by Stacy Gail
A disturbed breath escaped her parted lips. “However much I needed to get you to calm down.”
“That’s going to take a while.” He undid a couple buttons of her blouse and dived a hand inside to cup her breast, rubbing the already taut nipple until her head dropped back and a low, sexy-as-fuck moan purred out of her. “A long while. Take off your jeans.”
“Oh my God.” As scandalized as she sounded, her jeans were soon in a pile on the floor. “Are we really doing this? I mean, I doubt that us having sex was what Scout thought would happen when she decided to give us some space.”
“Not that it’s any of her fucking business what we do behind closed doors, but sex is exactly what she thought would happen. Who am I to squander such a gift?” With that statement leaving her speechless, he reached for his belt buckle. “You still have your panties on. Why?”
“Because we’re in your tattooing booth with no freaking lock on the door.”
“Light’s on outside. That’s as good as any lock.” But when she didn’t look completely convinced, he knew he had the job of convincing her on his hands.
Lucky, lucky him.
Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, he handed it to her. “Do me a favor and get a condom out,” he murmured while sliding his hands up her thighs to her panties. Damn, she was like living silk, and he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her. “I’m busy doing something else right now.”
“I noticed.” A faint gasp—God, that sound turned him inside out—escaped her when he peeled her panties down her legs. “Sage—”
“Not talking anymore, Skittish.” To make sure she understood, he caught her mouth with his, putting an end to any possible debate she might have in mind. At the same time, one hand dived back under her semi-undone blouse while the other roamed just beneath her shirttails to explore her pussy.
Hot.
Damp.
His.
The moment he brushed against her, he felt the catch in her breath—a sensation that was better than any aphrodisiac—and he almost groaned out loud. “I’m going to make you moan, my Mads. Open wider for me.”
“You’re a bad, bad influence,” she whispered against his mouth. even as she spread her legs wider. “I love it. Make me moan, Sage.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Thrilled with her, and counting himself as one lucky sonofabitch, he focused his attention on the heat between her legs. “Fuck, yeah.”
He kissed her again, hard and fast before tugging on her hair with a gentle but commanding hand. She arched, just like he’d wanted, and her breasts thrust through her partially undone shirt. He slid his mouth down her neck and chest to capture a sweet, taut nipple, sucking on it like the candy it was while the hand between her legs explored her hot, wet cleft. When he found the hard nub of her clit a thrill of pure lust roared through him, tightening his balls and hardening his dick so much the pleasure bordered on pain.
“Sage.” The fluttery whisper of his name breathed out of her, and he glanced up to find her head was now flung back, her throat arched and eyes closed as she threw herself into sensation. “Sage.”
She was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen.
“I want to keep you like this forever.” Sweat popped out along his brow as the need to be inside her grew to a savage roar. Blindly he grabbed for the condom she still clutched, pulled his cock out from his loosened clothes and slid the protection into place. “I love how you fire up so easily, baby. Just a stroke or two from me and you’re on the verge of coming. You’ll never know how that frigging sends me.”
“I want you.” Her words were indistinct, pushed out between shallowed-out breaths. “God, Sage, please. I want you. Fill me, please.”
“Gonna make you work for it first.” Relentlessly he massaged her cleft, until his fingers were soaked and slippery and her body writhed in time with the rhythm his hand set up for her. “I wonder how long I can keep you on the edge of coming. Minutes? An hour? Jesus, just the thought makes me so hard I can’t even stand straight.”
“Please.” With her eyes closed and her hips pumping hard to fuck the hand he had between her legs, she was his greatest fantasy come to life. “Please, harder. I’m close.”
Damn it, so was he.
“I like you turned on like this, Skittish.” His breathing came in deep shudders as he struggled to hold on, but damn, the tingling at the base of his spine and the increased tightening of his balls told him control was slipping from his grasp. “I love knowing I bring you that much pleasure. Knowing you trust me to fuck you in ways that leave you totally open and vulnerable to me. Knowing you trust me, even as I do whatever the fuck I want with you. Jesus, you’re a fantasy come to life.”
“Fuck me.” It was barely a whisper through her breathy moans, both frustrated and pleading. “Fuck me, Sage.”
He’d gone as far as he could on denying them both the greatest pleasure they both craved. With the satisfaction of knowing he’d made her as crazed as he felt, he thrust into her fully, until his hips slammed against her body.
Yes.
Yes.
Madness claimed him in a flash, and all at once the jagged rage of ecstasy ripped through him. Blind and deaf to everything but the purest pleasure exploding in every cell, he pumped into her gloving depths like his life depended on it, and in that moment that was what it felt like. If he didn’t bury himself into her as deeply as he could, he would fucking die.
Mads seemed to be just as frantic to meld their bodies together for all time, if the way her legs locked around him was any indication. Even as reality melted away and he lost himself in the massive wave of pleasure inundating his senses, he never lost sight of how fiercely she clamped her legs around him, holding him to her like she wanted to make him a part of her.
