by Sylvia Day
“Yes.”
Garrett turns back and sets the stuff—wrapped mortadella and some cheese—back on the island. “How about I slice what there is to slice and you arrange?”
“Deal.”
He holds my gaze. “And how about I drive you to the gym and join with you?”
“Really? But you’ve got all this stuff here.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy getting sweaty with you.”
I smile. “Okay.”
He washes his hands at the sink. “Glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the fridge. There’s juice, water, iced tea. Or I can make you something hot?”
“I’ll get it, thank you.”
He sets to work as I pour myself a glass of iced tea. I realize, as he starts unwrapping what we bought, that there’s a lot to do.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“Nah. I got this.”
“Should I go get my charcuterie board from next door?”
“I have one.”
“Really?”
Looking up, he winks at me. “Really.”
“Makes me wonder what else you’ve got around here that would surprise me.”
“I’m full of surprises, babe.” He pulls a wicked-looking knife out of the block on the counter and starts slicing into a log of salami.
And I admit he’s not wrong—he’s been surprising me since the day he showed up. “Do you mind if I look around?”
“I didn’t ask you when I went through your place.”
“I have better manners.”
He grins. “Be my guest. I keep my boxer briefs in the top drawer on the right, in case you want to snag a pair to put under your pillow.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff, Frost?” I move toward the hallway.
“Teagan.”
The gravity in his voice has me looking back over my shoulder. “Yes?”
Garrett sets down the knife, his face austere. “There are family photos in my office. I closed the door before you came over, but you’re welcome to go in there. If you want to. It’s the only door that’s closed.”
I take that in, then nod slowly. “Thank you.”
He manages a grim smile, then goes back to work.
I head down the hall. The first door I pass was Les and Marge’s guest room, which seems to be the one he’s using. I inhale deeply, smelling him. This door was closed the night he had us over for dinner, and I wondered then what he was using it for.
A large platform bed covered in gray sheets and comforter dominates the room. There’s a dresser across from the foot of the bed and a single nightstand closest to the door. There is no hardware on the natural wood furniture, which boasts clean modern lines, and the large window is bare of any covering, providing an all-encompassing view of Puget Sound.
One of his paintings hangs on the wall, this one a misty blend of crimson shades that vaguely suggests the lines of a woman’s nude body. It’s smaller than the piece in the living room and, unlike that one, overtly sensual. I feel flushed just looking at it. Turning away, I see his running shoes in the corner. On top of the dresser is a shiny black dish holding a single ring: a gold band.
My heart is hurting when I leave the room, the echoes of love lost resonating deep.
The guest bathroom is next, and it’s evident Garrett uses it as his personal washroom. It was cleaned up during the dinner party, but now the glass-enclosed shower holds his razor and toiletries. I’ve long admired the washroom’s Calacatta marble vanity and shower, as well as the brass fixtures that add warmth to the space. I somehow like it more now, with all his personal items scattered around it.
I also can’t help but picture him in that big standing shower, all that deeply tanned and tattooed skin, those rippling muscles, that impressive penis . . .
Clearing my throat, I quickly flick off the light and back out to the hallway.
The next door is closed. I pause in front of it, debating the wisdom of looking inside. I’m not sure I want to see the man he was before, when I’m just getting to know the man he is now. I’m afraid I will compare the two and that could somehow disrupt the tenuous bond forming between us.
Still, my fingers wrap around the door lever. I hold it long enough to warm the brushed nickel. Then I hear a soft noise and look down the hall, finding Garrett leaning into the wall, watching me. We stare at each other for a long moment. His face gives nothing away. As charming as he is when smiling, he’s truly beautiful now, so quiet and serious.
My hand falls back to my side. I think he sighs, but I might have imagined it.
“Can I go upstairs?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I turn left to climb the staircase, knowing the entire top floor is the master bedroom despite never actually seeing it before. The staircase curves, and light floods the way in front of me. A breeze drifts through, bringing the scent of fresh paint to my nose. There’s a small landing at the top of the stairs, but it’s empty. Straight ahead, the double-door entrance to the room is wide open, exposing a view of the Sound very much like the one in my living room, which is level with his second story.
It’s obvious the master bedroom is his workshop and used for nothing else. There is a mini fridge in the corner, topped with a microwave, which in turn is topped by a hot plate and teakettle. The hardwood floor has been completely covered with canvas drop cloths, underneath which I can spot newsprint taped wall-to-wall. Aluminum ladders of varying heights stand open or lean, folded, against the walls amid scattered cans of paint. There are brushes of all sizes and shapes, some new in their packages, others laid to dry on an industrial workbench after cleaning.
A quick look into the outsize master bath shows a double-sink vanity with dozens of mason jars holding more brushes.
I deliberately avoid taking in the painting Garrett’s working on until there’s nothing else I can look at. When I finally focus my attention on it, all I can do is gasp.
11
“Do you like it?”
Spellbound by the violent beauty of the work, I don’t turn at the sound of Garrett’s voice. While still an abstract piece, it’s far removed in tone and style from his other paintings. “It’s . . . I don’t have the words. Beautiful seems too tame. It feels like it’s moving.”
