her bra loosened, and he drew it off her arms. His gaze fell from her face to her breasts, and she automatically closed her eyes and raised a hand to her chest.
He caught her wrist and held her hand away. “Stop it. You’ve got a gorgeous body, but you’re also smart and funny and talented.”
Her arm relaxed, and he let go. She grabbed a handful of the canvas drop cloth at her hip. “I’ve been fooled by men who I thought actually liked me, but only wanted sex.”
“That’s why you always wear the baggy shirts?”
She hesitated a moment before nodding. “My boobs turn normally intelligent men into Neanderthals.”
“Idiots.” His face softened, and she vowed once more never to tell him he’d once been one of those idiots. He pulled away and messed with the paints.
With the fan brush, he painted a red circle around her left nipple. The tickling sensation shot tingles from her already peaked nipple to between her legs. With his free hand, he cupped her breast, his thumb smearing the paint, and dropped to lick her nipple.
The brush tortured her other breast next, blue mixing with the red already on the brush to form purple swirls. He gave that breast the same attention with tongue and mouth, his hands streaking paint down her sides, making sure to avoid the sensitive skin of her tattoo.
Her back arched and her knees spread wider. The brush skimmed down her panty-covered core. She inhaled, her hand dropping the cloth and reaching for him. Her fingers dug into his biceps as he played the brush over her, an orgasm hovering close, even through the barrier of cotton.
He pulled back and gathered more paint on the brush. He painted her collarbones red like a bird in flight. More paint on her neck, paying special attention to her pulse point. It was sweet and fabulous, but she wanted him back between her legs.
“Alec, please.”
“Please, what?” The playful tease in his voice was new and unexpected, and she was struck mute.
No one had looked at her like Alec. No one had expected her to put voice to her passion. Quite the opposite in fact. Her sexual experiences had consisted mostly of quiet fumblings in the dark, trying not to wake her roommates or her boyfriend-at-the-time’s roommates.
“Please touch me.”
“I am touching you.” He smiled a heavy-lidded sensuous smile and glided his thumbs along her collarbones, his fingers spreading red lines along each shoulder.
“My . . . my breasts.” He finger-painted his way down, the colors becoming a muted swirl over her torso, until he covered her breasts and squeezed. The sensation shot to between her legs. She wiggled closer to the edge and hooked her feet around his thighs. She needed to feel his erection against her, inside of her.
She knocked his arms away and pushed up, pressing her breasts into his chest. His hands skimmed down her back. He caught the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, shifting to get them off her legs.
Instead of tearing his shorts off and driving into her, he dropped to his knees once more and spread her legs. The first touch of his tongue drove her hand into his hair.
Watching a man go down on her was a new experience and one she hoped to repeat—but only with Alec. He didn’t close his eyes, but kept his gaze fixed on her face. He seemed to gauge what she liked best by her whimpers, the clutch of her hand, her squirms against his mouth.
The connection between them strengthened with every nip and lick. Every protective layer of her psyche splayed open when she orgasmed. She forced her eyes to stay locked with his and wondered what he saw in the depths of her.
Eventually, he stood between her spread legs. He shucked his shorts and underwear and kicked them aside. Later, maybe she would be embarrassed at the way she lay naked and open, greedily taking in his body with her eyes. In the aftermath of her orgasm, she welcomed the intensity of what was yet to come.
His erection was hard and thick, fluid beading the slit. He�
�d been in control long enough. She pushed up and licked across the tip, humming with the taste of him. Grasping him with one hand, she licked around the head and down the shaft, tracing a vein with her tongue.
Like he’d watched her, she watched him. When she took the end fully into her mouth, his head fell back, his hand weaving into her hair. She continued to suck him, taking him a little deeper with every pass.
A growly curse erupted a split second before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He grabbed the drop cloth from the couch and tossed it on the floor. Her breasts painted his chest, the rainbow of colors swirling with the black ink of his tattoo.