That thought gave him another shattering wave of pleasure and he came that much harder, his grunts of pleasure mingling with her broken gasps. When reality slowly came back into focus, he wondered if the world had tilted off its axis with the power of their fucking, or if the rocky sensation going on inside was just him being knocked for a loop.
“Wow,” she whispered again, as breathless as if she’d just run a marathon. “That was… Wow.”
Good to know they were in the same boat. “I have no idea if I’ll be able to sling any ink after that. Jesus, it’s like the whole world’s shaking.”
“I know.” She pursed her lips and tried evening her breath out, all the while staring at him with big eyes. “You’re just phenomenal at sex, you know that?”
“Thanks, but I can’t take all the credit.” He gave her a squeeze and reveled at how perfectly she fit against him. “We’re phenomenal together. How much time did Scout give us?”
“Her text said for me to take as long as I needed with you.”
He grinned, and the fatigue trying to claim him vanished as if it had never been. “I think we’re going to start our workday much later than originally planned.”
Chapter Twelve
Creating art was one of the greatest joys in Mads’s life. When inspiration struck, she’d lose herself from the world. Even from time itself.
But when inspiration refused to show up, life basically sucked ass.
“Come on,” she muttered to the blank canvas in front of her, spotlighted by an uncovered window in the back room in her townhome. All that amazing sunlight was the main reason she’d chosen this particular unit. The rest of the place could have been a total trash pile, as far as she was concerned. That one room had all the southern exposure an artist could want. “Show me what you want to be.”
Not surprisingly, the blank canvas didn’t answer her.
Shit.
She knew what her problem was. Growing up around her art critic of a father, she’d never been able to paint in peace. Eventually, when she’d gotten out on her own and didn’t have him breathing down her neck, Mads had discovered that while she was a master at digital creation, she was also a decent painter. Right after she’d moved into he
r townhome, she’d created the caged-bird painting, and had fallen so utterly in love with it she’d hung it in the foyer as soon as it was dry.
But she couldn’t just create perfection on demand.
“Okay, fine. Be that way. I prefer sketching way more than painting anyway.” Giving up her place by the easel, she dragged a sketchpad off a nearby drafting table and dropped onto what she called her thinking couch. It was a battered piece of furniture with Grandma-style floral upholstery and splitting cushions, and no doubt was as old as she was. It had been stuffed into her childhood bedroom and had been something her father was supposed to have gotten rid of. But he’d never gotten around to it—apparently out of his sight meant out of mind—and over time she’d gotten used to using it herself. Countless creations had been dreamed up on that couch.
Maybe, after years of soaking up all that wild creativity, it could somehow help her out now.
“Subject. I need a subject. What kind of subject do I want to draw?” Flipping open the sketchpad, she rolled the charcoal pencil between her fingers and stared at the blank page.
Like the blank canvas in the pool of wintry sunlight, it stared mutely back at her.
Damn it.
Maybe she could turn in the blank page and tell Payne it was a depiction of lost inspiration.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered in disgust, then almost wept in relief when the front doorbell sounded. Tossing aside her sketchpad, she lost no time in heading into the small foyer to answer it, while her heart happily skipped in anticipation. Sage. Thank goodness that man had decided to ignore her instructions to leave her alone for the day so she could get to work on her project. What she really needed was to be saved from blank canvases and sketchpads staring at her in mute accusation. What a hero.
But when she looked through the peephole, the hope of distracting herself with Sage vanished. In its place crept in the old, familiar anxiety and a churning storm of self-doubt.
Just what the doctor didn’t order.
“Dad. Hi.” Swinging open the front door, Mads braced a hand on the door’s frame. When she realized how her body had chosen to physically bar the way into her place, she decided not to change her stance. “This is a surprise. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m always okay. Can’t I drop in and visit my kid every now and again?”
Maybe that was another one of his weirdly not-funny jokes? “You’ve never dropped in on me before.”
Her father’s weathered face scrunched. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“No, really. I’m positive it is. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the one and only time you’ve ever been here. I invited you to my housewarming party when I first moved in. You showed up, hung out in the kitchen for about fifteen minutes, then took a 24-pack of Samuel Adams lager, a jar of guacamole and a bag of chips, and left. I remember it distinctly, because usually people bring things to a housewarming party, not take things away.”
“Geez, if you’re going to be that way about it,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders defensively. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away. “Guess I’m wasting my time here. See you around.”
“Wait.” The word shot out of her before she could consciously put a stop to it. But damn it, it was the holiday season, and almost her birthday, and the only thing she wanted was for there to be peace between them. “Don’t go, please. Just… Come in.”
He hesitated, looking like he’d much rather take a hike, before lifting a grudging shoulder. “I guess I could spare you a few minutes.”
Like he was doing her a favor.
Whatever.
“Place looks good.” He glanced at the painting of the caged bird she’d hung in the foyer, straightened it a fraction, then moved into the open living area. “Very homey. You still having that dinner this weekend?”
Oh, crap. “Actually, Sage McCormick, Serena and maybe a plus-one are coming over this weekend. I’d just assumed that since things went so badly the last time we all sat down together, you’d want nothing to do with a repeat performance.”
