And damn, if she’s not licking every last inch of me.
And damn, if I’m not at her mercy.
Heat and adrenaline pulse through me, and my hand finds her head, fingers slipping into her hair, but I don’t even need to guide her. She’s exactly where I need her, how I need her. There is something about this woman’s mouth, her tongue, that is quite possibly heaven on earth. It’s a bliss that I welcome, and yet, suddenly I’m not in this heavenly moment. I’m flashing back to right before she fell asleep. To me helping her undress.
In my mind’s eye, I see us standing next to the bed, her in the dress she wore to the Chris and Sara Merit gallery event, me in the same blue suit I have yet to fully remove. She’d just kicked off her shoes, finally coming down from the high of selling her art, her body calming. Me, I’d been reveling in her in my bed, and in our vow that “possibilities” were the new hard rule we’d follow. “I’m completely wiped out,” she’d confessed. “I think you are going to wish I was someone else tonight.”
Those words had jolted me, and I cupped her head and pulled her to me. “What did you say?” I’d demanded, but I didn’t give her time to reply. “That came from someplace I’d most likely name as Macom,” I’d said of her ex, whom I already knew used sex as a weapon against her. “I’m not him,” I’d continued. “And we are more than the sum of how many times we manage to fuck each other. And for the record. To repeat what I’ve already said. I don’t want anyone else.”
Her lashes lowered. “I think that was possibly the most perfect thing you could say to me right now.”
And in that moment, I’d remembered her comment about Macom competing with her, and I’d decided that Faith thinks her success comes with punishment. A problem I needed to fix. I need to fix. I had intentionally put her to bed without touching her. I come back to the present, to her mouth on my cock, pleasure with every stroke, pump, and lick, and I am so damn hard and close to release. I want it. Holy hell, I want it so fucking badly, and I have no doubt that she would take me to absolute completion and rock my world. But this, what we are doing right now, and why we are doing it, is exactly what I didn’t want tonight to be for her or us.
Suddenly, my orgasm doesn’t matter, no matter how close I am to heaven, or sweet Jesus, how damn good it would be. “Faith,” I say, and despite my determination and intention to end this, her name comes out a pained near-growl. “Stop.” I slip my fingers from her hair, and cup the sides of her head. “Stop, Faith. Sweetheart. Stop.” She stills, as if the words and my touch finally penetrate her brain, and pulls her mouth slowly back until it’s no longer on my cock. But her hand still grips my erection, and I swear just the idea of removing it is torture.
Confusion flits across her beautiful, desire-laden expression, and I pull her to her feet and to me, my hand at the back of her head. “I’ve decided that your mouth on my cock is the best thing in this world, outside of my mouth on you while you come for me, and because of me.”
“Then why did you stop me?”
“Because you were on your knees for all the wrong reasons, sweetheart. I don’t need this to be with you, and that’s what you thought, wasn’t it?”
“You needed something. You were watching me.”
“And wondering how the hell it felt so fucking good just to watch you,” I say, relieved to speak the truth, and it is the truth. “Like I said. We are not the sum of how many times or ways we fuck, and that’s new territory for me. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“I’m trying to figure all this out, too,” she confesses.
“Does that mean you like being in my bed?”
“I like many things about you, Nick Rogers, that I didn’t expect to like, but yes. I do.”
“We’ll figure it out together,” I promise, scooping her up in my arms, her gorgeous, naked body pressed to mine. She is so tiny, and yet she’s seized my world in gigantic proportions, in ways I never thought any woman capable.
I stop at the side of the bed, setting her down on the mattress, and to ensure my control stays firmly intact, I adjust my cock back inside my pants. And I did so, just in time considering, she’s now scooted across the bed, and rolled to her side, to prop up on one elbow. Her breasts displayed, the curve of her waist, the rise of her hip, sexy as hell, and I’m hard as nails all over again. I toe-off my shoes and slide into bed with her, pulling the covers over us, and before she can protest, I’m turning her back to my front and pulling her close. And just the feel of her next to me, the sweet amber scent of her, consumes my senses, in every right way. The truth is this woman is everything I’ve known right in this world.
