He stood there, wrapped up in a sheet, trying to pull Kate out of whatever sinkhole she’d fallen into. She stared at him, emotions breaking like waves across her face. Humor and anguish and resignation. One by one, they all ceded until there was only resolve.
“Kate?”
“Do you want to see?” She flipped to the first page of her sketchbook and held it out like an offering. She was still looking at him so strangely, and he wanted to shake her. To make her snap out of whatever had taken hold of her.
But in the end, he just nodded. “Of course.” Extending his hand to accept it felt like stepping out onto a ledge somehow. He curled his fingers around the binding and paused, a whole new kind of apprehension taking hold. This entire thing had started when he’d asked her how she saw him. He was about to find out. But did he really want to know?
With a flash of false bravado, he cleared his throat. “You didn’t make me ugly or anything, did you?”
“You tell me.”
Her tone stopped him cold, because there was dread there.
Christ, what the hell had she drawn?
Unable to put it off any longer, he took the book and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The first picture told him very little. It was a series of quick sketches—no detail. Just the outline of his body. He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion of his anatomy in one of them. But he really wasn’t learning anything here. The second page was much the same, but the third . . .
His breath stuttered in his chest, and he jerked his head up. She was watching him look at her work, worrying her knuckles and chewing on her lip. The instinct to tell her it was amazing welled up in him. The whole thing—it was incredible. But he knew better than to spit those words out before he’d thought about it. He dipped his head again, studying the image of his own nude body, splayed out across pale sheets.
The likeness alone was remarkable, but there was more to it than that. It didn’t just resemble him. It felt like him. Like the man he looked at in the mirror every morning, only better. If he’d questioned how she saw him, this was the answer.
She saw him too fondly. In a light he didn’t deserve. From the scraps of his messed up, cobbled-together life, she’d made something beautiful.
All that time he’d spent secretly convinced that if you took away the trappings—the money and the clothes and the name—he’d be nothing. He’d taken them all off for her. Since the moment he met her, they’d all been off. And this was what she’d seen.
“It’s good,” he said at long last. “Like the one from Montmartre.” He gazed up into her eyes. “Your perspective is all over it.” It made him feel things, just looking at it. Things he still wasn’t sure he was ready to feel.
Her expression didn’t lighten any. “Keep going.”
He frowned, peering down again. He wanted to keep studying this one. There were treasures inside of it. All the detail of musculature and fabric and space.
“Keep going,” she insisted.
He shook his head, hesitating. If that was what she wanted . . .
His stomach flipped as he turned the page. She’d gone back to quicker sketches, not quite as vague as the first ones had been, and she’d narrowed in on just his shoulders and his face.
But the images were angry. Frustration bled through the marks. Some of the portraits looked just like him, while others only held the faintest resemblance.
What had she told him about Cézanne the day before? That he played with the shapes of things, making them more real by making them wrong?
It put him off balance. Did she think he was a monster? A puzzle to be figured out?
“One more,” she said.
He turned the page, fearing the worst.
Only he shouldn’t have.
The drawing staring out at him through the page wasn’t like the others. But that didn’t put him back on solid ground. If anything, he listed further in his mind, because this one wasn’t angry.
This was unbearably, achingly sad.
“Kate—”
“This is how I see you.”
God. It was a web of delicate lines, silvery wisps of pencil marks. The image they created was a perfect likeness, only it evoked the exact opposite response in him as the last one had. It opened a new pit in his stomach. He wasn’t so noble or so . . . so unapproachable. He was just a guy. Flawed and scared sometimes. Irresponsible and inconsiderate and so many other things his sister and his father and all the men who ran their company would have called him.
“I don’t look like this,” he said, quiet and unsteady.
“To me, you do.”
He huffed out a wry little ghost of a laugh. “You’re too kind to me.”
“I’m not. You’re just . . . you’re gorgeous.” She hesitated, as if waiting for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she took his hand, lifting the sketchbook from his lap and setting it aside. Her voice was more restrained. “Thank you for letting me do this. You didn’t have to, and it meant a lot to me.”
“It’s no problem.”
“No. It was. This was hard for you.”
That was an understatement, but the best he could, he shook it off. Still reeling from the vision she had shown him of himself were he a better man, he looked down at their hands. How they intertwined, her dainty, soot-stained fingers against his larger ones. His were stronger, but they were clean. They made nothing, they did nothing.
Except touch her.
When he met her gaze again, her eyes were dark, her full lips parted.
As he watched, she rose up higher on her knees, sliding a hand into his hair and pressing her lips to his. An intensity colored the edges of the kiss, an intent. He tried to give himself over to it, to the warmth and to the taste of her. But in the back of his mind, he was fixated on what she had made of him, and he didn’t deserve it.
He didn’t deserve the way she lifted her own shirt over her head, baring all that soft, beautiful skin. The way she unbuttoned her jeans.
It struck him all at once what she was doing. His body, already primed by her closeness and his nakedness, went instantly, shockingly hard.
“Kate—”
The look in her eyes as she pulled back left him no doubt. He swallowed, throat working against a tightness that didn’t make any sense.
