He grinned. “An art collection has to start somewhere, right?”
For a long moment she just stared at him, and he recognized it. It was the look she used to give him all those years ago, the one that used to make him feel like a hero. That used to make him feel like one of the good guys.
Then she flung herself at him, her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “I love you, Smith.”
“Of course you do. I gave you a painting.” He gathered her close, so close there was no more distance and never would be again. “I meant what I said, golden girl. I don’t want a night, or a week, or a month. I want forever. Understand?”
She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gone a soft caramel. “I want all of you.” There was no hesitation at all in the words. “And I want forever too.”
He wanted to smile, but he couldn’t. This was too important. “You’ll move in with me? Be my old lady? I don’t know how that’s going to work with Duchess, but we can figure something out.”
“Yeah, we can.” She pressed against him, leaning into him. “If it means you’re mine, I’ll do anything.”
“Oh, golden girl, I’m all yours.” He flexed his hips against her. “Especially this part.”
Nora’s husky, dirty laugh was everything he’d ever hoped.
And much later, back at his house, in his bed and in his arms, she was everything he ever needed.
Epilogue
Nora put the painting on the wall and stepped back, looking at it. She’d chosen a wall in the entranceway, because the light was good and it was the first thing people would see when they walked in the door.
“What do you think?” she asked, frowning slightly.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her in close, a wall of hard muscle and heat at her back.
“Fucking great,” Smith said, nuzzling against her ear.
She squirmed in response, laughing. “We’re going to need more, I hope you know that. This house is perfect for art.”
And it was. She couldn’t wait to fill all the white walls with color and the shelves with various sculptures. She already had her eye on a piece in a gallery not far from the Duchess offices, one that didn’t cost the earth, unlike the one hanging on the wall in front of her now. She’d chosen it the night Smith had closed the gallery for her.
The first piece of her collection.
It had taken a month to get here because they couldn’t have it until the exhibition had finished, but finally it had arrived that morning. She’d barely been able to wait till Smith got home that evening, desperate to unpack it and hang it.
But it had been worth waiting for.
“I know,” she said, leaning back in his arms. “You don’t give a crap, do you?”
“Not about art, no. But I give a crap about you.”
Nora grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Smith’s deep, husky laugh sounded in her ear. “What can I say? I’m a romantic kind of guy.”
A sudden thought struck her and once it was there in her head, she couldn’t seem to get rid of it.
She turned in his arms and looked up into his dark eyes. “You told me once, but I’ve forgotten. Is Smith your last name or your first?”
“Both.”
“I know that, but was it your given name?”
“No. My first name was Tucker, but it was Dad’s idea so I dropped it.”
She relaxed against his hard chest, glorying in the feel of it. “So you don’t have anything against last names per se.”
“I guess not.” His hands slid lower, over her butt, easing her against him. “Why?”
Her heart was beating faster. Dammit, she was nervous.
Swallowing it down, she held his gaze. “What do you think of the name Smith Sutcliffe?”
It took him a couple of moments to understand, but then it appeared, his rare, wide smile. Full of warmth. Full of love. “Smith Sutcliffe,” he murmured. “Hmmm. I like it.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Is that a proposal, golden girl?”
She could feel herself blushing, a fizzing happiness beginning inside her, bursting and bubbling like freshly poured champagne. “I think it is. Should I get down on one knee?”
His smile turned wicked. “Get down on both knees and we’ll go from there.”
Nora laughed. “Is that a yes?”
Smith leaned down, heat flaring in his eyes. Heat and so much more. “What do you think? That’s biker for Fuck, yeah.”
She didn’t know what to say, there didn’t seem to be any words for the feeling that overflowed inside her. So she didn’t say anything. Instead she rose up on her toes and kissed him.
Which was Nora for I love you.
To the Deacons of Bourbon St. ladies. You b****es are the best. :-)
Acknowledgments
Thanks go to my editor, Shauna Summers, and to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, and to all the usual suspects.
BY JACKIE ASHENDEN
Take Me Deeper
Hold Me Down
Make It Hurt
JACKIE ASHENDEN has been writing fiction since she was eleven years old. Mild-mannered fantasy/SF/pseudo-literary writer by day, obsessive romance writer by night, she used to balance her writing with the more serious job of librarianship until a chance meeting with another romance writer prompted her to throw off the shackles of her day job and devote herself to the true love of her heart—writing romance. She particularly likes to write dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just gotten the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines.
Jackie lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr. Jax, two kids, two cats, and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their stroppy heroines, she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, posting random crap on her blog, or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband.
To keep up to date with Jackie’s new releases and other news, sign up for her newsletter at her website and follow her at:
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Make It Hurt (Texas Bounty) Page 20