“Nick,” she says softly.
“Yes Faith?”
“Why are you not naked with me?”
“If I do that I’ll end up inside you.”
“And that’s bad why?”
“Because,” I say. “Tonight, I really want you to know that I see the beautiful, talented part of you, not just your body.”
She gives an insistent tug and twist, rotating to face me, her fingers curling on my chest. “If there is anyone in my life that I believe sees beyond the surface, it’s you.”
“And yet you thought I was upset because we didn’t fuck tonight,” I say. “Which means you don’t trust me, or us, yet.”
“It’s not about you,” she says, “or us. It’s about my own baggage that I wish didn’t exist.” She touches my cheek. “But whatever the case. I told you. I don’t need a knight in shining armor.”
“And I told you,” I say, “I know that, but the more evident that becomes, the more I seem to want to be that for you. And I don’t do the knight routine.”
“Well then, if you are going in that direction, and it appears that you are, then you should know that my knight, should I want one, would be inside me right now.” She leans in, her lips a breath from mine, her fingers tearing away the tie holding my hair in place, before her fingers are diving into the loose strands. “Be inside me right now, Nick.”
She presses her lips to mine, and the minute her tongue touches mine, I need her. I just plain need this woman, and I don’t hold back. I kiss her, and touch her, and it is not long before my pants are gone, and I give her what she wants, what I want. I press inside the wet heat of her body, my hand sliding up her back, fingers splayed between her shoulder blades, molding all her soft perfection to every hard part of me.
“Now I’m inside you,” I murmur, my lips closing down on hers, my tongue licking against hers, in what becomes a drugging kiss that has nothing to do with fucking, and everything to do with how much this woman is inside me. And I still don’t taste murder. I don’t taste lies. There is just hunger. Hers. Mine. Ours. And we savor it, and each other, with slow kisses, our bodies moving in a gentle dance. My lips on her shoulder, her nipple, her neck. My hand everywhere I can find skin. But it’s when she whispers my name, when she says, “Nick,” in that same way she kisses me, like I’m the only way she can take her next breath, that I know I can’t breathe without her.
I tangle fingers in the silk of her blonde hair and pull her closer, her mouth lingering one of those breaths from mine. “What are you doing to me, woman?” I demand, but I don’t give her time to respond. I kiss her, and the instant our tongues collide, there is a shift between us, the hunger turning darker and more demanding, and I drive into her, pulling her against me, her face buried in my neck until she trembles into release. I quickly follow with shuddered finality, but there is nothing final about my desire for this woman.
I hold her close but force myself to release her and walk to the bathroom, returning with a towel I offer her. She’s barely slipped it between her legs before I’m behind her, pulling her back into my arms, wrapping my body around hers. Neither of us speak, but I can almost hear her thinking as hard as I’m thinking. I want to clear my conscience and tell her everything, but tonight is about her art. Tonight is about us sharing her life, a life.
Fuck. That’s what I want.
; I could tell her the truth now, about why I sought her out, with the hope that together we can solve the mystery of our parents’ deaths. But not only is this night her night to celebrate her art, and I would never strip that well-deserved joy from her, but she’d push me away before I solve this mystery and save her winery. Before I am certain that she is not in danger, and more exposed without me than with me. And the moment I opened us up to possibilities, I knew, even if she did not, that I wanted her in my life, not just my bed. And the minute I decided she wasn’t a killer, I became a liar who needs her to trust me, when her reaction to me tonight says she does not. Not fully, not yet. And somehow, while she exposes herself, while she gives me that trust, and before I reveal the truth, as I must, I have to convince her that just as we are not the sum of how many times or ways we fuck, neither are we the sum of my lies.
