Wild Ride

by Nancy Warren

  “Bipolar. Yes.”

  “Painted almost eighty paintings in the last few months of his life. At one point he painted a canvas a day.”

  “Is that one of them?” She couldn’t move to gesture so she said, “The painting with the olive trees and that farmhouse?”

  The brush stilled. He glanced sharply at her. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t.” But there’d been all those homes in Europe, all those galleries. “Maybe the style?”

  “You’ve got a good eye.” And the odd moment passed.

  He teased the brush down toward her belly. She wanted him hitting a certain spot and she wanted it badly.

  “Are you a fast painter?”

  “I believe in attention to detail,” he said, as though he weren’t picking up on her need when she knew damn well he was.

  He took another brush from his pocket and lightly traced each of her ribs. Sensation radiated all over her body and she bit back a whimper.

  “Don’t move,” he warned softly, as he brushed her skin, moving slowly lower.

  “I am going to make you pay for this,” she informed him from behind clenched teeth. She was going to think up something so diabolical, he’d barely be able to walk when she was done.

  “Oh, I hope so,” he replied, not looking at all frightened of the consequences. “Some of Van Gogh’s paintings went missing during the war. Hidden or looted and never seen again.”

  The soft, silky stroking was driving her mad with a mixture of white-hot desire, need, and frustration.

  “Is that what your book is about?” she asked, trying to find words when her mouth only wanted to moan.

  There was a pause and the brush stopped moving for a second. Then he said, “Yes. In part.” He reached her belly and she felt her skin prickle with goose flesh as the brush teased her, traced the diamond stud in her navel.

  As the brush headed toward her most secret parts all her tortured senses centered on that wide open space he’d created when he posed her with her legs apart.

  Never in her life had she felt this hot, this needy. This vulnerable.

  His eyes gleamed with unholy delight and she knew he was as aware of her distress as though he shared it.

  Holding her gaze, he took a brand new brush out of his pocket with long strands of silky black. While she watched, hardly daring to believe he’d do it, he dipped the tip of the brush inside her and trailed the wetness up to her throbbing center.

  Nothing, not all the will in the world, could keep her hips still. She jerked helplessly as he swirled the silky, soft strands around and over.

  All her nerve endings, every scrap of sensation, was centered in her core. She longed for the soft tease of that brush, knowing she was going to explode momentarily.

  He cast a quick, intimate glance up at her face; then, with utter concentration, slowly brought the now-wet brush and flicked it back and forth across her hot button.

  “Unhhhn” she cried.

  “Shhh. Hold still,” he answered. Oh, like that was possible.

  The threat of death couldn’t stop her moving when the agonizing delight of the soft, wet strands brushed across her again and again. So wildly did her hips buck that he ended up “painting” part of her thigh.

  “Tsk, tsk. I usually keep a damp rag handy for little mistakes.” He shrugged. “I don’t have a damp rag, but–” And he leaned forward and licked her.

  “Oh, oh, yes,” she cried, as the soft, wet slide of his tongue rolled over her. There was no more teasing, no more torment; she knew he was as far beyond it as she when he cupped her hips in his strong hands and this time physically held her still as he licked at her with strong, regular strokes and she rose to a dizzying height.

  She was going crazy as his tongue licked and then filled the empty, wet place that hungered until her head and shoulders came right up off the couch as she cried out, her entire body convulsing in climax.

  He held her through it, sucking the last of her orgasm right out of her until she fell, limp and gasping, back to the couch. In seconds, he’d fumbled a condom from somewhere close.

  He was naked and sheathed before she’d come anywhere near back to earth, and, kneeling at the end of the couch between her thighs, once more he cupped her hips and lifted her.

  She put her forearms down and pushed, thrusting her hips up until he could slide in deep and hard. He hit the magic spot deep inside that was still throbbing while she wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked her pelvis back and forth against him.

  He filled her all the way, stretching and filling her until the dam burst again. As her inner walls clenched and kneaded him, she felt him go rigid, then the last jerking thrusts of release before he collapsed on top of her.

  “That was quite a painting,” she finally said.

  “My masterpiece.”

  When she had her breath back she hopped up before he could stop her and checked out the sketch. It was rough yet, but the reclining figure contained such sexual energy she could feel it. He’d caught her eyes, she thought. Even though he’d made her keep them shut for most of the time, he’d painted them looking right at him. Challenging, erotic and soft all at once.

  “I hate showing unfinished work,” he grumbled, coming up beside her.

  “I love it,” she said softly.

  “You want a glass of wine?” He clearly wanted to change the subject.

  She kissed his chin. “Shower first?”

  She’d come here intending to have sex, but wow! She hadn’t had a clue he could tease her like that and she’d respond so wildly.

  The water pounded against skin that was still sensitive, so she tipped her head back and enjoyed the warmth cascading against her breasts and belly.

  Over the pounding of the water and her own erotic thoughts, she didn’t hear the bathroom door open. Didn’t notice the bathtub curtain pull back slightly. Didn’t clue in that she wasn’t alone until big, warm hands cupped her soap-slick breasts.