And it looks like the abyss I’ve spent so much time in over the past year. It’s like he saw into my mind and gave it visual life.
The giant canvas soars toward the high, pitched roof and is covered in varying shades of white, gray, and black, from the lightest fog to the darkest ebony. The brushstrokes and shifts of color give the impression of both a whirlpool and whirlwind, with the luminescence of light in water and the misty edges of a rain-lashed tornado. In the eye of the storm, a sinuous ribbon of bright white highlights the maelstrom, gliding up as a thin line at the bottom and broadening at the top. Pale pink edges the white as it grows in prominence, creating a point of serenity and beauty in the midst of the tempest.
“It’s gorgeous, Garrett. It . . . moves me.” Reaching out, I trace the band of rosy white without directly touching the canvas.
“That light in the darkness is you,” he says quietly, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. “The rest is me.”
Tears sting my eyes. Armed with that insight, I can see that the furious storm is less about rage and more about agony. The depth of his anguish wounds me deeply. The thought of him working on this for the past several days, putting his soul into it brushstroke by brushstroke, makes me so sad.
I lean into him, feeling his warmth at my back and his strength supporting me. “I feel the same,” I tell him softly, “in reverse.”
His lips curve in a smile against the bare skin of my shoulder before he presses a kiss there. “Totally what I was going for,” he teases.
And just like that, the sadness dissipates. That’s his magic. It awes me to think I might wield that same power over him.
His hands slip under the hem of my top and splay across my be
lly.
“I want to buy it,” I say abruptly, unable to imagine anyone else having it.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Garrett!”
“Sorry, Doc. Not everything I create is for public consumption. Some things are just for me. But you can always come over and look at it.”
I pout. Tingles are spreading across my skin from the rhythmic glide of his fingers along the lower curve of my breasts. My nipples have tightened into hard points, shamelessly begging to be touched. Or sucked.
His lips brush against my ear. “I’m just as hard as you are.”
I pull in a shaky breath.
Garrett’s hands finally cup my breasts, his thumbs and forefingers wrapping around the aching tips and rolling them gently.
My head falls back against his shoulder, a low moan filling the air between us. I can feel his erection cradled between the cheeks of my buttocks.
“You ready for what’s next?” he asks, his voice husky.
Turning, I face him. His eyes are dark, his cheeks flushed. His lips part, the tip of his tongue gliding along the seam. There is so much about his face that I love.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
“Come on, then.” He holds his hand out to me and leads me back downstairs.
I’m unaccountably nervous, my breathing too quick. “Should we put the food away?”
“Already done.”
“Was this a foregone conclusion, then?”
“I’m an optimist when it comes to you, Teagan.” We enter his bedroom, and my pulse races. He faces me. “I need you more than I need anything else. I’d even give up painting for you, if that’s what it takes.”
Amazement replaces my nervousness. “I would never ask you to do that.”
“I hope you don’t, but I wasn’t painting without you and don’t expect I could if I lost you, so”—he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside—“if I ever have to choose between the two, I choose you.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and bends to untie his boots, as if he hasn’t just declared a level of affection and commitment that will forever change both our lives. I’m shaken, achingly aware that what’s about to happen next has become more than a “next step.” And I’m okay with that. More than okay. But . . .
I point at the painting on the wall. “I don’t know if I can give you what inspired that.”
He doesn’t even look, his gaze on me instead. “I’m not looking for what I had. I’m too busy wanting what I have in front of me right now.”
I toe off my Converse and reach for my liner socks.
“Just the socks and shoes,” he tells me. “I’ll take care of the rest myself.”
“Then I get to take off your pants. And briefs.”
He grins wolfishly. “Deal.”
The other boot hits the floor and is tossed in the corner with the first one. His socks come next. He folds them together, then tosses them aside, too. The entire process is somehow erotic. The beautifully defined lines of his back as he bends over, the way his abs flex as he straightens, the bunching and releasing of his biceps.
“You are seriously hot,” I tell him. “And very, very sexy.”
Garrett stands and towers over me. “I’m very glad to hear that killing myself to impress you was worth the effort.”
“Oh God. Don’t even.”
“No lie.” His hands grip my waist. “I’ve been trying for every advantage I can think of.”
“Which puts me at a total disadvantage,” I whisper.
His hands grip the hem of my shirt and tug gently. “Let’s even things up a bit.”
Taking a deep breath, I stretch my arms over my head. The top lifts and blocks my vision for a moment, which only makes the change in Garrett’s breathing more noticeable.
When I see his face again, his eyes are a bright gold.
“Now I’m the one who has no words,” he says gruffly.
I reach for the fly of his jeans, my fingers trembling as I work to free the button. His erection is hard and thick behind the denim, straining against my knuckles.
“I’m nervous, too,” he tells me.
Shaking my head, disbelieving that statement, I manage to pop the button through the hole, then catch the zipper pull in my trembling fingers. The placket falls open, revealing boxer briefs and a prominent bulge stretching against the black fabric.
Garrett lifts me, then sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me onto his lap so I straddle his hips. His chest is hot against my bare breasts, the light dusting of hair teasing my nipples. He smells wonderful, just a trace of citrusy musk that is both refreshing and stimulating.