His eyes crinkled like he was smiling even as the rest of him was tensed and expectant. She pushed him to the floor and straddled him. He reached for his shorts and pulled out a square, handing it to her.
She ripped the condom open with her teeth and covered him. Fitting him at her entrance, she lowered herself slowly, her hands braced on his chest. His hands stayed loose at her hips, letting her dictate the rhythm. She dug her fingers into taut skin, the pleasure-pain of him overwhelming as she lifted nearly off him and back down.
“You drive me crazy, baby.” His voice was gruff, his face drawn and tight. He skimmed his hands up her waist to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples. “Can you come with me?”
“I don’t know.” Her thin, reedy voice was nearly unrecognizable.
“You do know. Touch yourself.”
She did. And, with him pinching her nipples, she climaxed again, losing all rhythm, her eyes closing involuntarily even though she wanted to watch him reach the same bliss. He groaned and bucked into her, each movement becoming smaller, until he lay still under her, his hands falling to the floor. She opened her eyes and fell over him, kissing his jaw. His smile eased the intensity of the moment.
“That was the best painting ever. Way better than the one I did of you.” She caught his earlobe in her teeth and tugged.
His laugh vibrated through her, sending a different kind of tingle all the way to her toes. “I’m glad you liked it, but it won’t last as long as the picture you did of me.”
She rolled to his side. Their bodies were a matching rainbow of colors. He helped her off the floor and stretched his hands to the ceiling, unconcerned about his state of nakedness.
The man could have modeled for Michelangelo. His body was a piece of living art. It took an incredible amount of self-control not to grab her T-shirt and cover her not-exactly-flat stomach and too-big breasts.
“Guess we’d better rinse off,” he said.
“I’ll go first.” Grateful for the escape, she took a deep breath and ran-walked to her room.
With her hair still pulled up, she stepped under the water, lifting her face toward the warm spray. The shower door opened, letting in a burst of cool air. She wiped the water from her eyes. Six foot, four inches of muscular, tattooed man had joined her.
“I left your brushes in water. That okay?” He lathered his hands with soap and ran them over her torso, from shoulders to waist, paying special attention to her breasts, the site of her new tattoo, and between her legs. Multihued water swirled at their feet.
After snapping out of a hypnotic trance induced by the black inky swirls on his chest, she followed his lead, soaping her hands and rubbing over his body. The care he took rocked something deep inside of her, beyond the physical, beyond the intellectual, beyond anything she’d ever experienced. The sensation muted her.
He turned the water off and gave her bottom a nudge to get her moving toward the towels. While she wrapped a towel around her like a burrito, he brushed his teeth in the nude, drip-drying on her fuzzy rug.
He walked out, presumably to put on clothes, while she was left to finish getting ready for bed. Staring at herself in the steamed-up mirror, toothpaste foam coming out of her mouth, she wondered what to do. If she didn’t confess her feelings now, they would burst out of her at some inopportune time.
Having the words out in the open might scare him off like the crack of a rifle. She rinsed her mouth, flipped the light off, and went to her dresser. She hesitated. Glancing over her shoulder, she could make out his body, propped up on an elbow, naked to the waist, watching her.
She tugged the tucked end of the towel, and the heavy, damp terry cloth fell around her feet. She pulled a T-shirt over her head and slipped under the covers, but didn’t snuggle close to him. The weight of what she had to say trembled her body. Even her hair felt like it was dancing. She was either fearless or not, and she wanted to start being fearless.
“Life’s a funny thing. Sometimes, I wonder at the twists and turns, and how we get back to where we started.” She wasn’t making any sense, but her tongue kept drawing circles. “Do you think God is up there somewhere rubbing his hands together and laughing?”
“Do I want to know what you’re talking about?” He loomed over her, propped against the headboard.
“Probably not.” Her tongue felt like it had been shot with Novocain. “I love you, Alec.”
What did a firing-squad victim feel once the shot was fired? Relief it was done, or dread for the impact?
He touched her hair so softly she could barely feel it, yet she flinched.
