by Lindsey Hart
“Somehow I highly doubt that.”
“You’re quite confident for someone who has never seen my work.”
“That’s not true.” Charity flushed. “I may have looked up your work when I was in town. The reception out here is terrible, but there it was easy. You’re very talented.”
Another warmth, the warmth of her praise, spread through him. He realized, in the span of three days, he was going from one extreme to the other. He was going completely soft, as though hers were the first words of encouragement he’d ever heard in his life.
It shouldn’t feel this good. Having her here. It did though, and that fact alone was enough to steal his breath. She’s going to leave at the end of the month. He’d be alone again. Just me and the damn house again.
“I have an idea,” he ground out, with effort, past his closed throat. “Tomorrow. I have a dress for you to wear. I’ll take you somewhere else.”
“What? Are you going to tell me where? Or what kind of dress?” Her brow creased in puzzlement.
“No. It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. A surprise.” He turned roughly and gripped the edges of the canvas, moving it out of sight as he stalked off towards the house.
He needed to get a grip and he needed to get it fast. He stomped into the kitchen noisily before he remembered there were a little momma and her kittens under the table. He tip-toed after that. How was it that one woman, just one, got through to him when no one else ever could? Maybe because no one else ever tried. Maybe because I was finally ready.
He slipped past the kittens. The tiny suckling sounds alerted him to the fact at least one of them was nursing. He had to allow a gruff smile. At least, when the end of the month came, he wouldn’t be alone. He had Prissy and her kittens. He’d have his paintings.
He could always leave, rejoin the rest of the world, go back to New York, but he knew he wouldn’t. Oddly enough, the house no longer seemed like a prison, but he knew he would stay. The truth was, he had it too and it needed him. It was just a damn building, but he couldn’t bear to see it lonely, no one left to mourn its ruins when the marching years finally took their toll and the old building crumbled.
CHAPTER 13
Charity
When Charity woke early the next morning, she dressed silently and went down to the kitchen. She checked on Prissy and the kittens, who were happily nursing away under the table. She caressed Prissy’s soft head gently before she rose. She went silently about, putting on a kettle of water for coffee, debating about what to make for breakfast.
Her body hummed with anticipation. She’d barely been able to fall asleep the night before. It was like Christmas, the mysterious promise of Joe’s surprise creating a storm of butterflies whenever she thought of it.
She assumed because the house was so quiet that Joe was still sleeping. It nearly scared her half to death when the back door opened, and he stepped in. His eyes glowed with life, his bronzed skin gleamed. He had on a fresh white t-shirt that hung loosely on his naturally athletic frame. His black hair was pulled back in a tight queue at his neck and his jaw gleamed with a fresh shave.
“Joe,” she breathed. He froze, eyes darting away before they could land fully on her. “I didn’t think you were awake.”
“Yes.” He shrugged, the shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “I’ve been up for hours. I have everything ready.”
“Everything?”
“The surprise. I’ve taken everything out.”
“Where?” She had the feeling he wasn’t talking about the backyard.
“There’s a field that borders my land. It’s not very far, and it’s actually cloudy today so it’s not so hot. A day of mercy, after the unrelenting heat. I took everything out there.”
“What? To a field?”
“Yes. It’s hay. I want to paint you there.”
“Alright.” Charity swallowed hard. His request was strange, but the light in his eyes he tried so very desperately to dampen told her he was excited and in turn, it stirred her. “What do you want me to wear?”
“Just what you have on. I’ve brought everything out there.”
“To the field?” She remarked again, brow raised.
“Yes. It’s just hay. No one comes out there.”
“I hope so. I would be a rather odd sight.”
“Are you coming?”
“Right this moment? I was making coffee?”
“Yes. Now.”
She slowly set down the mug she’d been about to prepare. “You’re the boss.”
She realized, when he extended a hand, that he’d removed the bandages. She stared at the palm, the scratches still an angry red though they’d scabbed over, and the healing process was well underway.
She stared at his hand for a moment. She slowly reached out and took it gently, curling her fingers around his much stronger, warmer ones. He stared at it for just a second before he retracted it and turned, stalking out the back door.
Charity stood in the kitchen, arm tingling, the fire spreading, the warm, headiness pooling in her belly, her thighs tingling, heart racing. She wondered why he’d extended his hand at all? Just to see if she’d take it?
She finally forced herself into motion. Joe was already halfway across the yard by the time she made it outside and she hurried to catch up. She fell into stride beside him, breathing heavily. The ground was uneven, broken and weedy. She stumbled a few times and picked herself up, glad she’d opted for runners and not flip-flops.