“No fair,” I complain. “We had a deal.”
“I know, and we’ll get there, I promise. I’m just a little too excited right now, and I don’t want to go too fast.”
I pout. He smiles, then grips me by the nape, pulling me in for a kiss. It starts out slow, with teasing licks of his tongue between my lips.
His mouth . . . God, it’s truly divine. He holds me in place as he ravages me with a skilled, possessive kiss. My hands run up his chest and over his shoulders, kneading the hard muscle, caressing the firm skin. My palms tingle with the contact, sending frissons of electricity along my arms.
I moan his name. My hips rock against him, desperate to find friction.
Garrett twists at the waist, holding me to him as he lowers me to the bed. I try to wrap my legs around his hips, but he slides away, his lips circling my aching nipple with drenching heat.
I gasp and arch upward. Laying his forearm across my chest, he holds me down. He sucks rhythmically on the tender point, his tongue flickering over the taut peak with wicked precision. My core tightens greedily; my clit throbs with jealousy.
Panting, I dig into the mattress with my heels. “Garrett, please.”
His mouth moves to my other breast, drawing with hot, firm suction. The breast he abandoned is cupped in his hand, plumped with soft squeezes, his thumb brushing over the cooled wet nipple.
Tilting my hips, I rub against the ridges of his abs, moaning as the erotic pressure makes my core tighten like a fist. His lips slide between my breasts, his tongue stroking a line down my stomach to my navel. He circles it with his tongue, dipping in, then gliding lower.
I’m certain I’ll combust if he doesn’t let up. I want to tell him to slow down, to let me catch my breath, regain control. The words won’t form; the thought goes unsaid.
I reach for his shoulders, but he rises, tugging open the button fly of my shorts before yanking them off me in one powerful movement.
When my bare bottom touches the coverlet, I realize he’s completely undressed me. There’s nothing to hold him back now, and he proves it, sliding his hands behind my knees and pushing my thighs to my chest. He dives between my legs with a groan that flows over me in a rush of goose bumps.
I cry out when his tongue slides through the folds of my cleft, the tip seeking and caressing my clit. Hairless and smooth, my most sensitive flesh has nothing to blunt the stroke of his tongue. I moan, shuddering softly when his tongue flutters over the tender opening to my sex.
Arching my neck, my eyes squeeze shut. My thighs fall open. My fingers push into his hair, feeling damp heat at the roots.
Garrett grips the back of my thighs, holding me open to his questing mouth. His lips circle my clit, forming a tight ring through which he sucks. A long, breathless cry escapes me. Perspiration blooms over my skin in a mist of heat. The teasing tugs make my core clench in rhythmic need, desperate to be stretched and filled.
His hands slide down until his thumbs caress the lips of my cleft. He pulls me open, exposing everything. As his head lifts to look at me, my hands cover my face.
“I can’t wait to slide into you,” he says, lusty smoke in his voice. His thumb pushes through sensitive tissues. He groans when I tighten helplessly around the shallow penetration. “You’re so tight and wet.”
Swallowing hard, I touch his cheek
. “Now. Do it now.”
Withdrawing, he licks the pad of his thumb, tasting me. “I’m fucking you with my tongue first,” he growls. “You’re so damn sweet, I might eat you for hours.”
I make a sound of protest, reaching for him, but his hair is too short to pull. I can only watch as Garrett lowers his dark head, his tongue licking his lips before his mouth is on me again. A slow, tormenting swipe through my cleft, then his talented tongue is thrusting inside me, stroking with ruthless skill.
My back arches off the bed, my body racked by sharp pulses of pleasure. My core tightens in mindless hunger, wanting everything he’s got to give me. Deeper, harder. The heat of Garrett’s palms covers my breasts, squeezing the swollen flesh, spurring need to tear through me. His tongue plunges in and out, taunting with the promise of a deeper, more thorough fucking to come.
“Garrett, please.” I don’t care if I’m begging. I can’t lie still. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin, lost to an animal hunger that makes embarrassment or modesty impossible.
He tugs my nipples with the gentle pinch of his fingers; then his splayed hands slide over my belly and his thumbs find my clit, pressing and circling. The orgasm tears through me, stiffening my spine even as my sex spasms around his thrusting tongue. He groans against me as I come for him, the vibration of the sound spurring a second wave of climax. Cupping my hips, he lifts me, eating my pussy with lush, voracious licking.
Black spots swim before my eyes. I take a deep breath only to arch violently again, driven to yet another orgasm by hot, wet suction on my hypersensitive clit.
It’s too much; I can’t bear it. I have been numb for too long. The rush of sensation is painfully acute. My heart feels as if it’s pounding against my rib cage, my lungs burn with the need for air, my skin feels as if it’s being assailed with a million pins and needles.
“Stop,” I gasp, my hands fisted in my hair. “God, please stop.”
Garrett sets me down and pulls away, his labored breathing harsh in the near silence. Sweat slides down my throat and between my breasts. I lay sprawled, panting, my sex throbbing. It takes all my energy to curl into a ball. I have denied myself pleasure for so long, a prohibition Garrett shattered with ruthless, passionate determination.