“You love me.” His tone wasn’t wondering or suspicious, but strangely emotionless.
“That’s what I said. I love you.” A longer silence this time, but his hand still played in her hair. Tears burned their way up her throat. “You don’t have to . . . if there’s not a chance you’ll ever feel the same, don’t drag things out thinking it’ll be easier later. It won’t. But if you think maybe you could grow to . . . care about me, then I hope you’ll hang around to see where this goes.”
“Why do you assume I don’t already love you?”
“Because . . .” What could she say that didn’t make her sound insecure and self-conscious? She settled on a shrug that she wasn’t even sure he could see.
He moved over her, his chest pressing against hers, expelling air in a long, slow sigh. His fingers had worked their way into her hair to her scalp, his nose brushing hers, his lips achingly close. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“That I love you but was terrified to tell you.”
She jerked up, popping her forehead against his. He flopped to his back, groaning and rubbing his head. She reversed their position, laying half on top of him and cupping his face. “Say that again.”
“Which part?” The muscles of his cheeks shifted into a smile under her hands.
“Stop teasing me.”
“I love you, Lilliana.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why do you love me?”
“Nope. I asked first.”
He huffed out what might have been an irritated sigh or a slight laugh. “I love the way you laugh. The way you make me laugh.” His voice was rough and quiet as if the words were rubbing across sandpaper on their way out.
“You could watch Comedy Central if all you wanted was to laugh, Alec.”
He spread her hair around her shoulders. “This is hard. Why do you love me?”
She could hear the insecurity behind the question because it mimicked her own. She’d thrown herself into the fray once already with positive results. “I love you because you believe in my painting. I love you for coming to church with me, for installing the surge protector, for bringing the food. I love you because you care about what happens to a seventeen-year-old kid and because you’re trying to forgive your parents. I love you because you make me feel beautiful. I love you because you’re a good person with a big heart.”
“Wow.” His voice cracked with the word.
Silence. She poked him in the ribs. “Now would be a good time to say something.”
“I-I love how you take care of everyone around you not because of what they can do for you, but just because. I love how you’ve helped me shed my past and accept my tattoos.” His shoulders moved, and his voice dropped into a
husky whisper. “You make me happy.”
She kissed him. A sweet, gentle kiss with only her lips. A kiss that spoke of love and laughter and things she wasn’t quite fearless enough to bring up like commitment and the future.
He maneuvered them into a spoon position, her butt nestled into his pelvis. One of his hands cupped her breast and she curled her hand around his. She yawned, long and loud. His chest rumbled against her back.
“I forgot to mention a couple of other things I really love,” he whispered.
She lilted a questioning hum.
“These.” He gently squeezed her breasts.
She laughed first, and he joined her. He didn’t love just her boobs. She believed that. Believed in him. With those thoughts running through her head, she fell asleep wrapped in his arms.
22
Falcon’s playoff game loomed large in the town. Excitement crackled down Main Street. Blue-and-white bunting decorated every place of business. Earlier in the week at her aunt’s request, she’d painted football caricatures on the front window of the library.
She was nervous about what people would think, but the window became so popular, it caused traffic problems on Main Street. Several businesses asked her to do theirs as well, and she agreed. Seeing people stop with their kids to admire her work filled her with an incredible satisfaction, and her confidence blossomed under the stream of compliments.
As she was putting the finishing touches on the window of Wilson’s antique store, Henry and Jeremy came out to look. Henry’s bushy white beard twitched with his grin. “Damn, girl, that fancy art school up north was worth it. You have talent.”
“Thanks, Henry. You’re sweet.” She leaned over to give him a kiss on a bristly cheek, the smell of nicotine strong. “Hey, I thought you were trying to quit the cancer sticks.”
He shrugged, his smile still in place but his eyes now drawn into worried creases. “Best be getting back inside. You sure I can’t give you something for your work?”
“Nope. I consider it my civic duty.”
Melting into You Page 22
