He changed the rhythm and the movement. And her hands followed his lead.
“Paint is nothing without the artist’s vision to transform it,” he whispered.
And so she watched the transformation as they began to shape the paint. The strokes down and up as they spread the bold yellow across her belly, creating an inverted triangle with the wide part at the top. The way he synchronized their movements and twisted their wrists to round an edge here and there.
And all the while, heat built across the surface of her skin. And deep within her belly. In that secret, feminine place she’d thought lost.
Her head fell back against his shoulder and she closed her eyes. A sensuous warmth surged through her as the energy gathered and moisture pooled between her legs.
“Celebrate it, Cass.”
His deep voice reverberated across her skin. Challenged her once again. And then, in a sudden, final move, he pulled their arms up and across her abdomen in a grand horizontal sweep.
“Take a look,” he said, nuzzling her ear.
She kept her eyes closed, savoring the experience. Not wanting to ruin the design, she lifted her hands until they hovered over her abdomen. With his hands still covering hers, she retraced some of the movements they’d made, trying to identify what they’d created. She gave up.
“What is it?”
“A bull’s head,” he whispered after a moment’s hesitation.
A bull’s head?
She frowned. Thrown off-kilter by the idea that he—they had painted a symbol of masculine strength on her stomach.
She opened her eyes and stared into the mirror.
She did not see a bull’s head.
Instead, she saw a uterus and fallopian tubes painted low on the outside of her belly, right where they’d once been inside her.
Chapter Three
A tomboy with two older brothers, Cass’ reaction was instinctive and swift.
Fight!
She elbowed Evan—hard—in his abs.
He grunted loudly and stumbled back, clutching his midsection.
With him vulnerable she twisted, already swinging, and rammed the side of her fist against his shoulder. The impact reverberated up her arm. She ignored the discomfort, ready to strike out a third time.
“Christ, Cass, back off,” he wheezed, which substantially lessened the effect of the warning.
Not that she would have heeded it anyway.
“Bastard,” she said and swung at him again.
Instead of backing away, he managed to grab her arm.
“Hold up,” he said, but she was already attacking with her other fist.
He took a step forward, closing the space between them and thus deflecting the intensity of her blow against those impressive pecs. Still, his sharp exhalation told her she’d done some damage.
It was also the last blow she landed. He wasted no time wrapping his free arm around her, pulling her flush against him.
“Let me go.” She wriggled, seeking a way to squirm loose.
“Not if you’re going to massacre me.”
Unable to break free, she kneed him, aiming for his most vulnerable asset.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growled.
“Too late,” she hissed.
He shifted just in time to avoid taking a blow to his crotch, her knee slamming into his upper thigh instead. He swore. Rather creatively. But she was in no mood to appreciate his inventive vocabulary. She was fighting for her life.
“This ends now,” he said and twisted his body to the left and then dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him.
She instantly lost leverage and her feet slid out from under her. With her hands still trapped between their bodies, she couldn’t reach out, couldn’t stop the downward momentum. For those few seconds it took to reach the floor, it felt as though she were in free fall.
But on the way down Evan tightened his grip and pulled her closer into his embrace, breaking her fall.
Stunned and a little shaken by the unexpected maneuver, she buried her face against his torso. The sudden drop seemed to have washed away the all-consuming wave of anger. In its place was a straightforward truth she hadn’t wanted to face. She did not cry. She was not a crier. She had trouble though catching her breath and her thoughts. And she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
“Hey,” he said. He seemed to have an affinity for concentric circles because he traced them across her back, soothing her.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were wary, watching. Then, as if he’d been looking for something in her face, he loosened his grip on her, though he didn’t let go.
“But don’t you see,” she said. “I’m not.”
“Cass?”
She shook her head. Scrubbed a hand through her short locks and then realized she’d probably put yellow streaks in her hair. And that’s when she noticed the yellow handprint on his chest and the smears across his upper arm.
He glanced down, looked back up at her and shrugged. Right, he was the artist. He probably got covered in paint all the time.
“Cass, I’m not ignoring what you said. But I think we’d better call a time-out and wash off our hands. You’ve got paint on your face.”
Apparently a large smudge across her cheek, which he cleaned with one of the rags he’d dipped in the basin of water. He held her face steady in his hand while he worked, his grip sure and devastatingly distracting. The allure of concentric circles, she supposed, because his thumb drew them along her jaw. When he finished, he threw the rag toward the edge of the drop cloth then turned and faced her.
“Do not move,” he said.
Ordered. His authoritative tone sent a little chill of thrill through her.
She lifted one shoulder. Casual. Nonchalant, though she was far from relaxed.
“Dressed like this, where would I go?”
He shook his head slightly. His lips twitched, but he didn’t comment. Instead he stood, grabbed the basin of water and the discarded tube of finger paint and moved them out of the way before walking off into the shadows. She stayed where she was. Sitting—her arms loosely wrapped around her knees—and naked, but once again alone and on display in the pool of light.
