by J. Kenner
The key was stored in the real estate lockbox, to which I also didn't have access. I'd been here before, though, usually with my agent, Cyndee, and I'd been around the block enough times to know that one never misses an opportunity.
So when she punched in the combination, I'd paid attention to the code. I recalled it now easily enough--my father didn't give a flip about my grades in school, but fail to remember something he told me to memorize, and I'd end up grounded for a week.
I entered the code, grabbed the key, and let myself in.
The air was stale and thick, and already stifling even though it wasn't yet noon. But I breathed in deep anyway, because this stale air and everything surrounding it was going to be mine soon.
There was no furniture, so I didn't sit. And I hadn't come with any particular purpose, so I just started to wander, taking in the rooms, imagining how I would fix them up. Knowing that I could fix them up.
I sighed, understanding now why I'd been so determined to come here. Maybe I couldn't get what I wanted from Cole. But I could damn sure get this house to fall into line.
It didn't take long to circle through the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I took a peek at the backyard, then turned back toward the front door, my car, and my friends.
I was about to step out onto the porch when my cell phone rang. I dug it out of the back pocket of my jeans, then sucked in a breath when I saw the caller ID. Cole.
I hesitated a moment, but there was no way I was going to let this call roll to voicemail, even if I should. So I bit my lower lip, then pressed my thumb on the green button.
I didn't, however, say anything. Just my little nod to passive-aggressiveness.
"Liz told me you came by the gallery." His voice was steady. Smooth. And I couldn't read one damn thing into it.
"I did."
"If you were looking for an apology--"
"No!" I blurted out the word, then immediately winced. So much for cool and collected. "Dammit, Cole," I said, and though the words were harsh, my voice was gentle. "Don't you understand that there is nothing to apologize for?"
There was such a long pause before he spoke again that I started to fear the line had gone dead. When his words did come, they seemed to hang between us, heavy with emotion and regret.
"You tempt me, Kat."
"I guess that makes us even."
His low chuckle was like a balm, and I found myself smiling. "You're a goddamn fool, blondie."
"But I'm not," I said. "I'm smart, Cole. And I know what I want. You know what else?" I asked, but I didn't wait to give him time to answer. "I know what you want, too."
"Really? And what is it I want?"
"Me," I said, then hoped that I hadn't just taken another giant step away from him.
He said nothing--neither agreement nor protest--and so I pressed gamely on.
"I saw your studio space. I saw me."
"All right," he said slowly. "And what did you think?"
"The images are stunning, but I told you that last night when you found me looking at the one in the gallery."
"That was a poignant moment. The beautiful woman unaware she was looking at her own reflection."
"Beautiful," I continued, "technically perfect. Pure. But not me. Not really me at all."
"You're wrong," he said.
"The hell I am. I'm not pure. I'm not innocent. Christ, Cole, you had your fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago, and it wasn't me who walked away."
"Kat--"
"No, listen to me. Please, Cole. Don't you get it? I'm not the girl you painted. I'm not a goddamn angel. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you last night? All of you. Your mouth, your cock."
"Jesus, Kat."
I heard the heat in his voice, and my pulse kicked up with the knowledge that maybe--just maybe--I was getting through to him. "And when you left me hanging, I swear to god I cursed you like a sailor. Would your innocent little model do that?"
He said nothing, and I pressed on, determined to win this battle. Hell, determined to win the war. "You wanted it, too," I said. "Tell me. Please. I need to hear that I'm not crazy. I need to know that last night you wanted me just as much as I wanted you."
"I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you."
I closed my eyes, my body sagging from the pure relief of hearing the acknowledgment of what I'd been so sure about. I leaned against the dingy wall of this house that would be mine, sighed, and slid down to the floor in bliss.
"You can have me," I said. "Any time. Any place. Any way you want," I added, saying the last in a whisper.
"No," he said. "I can't."
I cringed from the resolve in his voice.
"I can't," he repeated. "I can't choose when, or where, and certainly not how. But when I look at you--when I paint you--"
His voice had taken on a lyrical quality, and I held the words close, wanting to soak in this moment, because who knew how many more I would get? "Tell me."