CHAPTER TWO
Faith
I wake to the soft glow of a new day, a barely realized sunbeam splaying through the bedroom windows, and the woodsy, wonderful scent of Nick surrounding me, his hard body wrapped around mine, and I don’t want to wake up. I shut my eyes again, reliving this weekend in random little pieces, starting with our arrival at his house. His expensive cars in the garage. Me calling him a “rich guy,” which he claimed with pride and a declaration of hard work. Boldly himself, and it had stirred both envy and arousal in me.
“Let’s go inside, Faith,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Let’s go see what a man like you calls home.”
“A man like me,” he repeats. “You can explain that later. Naked.”
I hurry into the house, and once there, I take in the stunningly gorgeous house, the pale wooden floors, the high ceilings, layers of beautiful décor and fixtures as complex as the man and all he makes me feel. I turn to face him. “It’s a beautiful house, Nick. It smells like you.”
“And how do I smell, Faith?”
“Like control. Like sex. Woodsy and sexy.”
“And you, sweetheart, smell like—”
“Amber and vanilla,” I say, before he can say roses. Or flowers. Because the last thing I want to be reminded of right now is the garden at the winery, my mother’s garden.
“Yes,” he confirms, “you do. And I’m obsessed with your scent. I’m obsessed with you.”
“Obsessed,” I say. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous.”
Dangerous.
I blink with that word, and in contrast to the reaction you’d think that word would evoke, I snuggle a little closer to Nick, my hand on his where it rests on my belly. And yet as I shut my eyes again, that word echoes in my mind, and I don’t know why.
Dangerous.
Dangerous.
Dangerous.
Sex is safe. It’s just sex. It’s just fucking. Or it was with Macom. It was supposed to be with Nick. But now there is a new hard rule: possibilities, and possibilities are dangerous. They expose me in ways I don’t know if I want to be exposed. And yet I crave every one I might have with Nick. In other words: Nick is dangerous.
Letting him get too close is dangerous. Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to capture in my paintings of him. Nick Rogers is dangerous. He has secrets. He’ll discover my secrets. He once told me that he wanted to see the woman behind the wall. The real me, stripped bare and not just exposed. Willingly exposed. Will I ever be willingly exposed?
Do I dare?
My lashes open, and this time there is a beam of bright sunlight in my eyes, and I no longer feel Nick behind me. Rolling over, I find the space next to me empty. I glance at the clock that reads ten o’clock and suck in air. Oh no. I fell back to sleep and stayed asleep a long time. I sit up, frustrated with myself. I’m supposed to fly home today and I’ve wasted the little time I have with Nick in bed without him. Tossing aside the covers, I assume he’s up, dressed, and busy by now.
I start to get up, and my gaze lands on that card from my father, a knot forming in my chest. What does it say that I want to open it with Nick and have him spank me, to deal with the emotional explosion to follow? I wouldn’t even tell Macom about that card. Never. Ever. In a million years. And I would not invite him to spank me to deal with it. Sex with Macom was the wall Nick talked about me putting up, a big, thick emotional wall I didn’t even recognize until near the end of our relationship. Macom never knew it existed. And yet Nick knew from the moment he met me. And sex with Nick is raw and real. So damn raw and real that it is terrifyingly addictive.
I throw away the blankets and stand, feeling naked and exposed beyond the physical with Nick, and in some ways, I’m not sure I have ever felt naked and exposed with anyone. And I’ve been in some pretty intense, naked positions with Macom, that’s for sure. I’m halfway across the room when footfalls sound on the steps, and I react to that emotion, darting forward and into the bathroom, where I grab my robe and pull it on, swiping at the wild mess on my head. And oh God. Why do I look like that Ring horror chick again, with mascara under my eyes? I need new makeup.
It’s in that moment that Nick steps into the doorway, his broad shoulders consuming its width, his fierce masculinity consuming me. And while last night he was the picture of corporate power in a blue suit, refined with that hard, alpha edge of his, today, in black jeans, a black t-shirt, and biker boots, a light stubble on his jaw, his longish hair barely contained in a tie at his nape, he personifies that raw, real feeling of every touch and kiss that we share. Most definitely the ones we shared last night. I swear even the coffee cup in his hand somehow makes him sexier. I really, really think I need to lick him all over after watching him undress.