She slid her palm down his chest to rest over his heart. “I want this.”
She couldn’t possibly want it as much as he did.
And yet, for all his experience, there was something inside of him that trembled. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t.” Her fingers splayed out wide across his ribs, and she looked at him with eyes that were so deep. So bold, where before they had always held fear. “Do you want me?”
His mouth went dry. “More than you know.”
Gaze steady, cheeks warm, she said, “Then please. Rylan. I’m ready.”
He hadn’t seen it.
Even when confronted with the most obvious, incontrovertible evidence of how she felt, Rylan had let it slip right past him. The whole time he’d been staring at the lovesick drawings she’d done, he’d had those ghosts in his eyes again, and her heart had hurt. For her and for him.
There’d only been one other way to let him know. One way to satisfy the emptiness that came with the thought of holding back from him now.
It hadn’t been a hardship, beginning to match his nakedness with hers. They’d been together like this enough times by now. It hadn’t even taken much to offer him what she knew he’d always wanted. After all: This wasn’t that one-night stand she’d had that once. Rylan wasn’t drunk, and he’d proven he wasn’t selfish. This wouldn’t be painful. It would probably feel good.
And she’d get to keep it. Later, after she’d left him and gone back home, she would always have this to look back to.
Rylan’s throat bobbed as he covered her hand with his, pressing it harder to his chest. He flicked his gaze from her eyes to her breasts to her hips and back. “Are
you sure?”
Just like he had considered her drawings before rendering a verdict, she gave it the thought it deserved. Nothing in her heart wavered or changed.
Then she pulled her hand free of his. Reached back to unhook her bra and let the straps slide down her arms and hoped that was answer enough.
Dropping his gaze to the hollow of her throat, he placed a fingertip there and traced it through the space between her breasts, down to her navel, where he stopped. He looked her in the eyes again. “You change your mind and you tell me. Anything that makes you uncomfortable. If anything I do, if I touch you wrong or . . .”
She took his hand and brought it to the gap where she’d undone her jeans. He licked his lips and nodded. Together, they pushed the denim off her hips, taking her underwear with it. She grasped the sheet he’d draped across his waist and set it aside.
And then they were naked. Together. She shivered, because it was different this time, with her offering him everything. Knowing how deeply he’d affected her in this handful of days.
Refusing to be frightened, she shifted, edging closer to straddle his hips. It trapped the hard length of him between their bodies as she curled her fingers around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. She opened her mouth, and he slid his tongue inside, letting out a choked sound of desire as he wrapped his arms around her. God. He felt so good like this, so warm and solid and protective. With one broad palm between her shoulder blades, he folded the other around her hip, sliding it down to cup her backside before gliding it along her thigh. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, the tips tingling as they rubbed against firm flesh.
She got lost in it, melting into him, an ache of need growing soft and hot and wet within her sex. With long, lush kisses that went on and on, he kept her close, and how had she ever doubted that this would be how sex would feel with him? Safe. Like nothing could hurt her—not even him.
She shifted her hips against him, and he moaned into her mouth. He pulled back from her lips, dropping to suck kisses across her neck and jaw.
“How do you want this to go?”
“I don’t know.” She let her head fall to the side, just wanting him to keep doing what he was doing. She gripped his shoulder tighter as he scraped his teeth against her throat. “However you want. Whatever you—”
He shhed her. “I’ll take care of you.”
God, how had he known that was exactly what she needed him to say? The heat building between her legs bloomed anew as he lifted her, twisting them both until she was falling into the mattress. He shoved aside the mound of pillows he had rested on while she had sketched. She grabbed at him when he moved to pull away.
“Just a second,” he promised.
She shivered without his heat, but she didn’t reach for the covers. It felt strange to be lying there nude while she waited for him, except—except this had to have been how it had felt for him. For a couple of hours, he had laid himself out for her, entirely exposed.
The least she could do was wait a couple of minutes and not be afraid.
He’d retreated to the foot of the bed, and she furrowed her brows in confusion for a second before he picked up her sketchbook. How could she have forgotten it was there? With absolute care, he closed it and put it on the desk in the corner, turning back to smirk at her. “Wouldn’t want it to get messed up.”
Then he padded over to his bag and unzipped one of the little pockets on the side. He palmed something, and she frowned, confused until she realized what it had to be.
He set the condom packet on the bedside table before coming to sit on the edge of the mattress beside her. He looked her over, and she tried not to fidget or wilt beneath his gaze. With the softest touch, he ran the backs of his knuckles down the length of her side, tracing the curve of her breast and the dip of her navel. The swell of her hip.
“What I would give to be able to draw right now.”
Her lip wobbled, and she couldn’t take it anymore. “Come here,” she urged, intertwining her fingers with his and tugging him down.
He came willingly enough, rolling to lie beside her, his front flush against her thigh. As he gazed down at her, a warmth overtook her, and for a moment, she could pretend. This wasn’t a brief foray into intimacy, and it wasn’t just her who had gotten attached.
He let her have her moment. His expression still achingly soft, he shifted forward to kiss her again. It was all the soft motion of his mouth on hers and the heat of his body against her skin.