"Put your phone on speaker," he said. "Set it beside you."
I pressed the button to turn on the speaker. "All right."
"Good. You need to understand that when I paint you, it's not just an image of you that is in front of me. It's flesh. It's blood."
"It's me."
"Yes. The spill of your hair. The curve of your neck. The swell of your breasts."
Gone was his earlier hesitancy. Instead, each word held masculine power. As if by painting me, he had claimed me, and I had no other choice but to submit.
"Go on," I whispered. My eyes were still closed, but in my imagination, I saw myself sitting on a blanket at the Oak Street Beach. I was looking out at the water, but Cole was there, too, off to one side, so that I could see him only in my peripheral vision.
But though I could barely see him, I could feel him. Every scrape of pencil over canvas was a tease, every stroke of paint from his brush was a caress.
"You're mine when I paint you, Kat. Mine to touch, mine to stroke, mine to see."
My pulse pounded in my ears and my skin felt hot. I pulled up my T-shirt to expose my abdomen, then sighed from the caress of cool air upon my overheated flesh.
"And I do see you, Kat," he said. "My brush doesn't lie, and when I trail it over the curve of your waist and the swell of your hips, it's not just lines and form that I'm bringing to life on the canvas, but you. Tell me, Kat. Tell me you understand that."
"Yes," I said, because right then I couldn't seem to think of any other word.
"When I paint you, I capture you. Light. Shadows. I see more than I put on the canvas, Kat. I see everything. The face you show the public, the most intimate parts of you that you keep hidden."
I made a small noise that might have been a protest, because that couldn't be true. He couldn't know me that well; he couldn't see my secrets.
"Don't you feel me, Kat? Don't you feel my eyes exploring, assessing, deciding what I am willing to show to the world and what I want to keep to myself?"
My body, I thought with relief. He doesn't mean my secrets, but my body.
"I feel you," I whispered, my voice like air.
"My brush moving softly over your lips," he said, as I drew my fingertip gently over my mouth. "Then down, lower and lower until I can tease your breasts. Until I'm exploring the shadows that fall between them and the way your skin glows, almost translucent when the sun teases your nipples. Are they hard now, Kat?"
"Very."
"Take your nipple between your fingers and pinch it. I want it harder, a deep, sensual red. I want to paint you aroused, Kat. The glow on your face and the flush of your skin. Do it, Kat. Do it and let me see."
"You're not here," I protested, though I willingly complied.
"I'm always there," he replied, and those words combined with the tight pinch of my own fingers against my sensitive nipples brought a moan to my lips.
I arched up, then whispered his name and was rewarded with a low, masculine groan.
"I want to pai
nt you while you come," he said. "I want to capture ecstasy, Kat. Let me do that, angel. Let me do that now."
"Cole . . ." I heard the protest in my voice. An unwelcome, unexpected shyness.
"No," he said. "No argument, no denials. I want to see you. I want to watch your body tighten and then explode. I want to see it, Kat, even if only in my imagination."
I licked my lips, wanting it, too, but unsure if it was even possible. I'd never come with a man calling the shots in my bed. Not since--not in a very long time. But this . . .
Maybe this . . .
"Where are you?"
"My house."
"Alone?"
I thought about the words he'd been saying to me. "Well, duh."
He chuckled. "Some women like an audience."
"Oh." I considered what he'd said earlier about me being innocent. Maybe he wasn't so far off the mark. "I'm alone."
"What are you wearing?"
"Jeans. A T-shirt."
"Take off the jeans. Leave on your panties."
"I--"
"No," he said. "You don't argue. You simply do or hang up."
I felt my mouth curve up in pleasure as I kicked off my sandals, then shimmied out of my jeans. "All right," I said.
"In your house," he said, his tone musing, "there's a row of windows overlooking the front porch, and it's a gorgeous day. The sun should be streaming in."