“So I’m not invited? I’m kidding, Mads,” he said when she froze, not sure how to tell him that he was about as welcome as a skunk at a garden party. “You never could take a joke.”
“True. Then again I’ve never been able to fathom what the hell you think is funny. I’m not picking a fight,” she shrugged when he gave her a sharp look. “I’m just stating the obvious. It’s probably because you and I are nothing alike.”
“You don’t think you’re like me?”
Was he kidding again? “We couldn’t be more unalike if we tried. Oil and water have more in common than we do. Though maybe toothpaste and orange juice would be a better—”
“Okay, I get it, I get it. But like it or not, you did inherit one or two things from me.”
“Just not your sense of humor.” Obviously.
He gave her a side-eye before lifting a shoulder. Maybe he didn’t know if she was kidding, either. “Yeah. On that we can agree.”
“So.” Well aware that time was marching on and she’d made zero progress on her art auction project, she couldn’t help but glance at the steampunk-inspired clock over the mantel. Three hours before work, and not a single idea for her project. Great. “What brings you here?”
“Serena had quite a lot to say after you and your boyfriend left the other night.” Her father’s expression soured, as if the mere mention of Sage left a bad taste in his mouth. “Seems like she thought that whole blow-up was all my fault.”
Thank you, Rena. “First off, I’m not sure if Sage and I have hit official boyfriend-girlfriend status. Everything’s still kind of new for us. And secondly, Rena’s right. It was all your fault.”
“Listen up, little girl. In any fight it takes two to tango, so the blame isn’t all on me.”
She wondered if he could hear her disappointment in the sigh she heaved. “Okay. Well, if that’s all you came to say, let me see you to the d—”
“Hold on a second. I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
“What else is there to talk about?”
“When is that charity art auction shindig you were talking about?”
Her stomach knotted as she tabulated the time she had left to get her shit together. “Just a little over two weeks. Christmas Eve. My birthday.” Not that he’d celebrated that in years. But again, whatever.
“And there’s going to be a lot of media coverage?”
“It’s House Of Payne,” she drawled. “Heavy publicity is how they roll.”
“How do you donate a painting for the auction?”
“Oh. Um.” Warning bells sounded in her brain, and she held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Short answer is, you don’t. All the donated artwork is coming from inhouse talent, and the deadline for signing up to participate in the auction has already passed. In fact, everybody has to submit their artwork by next Friday.” Oh, God. Next Friday. She’d never be ready.
Her father began to scowl. “Okay, fine. How about you submit a piece for me? Put it in under your name, though it’ll have my signature.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No way.” She didn’t even have to think twice about it. No matter how artistically blocked she was, she’d never submit any work that wasn’t her own. “Absolutely no way am I going to do that.”
Her father’s scowl turned borderline vicious. “Why the hell not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? House Of Payne art comes from House Of Payne artists. Those are the rules.”
“Who cares about stupid fucking rules? I’m your father. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Damn it. “Let me put it another way. Notarized Certificates of Authenticity go with every single piece of art going up on the auction block, so submitting a painting with your name on it won’t work.”
He scoffed. “Nobody’s going to pay any attention to that if you’re the one doing the submitting.”
“Also, I signed up to submit only one piece, and that one piece is going to be mine.” If she could figure out what the hell to paint, of course. “I have to admit, I’m shocked you’d even want to have anything to do with something having to do with House Of Payne. I thought you didn’t like Payne.”
“I can’t stand that motherfucker. But that has nothing to do with showing the world that my art is as just as good as yours, or anyone else’s.”
Ah. She should have known this was all about his ego. “Well, this charity auction is for a good cause. Why don’t you approach Payne and ask if you could be a part of the auction? He might be moved by your desire to donate something that benefits the homeless. And who knows? He and Scout could spin it that even former House Of Payne artists are all about giving to the community this time of year.”
“Fuck that shit,” he snorted, shattering the warm and fuzzy image she was trying to paint. “I refuse to talk to that bastard.”
“Then we don’t have anything to discuss, at least when it comes to that. Are you sure you don’t want to come to the auction and support it that way? You don’t have to talk to Payne if you don’t want to. You could just come and enjoy viewing the art.” Including mine.
With a dismissive grunt he turned away to the door. “I have no interest in any of that shit. Thanks for nothing.”
She couldn’t find an adequate response—mainly because she never knew how to respond to him—so in silence she watched him stalk out the front door. In his wake he left nothing but stormy darkness and an unsettled atmosphere, and she sucked in a slow breath in the hope of finding some semblance of calm. It didn’t help. Considering all the mental upheaval her father always managed to create, it was going to take more than deep breathing to chase away that parental-induced storm of insecurity. Too bad she wasn’t a drinker.
She jumped at least an inch when a harsh, insistent knock sounded like rapid gunfire on her door, and before she gave it a thought she was halfway to the door before her brain caught up and halted her in her tracks. Nothing good came from letting her father mow her down yet again, she thought grimly, her hands balling into tense fists. If he wanted to unload some more, he could damn well do it to her front door. No way was she going to help him beat her up for whatever sins he imagined she’d somehow committed—