Moments later, Evan reappeared and she heard a clunk on the edge of the drop cloth before he joined her and sat down. He immediately put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed. Once again she followed his lead and found herself on her back with him lying beside her. Half over her, actually.
“What did you—”
“A book.” His tone didn’t invite more questions.
“Now,” he said. “Where were we?”
“You were holding me in your arms,” she said.
Because it was the straightforward literal truth. And that was a lot easier to talk about.
He settled his free arm, the one not propping him up, across her torso. Anchoring her to the floor and against him in what was obviously a defensive position.
He was a smart man who learned from experience. She liked that about him. Besides, with him this close and her hands free, she could touch. So she did, settling the back of her left hand against his furred chest. It was still branded with her handprint and his shoulder was still streaked with yellow. She brushed both lightly with the backs of her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a little embarrassed and yet the uncharacteristic explosion of anger had, ultimately, been cathartic. “I just reacted.”
“I noticed.”
He caressed her side up to the curve of her breast. Then his hand dipped low and settled across her belly. Right on top of the yellow painting, which neither of them had washed away when they were cleaning up.
“And,” he said, “you were about to explain why you aren’t safe.”
Nothing like cutting to the chase. The straightforward truth.
“Except for a small addiction to chocolate, I make healthy food choices. I walk most everywhere, swim regu
larly. Sure, I’ve gained a few pounds over the years—”
“But who hasn’t.”
His comment was light, but his tone was serious, letting her know he was paying attention. Still, she wondered if he—if anyone would truly understand.
“Don’t you see?” she asked, “I believed that if I looked after myself, I would at least be safe in my own body. Instead I was betrayed from the inside by an insidious disease.”
“Ah Cass,” he said and dipped his head to brush his mouth lightly across hers. “Don’t you see? Life is so damn unpredictable no one is safe. All you can do is live it.”
She barely let him finish before she tried to sit up. The attempt was futile. He had her trapped and they both knew it.
“I thought that’s what I was doing. Then this—this—cancer—happened.”
Her tone was definitely sarcastic and she was most definitely defensive. Neither seemed to faze him.
“And so you’ve been fighting a war. Only you don’t realize you’ve won.”
“Won?” she asked, incredulous. She’d lost half her damn insides and she’d—
He bent and captured her mouth with his. And just like that he captured her words, her thoughts, silencing them most effectively. She lifted her right arm, hoping to find an anchor. All she found was him, so she grabbed hold of his shoulder as her entire consciousness refocused on one thing—him.
Most specifically his mouth, which seemed intent on exploring hers quite thoroughly. His lips were surprisingly cool, his tongue hot and insistent as he licked at the seam of her mouth. Need surged through her and she whimpered. Begged, really, for more. Not that he was exactly asking for an invitation. His tongue slid inside the instant her lips parted. She tasted a hint of coconut and possibly ginger. He growled and lifted his head.
A little dazed by the sudden loss of heat, she gasped in protest. They’d just gotten started and she’d been enjoying herself.
“You are supposed to relax and be in the moment,” he said.
She was lying naked on the floor with a half-clothed man.
Relax. Right. Another of his oxymoronic suggestions.
“I personally was enjoying that moment,” she said.
He shifted, settling more comfortably on top of her. The weight of all that delectable muscle pinned half of her firmly beneath him. But he was careful, taking some of the weight on his forearms, which now bracketed her head. His chest hair teased her already sensitive nipples.
The contrast between the skin-on-skin contact and his denim-clad erection snuggled against her side was exquisitely erotic. And then he slid his leg between hers and notched it firmly against her clit.
With a little moan, she arched against him.
“Much better,” he muttered.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, grabbing just hard enough to get her full attention.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the kiss, but you weren’t in the moment. You were thinking about it.”
She harrumphed. Mildly, mostly because he might have a point. He skimmed his lips across hers, brushing away the protest.
“Hasn’t Syn taught you anything?” he asked. “Art is meant to be experienced viscerally.”
“Art? A bunch of splotchy remains of yellow paint isn’t art.”
She didn’t like being called out. Give her power tools and she could build it. Or take it apart. Her emotional connection was the satisfaction in the finished or deconstructed project. When she worked, she was definitely in the moment—
Her gaze locked with his. Neither of them had moved, but she wasn’t too surprised to see his eyes were guarded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Cass.”
She smoothed a hand down his back. “I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you either.”
“Then can you trust me? Trust the process.”
“What process?”
“Cass, I paint bodies for a living. What the hell process do you think I mean?”
“Hell if I know,” she said, matching his tone of exasperation. It wasn’t difficult to do, her entire body vibrated with tension.
“I’m lying naked on the floor with a man I met only a couple of hours ago. Until a few minutes ago we were kissing and right this moment—”
“Sweet Jesus, Cass,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m an idiot.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re scared.”