My gaze flicked to the checkerboard pattern that the sunlight made on the battered wooden floor, blocks of light intersected by the dark shadows made by the frames that held each small pane of glass in place. "How did you know that? You've only been here once."
"I paid attention," he said.
"Because that's what you do? Or because this house was going to be mine?"
"Move to the light," he said, and though it wasn't an answer I heard the truth in his voice. Maybe he did pay attention out of habit, but he'd noticed this house because it was my house. Because he noticed me.
How could I have been unsure before? How could I have feared that whatever attraction I saw on his face was only a reflection, especially now that it was becoming so obvious that he had seen me--wanted me--long enough to make me mourn the lost opportunity of all the months that had passed in silent longing?
"Kat," he said, his voice firm. "Now."
"Oh." I shuffled into the stream of sun, then sighed as I felt the intensity of the warmth across my body. There was no air-conditioning in the house--not with the tenants having moved out--and so my body was already close to melting. But now, with the sun tickling my bare legs, I felt logy and sensual, soft and sleepy.
At the same time, I felt turned on.
It was an interesting mix, and I couldn't deny that I liked it.
"I want to paint the patterns of light as they hit your abdomen," he said. "Trace them for me. Drag your fingers over your skin. Are you doing it? Can you feel the way the warmth is seeping into you?"
"Yes."
"That's the sunlight, Kat. And it's my brush. My eyes. I'm studying you. The way your muscles quiver as I touch you. The way your belly tightens when you're aroused."
I swallowed. He was right. My body was doing exactly what he said, and between my thighs, my sex was clenching, too, wanting his touch even though he wasn't even in the room.
"Tell me about your panties."
"Cotton. Bikini. Boring."
"Not boring. I can picture you in them. You naked and aroused in your boring cotton panties--innocent, and yet not," he added before I could protest. "Tell me something, Kat. Are they damp?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Are you sure?"
"I--"
"Slide your hand down and let me see. Let me paint that picture in my mind. You, arched back, your T-shirt pulled taut across your breasts, and your fingers inside your panties as you touch yourself. As I touch you."
"Cole . . ."
"She protests?" he asked, his voice light with amusement. "You're the one who offered this, Kat."
"The hell I did," I countered, but there was laughter in my voice, too.
"Anything I want," he said, and this time when he spoke there was no amusement. There was just heat and need and demand. "Touch yourself, baby. Touch yourself, and think of me."
"I--" But I didn't finish the thought. Primarily because I had no thoughts. My mind was in a haze, filled only with the promise of pleasure and the sweet temptation of Cole's hands upon me, even if only in fantasy.
Slowly, because I wanted to draw out the pleasure, I placed my palm over my lower belly. I eased my hand down, slipping my fingertips under the cotton waistband, then gasping a little as I did. Because that wasn't my hand I felt, but Cole's. Not my desire I was breathing in, but his.
"That's right," he murmured. "Don't stop. I want to feel how wet you are. I want to watch you open for me in the sunlight, all hot and wet and wild. Lower, Kat. Slide your hand lower, then tell me what you feel."
"I'm wet," I said, which was the understatement to end all understatements. I was soaked. I was desperate. I was nothing but carnal desire and wild, wicked heat. "I'm so wet, and I want this to be your hand. Your fingers."
"But it is. Well, not yet. Do you feel that? The slight tickle up your inner thigh? Do you know what that is?"
I couldn't speak, so I just shook my head. He must have understood, though, because he continued. "That's my brush, the bristles stroking and teasing all the way to your cunt, then dancing over your clit, so soft, so sensual."
I gasped, realizing suddenly that I'd forgotten to breathe.
"Light touches, baby. Tease yourself like my brush. A light finger over your clit. Then slide a finger inside yourself. Imagine it's my finger, then the tip of my brush, because I will claim you that way, baby. I'm going to claim you every way possible."
I was whimpering now, wanting what he described, naughty and wild and so unexpected, and yet so personal to him--to us--that it turned me on more than I would have ever thought possible.
"It's time to come for me, baby. Is your clit hard? Sensitive?"
"God, yes."