“Hi,” I say, not even sure why that’s what comes out of my mouth.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes lighting. “You’re looking bright-eyed this morning.”
I laugh and shake my head, pointing at my cheeks and then turning to the mirror, hands pressed to the counter. “This is your fault,” I say, looking at myself and then him. “I’m always naked and in bed before I get my makeup off.”
He saunters toward me, setting the cup on the counter. “I’d apologize,” he says, “but I just can’t be sorry.” His hands find my waist, and he turns me to face him, his touch somehow more electric than ever before, the collision of our eyes, which is always intense, now downright combustible. “I like you naked and in my bed too much,” he adds, a rough quality to his voice that is somehow both silk and sandpaper at the same time. And as we look at each other, there is something I cannot name expanding between us. Something happening between us. Something rich with those possibilities we’ve vowed to explore.
And suddenly, I can’t seem to catch my breath. “I…uh…” I swallow hard. “It turns out I sleep really well in your bed, when I haven’t been sleeping well really ever.” That confession is out before I can stop it, exposed all over again, and in turn, I change the subject, “Why didn’t you wake me up? My flight—”
“Your flight leaves when I say it leaves, and I didn’t wake you up because I like you in my bed.” He reaches for the coffee cup. “I made this special for you, and there are chocolate croissants on the nightstand that I had delivered from the bakery on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For an arrogant bastard, you’re very considerate.”
“Let’s keep that as our secret,” he says. “I don’t want anyone but you believing I’ve grown a heart.” I’d ask if he has, but he quickly, almost too quickly, moves on, offering me the cup. “Try it.”
I accept the cup, my gaze lowering as the brush of our fingers sends a rush of sizzling heat rushing up my arm, and I wonder if Nick feels what I feel. This crazy, fierce magnetic pull that wants me to just melt into him. I take a sip, the secret rich beverage surprising my taste buds, my gaze lifting to his. “Is that Baileys I taste?”
“You know your whiskey,” he says.
“Only the sweet-tasting, wonderful stuff, like Irish cream,” I say. “And are you trying to get me drunk? Because you know I’m a
lightweight. Or if you don’t know, you’re about to if I finish this.”
“Nothing wrong with a little buzz,” he says, stroking my cheek, his tone sobering. “We need to talk, sweetheart, and I thought I’d help you relax a little in advance.”
My defenses prickle, and the fear that I’ve read him wrong, us wrong, comes at me hard and fast. “Nick, if you regret last night and that talk of a new hard rule—”
“I don’t,” he says, taking the cup from me and setting it down. “We need to talk about the winery, and I need to be your attorney for a few hours. And I know that’s not easy territory for you. It’s not going to be easy territory for us.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he says, cupping my face. “Sweetheart, I am an arrogant bastard. A ruthless, arrogant bastard.”
“Your point?”
His lips curve. “Your point,” he says, at my obvious agreement. “My point,” he says, softening his voice, “is that all the good that is in me is here with you—hell, maybe because of you. So, I don’t just want those possibilities. I’m pretty damn sure that I need them, which means you. Stop looking for the bad. Unless you—”
“I don’t want to back out,” I say, realizing only then how much I mean that statement. “Hard rule: possibilities.”
“Good,” he says, his hands settling back on my waist. “Drink your coffee. Take a hot bath if you want, and relax. No one uses that tub, so you should. There’s no rush. I’ll be in the kitchen at the bar working when you’re ready. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and then he’s releasing me and walking to the door, gone before I can stop him, though I’m not sure why I want to. I just do. I want to pull him back, but he disappears. I inhale as he departs and face the counter, staring at my mascara-stained face, which he actually seems to find acceptable. Macom would not have thought this was acceptable, and I think back to all the times I thought I was raw and real with Macom. I was never real with Macom, and as for raw, well, perhaps, but in a cutting, harsh way, not like what I have with Nick, which I can’t even name or truly describe.
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