She licked her lips, taking a moment to steady herself. “Terrified, actually. I’m not even sure if we can—” All right, she knew that technically the answer was yes, they could. “I mean this is the first time since the surgery…”
In so intimate a setting she just wasn’t sure how to say what needed to be said about intimacy. This scenario had never ever entered her mind, not even when she’d rounded the corner of the glass-block wall and experienced the first pull of attraction toward this man.
“This—whatever the hell this is—is pretty damn fast for me too,” he said. “And I should have realized. No expectations—”
“Then you aren’t happy to see me?” she asked, because it was ridiculously evident that he was. Quite a lot.
His laugh was low and husky. “Let’s put it this way. I’m open to creative solutions. The question is, sweetheart, are you?”
She stared into those blue eyes and recounted the crow’s feet that framed them. She was very aware that her body definitely had expectations. And he probably knew it. After all, he’d put them there.
She reached up and cupped that magnificently bald head. It was baby-skin smooth to the touch. She wanted to ask if he shaved it. Instead she let the thought go and pulled his head down for a kiss.
He seemed to understand that she wanted to set the pace this time. And she did. She wanted to slow everything down. Take delight in the littlest of details.
She lingered over the barest, teasing touch of their lips—a touch that at once suggested so much more and also offered the promise of delivery. Inhaled and savored the way his musky, masculine scent filled her pores. Beneath her hands, his muscles bunched and released, hinting at the effort it took him to match her leisurely pace.
“Evan.”
She whispered his name across the tiny space of air between them. He tensed and his eyes met hers.
“I’m ready.”
She blinked once before she closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment. To the sensations. To the man. It was the greatest leap of faith she’d taken since she’d put herself in her surgeon’s hands nine months ago.
He began by massaging her scalp. His fingers were strong and sensual, banishing the uncertainty. And then he kissed her. A barely there touch of his lips against each of her eyelids.
“Let go and be in the moment,” he whispered.
He shifted his weight—off her, but that apparently only cleared a pathway for his investigation of her body.
She opened her eyes and arched her head when his fingers drew a line down the column of her throat to the pulse point. He bent down and she bit back a moan when he circled first one then the other areola with his tongue.
“Don’t,” he said lifting his head. “Don’t hide your reaction from me.”
His eyes blazed a bright blue, blatantly telegraphing his desire. He seemed determined to explore every millimeter of her.
He touched.
He tasted.
Sometimes he took his time. Other times he barely skimmed the surface.
Sometimes he said nothing. Other times he murmured his appreciation. And above all he watched her responses, as if he were cataloguing them.
It was at once disconcerting. She was self-conscious—of her definitely not svelte fifty-something body, of whether her reactions were the right ones, of the inferno burning within her.
It was also the most highly erotic experience of her life. The heat built inside her, devouring her insecurities. And out of the all-consuming ashes came an a
wareness of a sensual power. A potent power deep down inside her that had lain dormant—hidden and untapped—for far too long.
She was riding a wave of intense longing by the time he settled between her legs. His hands moved lightly along her thighs and then slid across her nearly bare pussy.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said.
Like a wonton, she lifted her pelvis, offering herself to him.
His hands settled on her belly, ever so gently caressing it.
“I’m going to taste you,” he whispered across her skin. “Stop me if—”
“Yes, please,” she cried out.
She clenched at the cloth beneath her, hoping to find an anchor. His methodical seduction had made her greedy for more. Desperate for release.
He licked the length of her slit, his tongue slightly rough against her ultrasensitive clit. She whimpered in frustration as he set to work bathing the secret folds. He lavished them with loving attention and yet ever so carefully avoided and then teased and then once again ignored her clit.
Moisture pooled in her pussy. She sobbed her need, now definitely beyond desperate. She writhed beneath his tongue, seeking that perfect moment, but it remained elusively, maddeningly out of reach. Her sobs became uncontrollable little chants of entreaty.
She reached out—to do what, she couldn’t say. Her awareness of her surroundings had shrunk to two points—the floor beneath her and his mouth on her.
Somehow he caught her hand in his. Their fingers intertwined and he became her anchor—a way to ride out the storm that with all the warning in the world and none at all engulfed her. Left her boneless, sated and a little sleepy.
“Do not move,” he said as if she possessed the desire or the ability to do so. “I’m going to paint you.”
Her eyes closed but she managed a frown because hadn’t they already done this part? Only she couldn’t summon the will to pose the question. The most she could do was drift slowly downward from the orgasmic high.
At some point she became aware of the cloth-covered floor beneath her and Evan’s hands roaming across her body. Only this time his movements were deft and sure and oddly familiar. She kept her eyes closed, identifying the strokes that slashed and swirled along her skin. The design spoke to the power still humming within her and she absorbed its intricacies into her very being.
Body Art Page 3