"Then softly at first, harder if you need to. It's my mouth on you now. My tongue tasting you. My tongue flicking over that sweet nub. Do you know how good you taste? I could eat you all day, all night."
"Please," I murmured as my hand teased my clit, faster then slower, as the world seemed to spin and I seemed to float, carried away on the swell of Cole's deep, caramel voice. The sensation was wonderful--passion and pleasure that had such incredible potential.
I didn't expect to fulfill that potential, though. But that was okay. Just the journey with Cole was amazing. Just the knowledge that he was the one who made me feel this way, like my skin was sparking with electricity. Like I could fly if just given the chance.
"That's it, baby. You're so wet. You're so hot. Just a little more. Just a little bit higher and then I want you to come for me. Come on, baby. Explode with me right now."
I cried out, then arched up in surprise and amazement and pure, golden pleasure. The orgasm rocked through me, hard and fast and all the more violent because I wasn't expecting it and had no defense against it. I tried to breathe, tried to bring my body back down to earth, but all I could do was ride it out until, finally, I found myself curled into a ball on the wooden floor, my arms around my knees, and my body still trembling with the aftershocks of ultimate satisfaction.
"Katrina," he murmured.
"Cole." I rolled to my side so that I could see the phone and tried to imagine that it was Cole beside me, touching me, stroking me. That he'd brought me to orgasm--a feat that amazed me--then held me tight. And that he was holding on to me still.
"Hear me, baby," he said. His tone, more serious than the moment called for, brought me to full attention. "I don't see what isn't there, and I don't paint what I don't see."
I frowned, not understanding what we were talking about.
"You say that's not you on my canvases and sketches, but you're wrong. You've filled
my days and occupied my nights. I know you, Katrina Laron, and you're more innocent than you think. I've claimed you, baby, and that makes you mine. But maybe not in the way you think."
"I don't understand."
"I know. But you will. Right now, I just want you to know that I will do whatever it takes to protect you. Even if that means protecting you from me."
seven
"To husbands and houses," Sloane said, lifting her Manhattan so that Angie and I could clink glasses with her. "Just a few more weeks, and you'll each have one."
Angie shot me a wry glance. "I'm claiming the husband," she said, making both Sloane and me laugh.
"Not a problem," I said. "I'm content with the house." At the moment, I was very content with the house. And with the man. But I didn't feel the need to share with my friends the fact that I'd just had phone sex in my soon-to-be living room. Especially not since I was still enjoying the glow.
"For now you're content with a house," Sloane said. "But soon you'll want a man for changing lightbulbs and mowing the front yard. That's just the way the world works."
"Is that why you're so keen on Tyler?" Angie teased. "His excellent lightbulb-changing skill?"
"That's one of the benefits of living in a suite at The Drake," Sloane said archly. "We don't have a front yard, and maintenance takes care of the bulbs. Which frees up our schedule nicely for sex."
And since neither Angie nor I could argue with an answer like that, we all clinked glasses and took yet another sip.
We'd been in Coq d'Or, the historic bar inside The Drake hotel, for over two hours now. I was on my third Manhattan, and was enjoying the kind of pleasant buzz that comes from a mixture of good alcohol and great friends.
Angie propped her elbow on the bar, then rested her chin on her fist as she looked past Sloane to me. "It occurs to me that your house is going to need more than a few fresh lightbulbs and a neatly trimmed yard. I imagine Cole's pretty handy with a toolkit." She caught Sloane's eye, and they both snorted with laughter.
I just shook my head in mock reproach.
"Aren't you going to tell us what happened?" Sloane asked. "You were both at the gala, and then you both disappeared."
"A woman doesn't kiss and tell," I said archly.
"At least there was kissing," Angie said.
I held up my hand. "Stop the madness." I wasn't inclined to discuss the strange development of my relationship with Cole, but I grinned and let some laughter into my voice, just so that my friends wouldn't pick up on my hesitancy. "We're running out of time and we need to talk about the wedding. Just a few more weeks," I said to Angie. "Are you nervous?"