  Her slight gasp of surprise turned into a sigh of pleasure as his fingers toyed with the soapy peaks and then slid down her belly.

  Between the soap and the shampoo, the warm water and their hands and mouths, the shower took some time. By unspoken mutual consent, they aroused and teased but didn’t take each other over the top. This time, they wanted to be in bed.

  After the laughter and silliness, the paintbrushes and the torment, it was strangely intimate to slip naked between the sheets.

  She turned to him and he pulled her against him, so warm and strong. He smelled of soap and shampoo, of excited male and just a little bit like paint.

  She smiled into the kiss, reminded of the brush when her nipples rubbed against his chest hair.

  His gorgeous dark blue eyes were glazed with passion, the dark flecks crowding together, clouding as he began to lose control. This time, they took each other slowly, with soft caresses and barely intelligible whispers, and she wondered, with a stab of premonition, what she’d ever do without him.

  This was the danger zone, she realized. Lying here, well-loved and floating, dreamily blissed out. This was where a woman could fall into stupid patterns, like imagining what it would be like to wake to Duncan every day. To pose for him regularly, to cook for him when she felt like it, make sure he did his share of household chores.

  Inside, she groaned. A couple of earth-shattering orgasms and she was planning laundry day.

  It had to stop.

  She should get out of this bed and get back to their usual relationship of antagonistic, wild attraction. In his bed, warm and soft, with him playing with her hair in an absent¬minded intimacy made her throat ache.

  Damn it. She never should have slept with him. She wanted to fall in love with a man who was home for dinner every night at six. She planned to marry a guy whose idea of adventure was two weeks a year at a lakeside cottage.

  Duncan Forbes was not a contender. He had wandering man written all over him.

  She sighed, turning t
o gaze at the tough profile on the pillow beside her.

  “What is it?”

  “You are so bad for me.”

  He sent her a look that reminded her she was still pulsing from a climax that had almost blown her head clear off.

  She flapped her hand around above the sheet. “I have plans. A clearly mapped life path. You are a detour.”

  His expression was hard to read but she definitely had his full attention. “I’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve always found the detours were the most fun.”

  Irritation tickled beneath her breastbone. “Detours slow you down. I’m thirty. I have this damn biological clock ticking. I want things. Normal things like a home and family.”

  His Adam’s apple took a quick trip from the top of his throat to the bottom as he swallowed.

  “Oh, I’m not suggesting you for the job.” She laughed, a little breathlessly. “I know you’re not the settling type. But I am. I get distracted when you’re around.”

  “Well, I’m not sure whose time I’m beating. Sergeant Tom fits the bill but–”

  “That’s my point exactly. I need to move on, out of this town, and you’re distracting me from my mission.”

  She’d half expected him to pull out of bed and sprint for his rented auto and the nearest airfield, so she was surprised when he pulled her in tight and kissed her lightly. “If there’s a woman in the world who could make a man settle, she’d be you.”

  He felt so good, right here beside her. Why did he have to be the last man she should want? Keeping her tone light was more of an effort than she liked. “I know. You’re not the settling type.”

  “Never have been. I always wonder what’s around the next corner. Or where the next adventure is. I’ve watched the sunrise over the Kalahari, sailed a felucca down the Nile, climbed mountain after mountain and there are always more, seen nearly every major artwork that’s on public display and many that aren’t. I’m not sure I can change.”

  “Maybe you’ve never had enough reason to stay before,” she said softly.

  “I know one thing. It’s going to hurt to leave you.” His fingers pushed the hair back off her temples and he stared at her face as though memorizing it. “Usually, I have my adventure and I’m ready to move on.”

  She thought he was telling her one of his deepest truths, and was grateful for his honesty. “If I asked you to come with me when I leave here, would you?”

  By prefacing the question with if, he wasn’t asking her, though, was he?

  She thought she’d love to watch the sun rise over the Kalahari, sail rivers, and visit galleries around the world. And on mountain climbing days she could go to the spa. But the difference between them was she’d always want to come home, and Duncan would spend the return flight planning the next escape. “I don’t get as many sabbaticals as you do.”

  She thought a shadow of pain crossed his face, but in the dim light it was tough to be certain. In an effort to lighten things, she said, “I got a phone call today from the family in the house next door to Grandpa’s. Some friends of theirs are looking for a home and might be interested in buying the house.”

  Duncan sat up in bed so fast he took the covers with him and a waft of cool air hit her naked body. “You’d sell that beautiful old house?”

  “They have a family. They’d make a home out of it again. Haven’t you been listening? I’m going to leave Swiftcurrent as soon as things are straightened out.”

  “I think you should take your time. Don’t do anything crazy.”

  Crazy was wishing for a future with a man who got hives at the mention of marriage and permanence. That was crazy. But, for now, he was helping her get through a tough time while the murder investigation continued and Gill remained needy. So they were using each other for sex and, in her case, comfort. They were adults. They knew what they were doing. If she kept her heart to herself, no one was going to get hurt, unless she developed an incurable sex addiction.