And then it was more. As he licked into her mouth, he danced his fingertips across her abdomen, lower and lower. Each pass had the restless feeling inside her growing, and she shifted, trying to curve into his touch. She ran her hand up and down his arm, wanting to coax him and not wanting to ask.
When he finally slipped his fingers into the swelter of her sex, she whined, and he smiled, and she wanted to smack him or kiss him or . . . or more.
She panted against the soft roll of pleasure he wrung from her. “I thought we were going to . . .”
“We are.” He shifted to kiss the corner of her lips, her chin, her jaw. “But not until you’re dying for it. Gonna make you so wet for it, Kate.” His swallow and his breath against her ear made her pulse. “And then. Only then, when you’re ready to scream. When you’re slick all down your thighs. That’s when I’ll know you’re ready.” He scraped his teeth against her lobe. Pressed the searing flesh of his own desire to her hip, and she shuddered. “Not a moment before that.”
She closed her eyes against the feeling.
No wonder no other man had ever succeeded in making her come. None of them had ever approached it like this. Like a privilege and a job, and something they’d achieve if it were the last thing they ever managed to do.
He was good to his word, too. With careful fingers, he took her apart, two of them inside and pressing just exactly where she needed them, his thumb moving in tight circles against her clit. All the while, he kept his lips on her skin, kissing and sucking and biting, and when he teased her nipple with his teeth, she twisted hard. Trembling with the electricity shooting between her breasts and her sex and the heat that was rising to a boil, she shifted onto her side, reaching for him, wanting him closer before this feeling consumed her and turned her to ash, but he kept her still.
“You’re there, aren’t you?” He pulled his fingers free, and she threw her head back, gritting her teeth. “How does that feel? Does it leave you empty and needy and shaking?”
“Yes, God, yes.”
Before she knew it, he was on top of her, two hands planted on the pillow beside her head, and the soaring crest of oblivion she had been hovering on fell away, leaving her reeling. The tip of his erection dragged, hot against her hip. She reached down to grasp it, to get that silky flesh in her palm, but he tilted away. Put his face right into her vision, and, God. His eyes were so dark, the intensity of it overwhelming, and perfect, and maybe she wasn’t the only one in this.
Maybe it wasn’t just her, feeling like everything had changed.
He put his hand on her face. “Tell me,” he said, voice rough.
And the words almost slipped out. I love you. Don’t leave. Don’t let me go.
She came to her senses just in time. When he didn’t stop her, she curled her hand around his hip. Lifted the other to touch his face.
“I want you.” It felt like it took all of her breath, and it might as well have. The force of his kiss stole anything else she had left in her. He dropped down, rocking the hot, thick length of him through the valley of her thighs in an intimation of what he was going to do, so close but not quite there, torment for them both for an instant.
And then he was in motion. He rose up onto his knees and grabbed the condom, tearing it open and getting it rolled on before she could move to try to help. When he held himself over her again, she spread her legs and braced herself.
But all he did then was kiss her. Kiss her long and slow and wet, until she was dizzy with it, until all she knew
was his mouth and his embrace and this gaping need inside of her, just waiting to be filled.
This desperate place in her heart, where he had already managed to fit himself, long before she’d invited him in.
When she slid her hand even lower to grasp the solid curve of his rear, he groaned and repositioned his hips. The blunt head of him nudged against her sex, but she didn’t tense. He’d promised he’d take care of her.
He looked into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.
The first breaching felt huge, but it didn’t hurt. Not even close. A long, gentle glide inside, and she closed her eyes at the fullness of it. The completeness when his hips met hers.
And then he did something no one else had ever done. He pressed his lips, soft and gentle and chaste to each cheek, even though he was inside her.
“You okay?”
She fluttered her eyes open to find him so close, mouth hovering just above hers. “Yeah.” Because she was. “More than.”
“Good.” His lips twitched as he rocked deeper into her, and he stifled a little groan. “Because you feel incredible.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, hell, yeah.” With that he covered her mouth with his, pulling backward with his hips while surging forward with his tongue, and it felt like a complete circuit. Like she was possessed by this man, and she never wanted to be anywhere else.
With gentle strokes, he pressed into her. She fell into his rhythm like she’d fallen into everything else with him. Each thrust ground him hard against her clit, building that warmth again in her abdomen. She held on tight, clutched him closer and tilted her hips, seeking that pleasure.
“That’s right, baby,” he murmured. It was less a kiss now and more simply breathing the same air. Being locked up tight inside this tiny bit of space where he was hers and she was his. “Take everything you need.”
She closed her eyes and dug her nails into his back, straining, focusing until—
It was just a warmth at first, a soft curl of a promise in the base of her abdomen, but she grabbed on to it. Held on to Rylan and pressed her face to his throat as she whined. Each roll of his hips made the feeling grow. She gripped him harder, moving him against herself, against that hot brightness and pleasure just above where he was filling her. Bucking her hips up into him until it was all searing heat—light and darkness and a rush of nothingness, taking her under and down, and she was afraid she’d shake apart.
Seven Nights To Surrender Page 19