  Marvelous scents were wafting from the kitchen, and she decided it was time to concentrate on a different appetite if they were going to survive the weekend. She rose from the bed and shrugged into his robe. “I’d better serve dinner before it’s ruined.”

  She liked slopping around in his bathrobe fixing dinner. It seemed so intimate, with the candles she’d brought, the linen napkins she’d ironed earlier, the wine, and even the sound of the rain pattering outside, making her feel cozy and protected.

  “So, how’s your book coming?” she asked, once they were sharing the meal.

  “Fine. Mmm. This chicken is fantastic.”

  It was, she had to admit. A little of her sexual anticipation seemed to have sneaked into her cooking—a secret ingredient that added extra flavor and richness to the deep, red sauce.

  “Is it your first book?” Odd, she’d never really asked him about his work. They usually had other things on their minds.

  “No. I published a book a couple of years ago about Gauguin.”

  “Really. How wonderful.”

  “Not wonderful enough for Swiftcurrent. It’s not in your library.”

  She squelched the urge to smile. “Well, I’ll have to look out for it next time I’m ordering books. And this one? You mentioned missing Van Goghs.”

  He helped himself to salad. “It’s part reference work and part adventure story about the Impressionists. First, how hard it was for them to be recognized as true artists, and then, how wildly inflated the prices became, and the lengths that collectors will go to own the works.”

  “And that’s what you teach? Impressionists?”

  He nodded. “Mainly.” He ripped open a piece of baguette and slathered butter on it.

  She sipped her wine and regarded him. “Both undergrad and graduate level courses?” Why was he being so reticent? Most people loved to talk about their work.

  “Sure. But, like I said, I’m on sabbatical right now to get the book finished.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  His gaze lifted to hers and regarded her steadily. “It would be coming a lot faster if I weren’t spending so much time trying to get you naked, getting you naked, or fantasizing that you’re naked.”

  The moment stretched and she felt the invisible pull that had been there from the start, that only grew stronger the more time they spent together.

  What was she going to do when he left? She’d known the first day she met him that this man would be trouble. And yet, looking at his sensuous, intelligent, tough-guy face, she knew she wouldn’t want to miss a moment with him, even though she sensed that more than her passion was involved. “You do that, too, huh?”

  He reached across the table for her hand and brought it to his mouth. “Morning,” he kissed her fingers, “noon,” he kissed her palm, “and night,” he kissed her wrist and just the soft brush of his lips had her pulse jangling.

  17

  “I want you to do something for me,” Duncan said as Alex finally left his place early Monday morning, tired from lack of sleep but sated from an early morning lovemaking session.

  She glanced at him in surprise. Was there anything she hadn’t done for him this weekend? The man was tireless. Good thing. Because so was she. “What?”

  “Keep your distance from Eric.”

  Frowning, she said, “I already told you I wouldn’t mention the beauty mark incident.”

  “I want you to stay away from him altogether. He’s trying to make trouble for us.” He grinned at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Put it down to jealousy, but do this for me. Please?”

  “Something’s happened. Tell me what it is.”

  “Okay, I will.” The hard look softened to the sly sexuality she was accustomed to. “Something’s happened, all right. I’ve turned into a jealous monster and I don’t want any other man near my woman. Promise me. You focus all your energies on keeping it hot for me.”

  She didn’t have time to argue now—she had to get ready for work, and she wasn’t prepared to prom
ise until she knew what was going on. Maybe they could talk later. “You’re working in the library again today?”

  He leaned closer “Have you ever been taken up against the stacks?”

  She swallowed as a rush of lust hit her like a drug. Still, she had some standards. The library indeed.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Good. I’ll be the first, then.”

  “You will n—” His mouth slapped on hers so fast she was sure she’d bruise.

  When he’d kissed her breathless, he said, “You have got to stop making statements you know aren’t true.”

  Before she could fully restock her verbal arsenal and really let him have it, he’d shut the door. Right in her face.

  Well. Well! If he thought he was going to waltz into her library with that smug expression and . . and . . .

  Her inner librarian warred with her inner wild woman, and never had the two been more at odds.

  Her inner wild woman was crazy about the idea of having noisy, wall-banging sex with Duncan against the stacks, so her carefully ordered books would tumble all over the floor, get hopelessly disordered, and take her days to reshelve properly.

  Her inner librarian practically fainted at such an act of disregard for literature. Have sex right in front of Emily Dickinson? Milton? Anne of Green Gables? She didn’t think so.

  She ran home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. While there she checked for messages, something she hadn’t bothered to do all weekend. Eric had called. Gillian hadn’t.

  She bit her lip. She’d call her cousin later and offer to help her move her stuff to Grandpa’s house.

  She applied her makeup with more than usual care, feeling ridiculous even as she dithered over eyeliner, then made a kissy-face in the mirror to apply her favorite, sinfully expensive lipstick, knowing it made her lips look succulent and just-licked.

  When she opened her closet door and began judging outfits on their ease of removal, her inner wild woman scoffed. Are you kidding? Make him work for it. And her inner librarian piped up: Not work for it. Make it impossible.