Charity was just wondering when they’d ever get to the field, or if it even existed when it started. The weeds broke up suddenly, gave way to tall, waving grass. Sweet purple and pink alfalfa, wild mustard, oats and other wild flowers dotted the softly swaying grasses.
Joe stepped over to the left and Charity’s eyes lit on the break in the grass, just ahead. He’d set out an easel, propped up a canvas, brought his paints. Set off to the left was a blanket, a quilt done all in soft floral prints.
She wished she could find words to describe the beauty and tranquility of that moment. He’d found the perfect backdrop.
There on the blanket was a white shift. It was made up of old lace and creamy cotton. A set of antique white stockings were laid out beside it, a white garter and white gloves set to match.
“Where did you get these?” She had to ask. She couldn’t put on that clothing, that dainty, beautiful set, not knowing where it had come from.
“I found a trunk in one of the rooms in the house. It was filled with old clothing. Most of it was too threadbare to be saved let alone used, but this was at the bottom. It was in perfect condition. I washed it and dried it and ironed it. It’s clean. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Charity swallowed hard. “I’m not afraid. When did you do all this?”
“Last night,” Joe admitted. The washing and drying and ironing. The rest I did this morning as soon as it was light.”
“You haven’t slept?”
“I couldn’t.”
She nearly retorted that she hadn’t been able to sleep either. Or at least, she felt like she hadn’t. Clearly, she’d slept far sounder than she thought if she hadn’t heard him bustling about.
“I’ll turn my back. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“Alright,” Charity mumbled.
She waited until Joe turned. He stared off in the opposite direction. She followed the line of the horizon with her eyes as her hands began stripping away her clothing. She slipped on the silk stockings first. It was a good thing she’d worn beige panties. She slid the garter belt in place. It was a surprise that the clips did up easily. The shift came next. It was utterly beautiful, delicate, fascinating and completely sheer, even on a cloudy day.
She crossed her arms over her chest, thankful she’d opted to leave on her white lace bralette. She picked up her clothes and moved them away from the blanket, so they would not mar the scene.
She slowly spread out on the blanket, choosin
g a natural pose that hid most of her body. Though the black dress she wore the day before had been just as revealing, if not more so, she felt strange in the field, out in the middle of nature, under a wide-open sky, vulnerable in the clothing that was not hers.
“I’m ready,” she finally whispered.
Joe turned, slowly, so very slowly. She watched every movement, savored the bunch and pull, the contracting and expanding of every single muscle in his shoulders, his bronzed biceps. His jeans were so worn and faded they looked buttery soft to the touch.
“Is- is this alright?” she stammered, very aware of the wild storm that entered his gaze the minute his eyes locked on hers. It took her breath away, those unreadable, sea-tossed eyes.
“Alright,” he breathed. “How could you ask that?” He seemed to shake himself after the question. “I mean, yes, it’s fine. You look… incredible.”
He sat down heavily in the wooden folding chair he’d placed behind the easel. Charity was aware, as his eyes flicked over her, touching her like the lightning tongues of searing flames, that everything had changed.
This wasn’t the guarded, fearful, grieving Joe. This was the man who was slowly returning to life, slowly awakening, like a flower that only blossomed once every ten years for a few precious hours before returning to its long slumber.
She waited, breath baited. Her back ached from the sitting position she held. The shift rode up, exposing the silk stockings and the dainty shape of her legs.
She closed her eyes and took a few deep, cleansing breaths. The heat in her belly built, the fire all-consuming. Her body ached. Every limb felt like lead. She was so very aware of the man in front of her, a man whose handsome image she could not erase from her brain. He was burned there, behind her closed lids, worse, he was impossibly burned into her heart.
Joe was no fumbling teenager, no drunken college one-night stand. He was no shitty boyfriend who lasted a few weeks and took far more than he ever gave, pleasure or otherwise. No, he was a man. A handsome, raw, primal man who stole her breath.
The crunch of grass in front of her alerted Charity to the fact that Joe had moved. Her eyes whipped open and she stared at him as though he was an apparition. He was only a foot away, hand eerily outstretched.
He waited, as though seeking permission for what he was about to do. She inhaled hard, the breath burning her throat and lungs.
She froze. Blinked once. Waited. Waited for one painful heartbeat after another.
Joe edged closer. He crouched down near the edge of the blanket. When his finger, so very warm and sensual, caressed her arm, they both started. The flames inside of her burned brighter, higher, consuming her entire world. She leaned into his touch, closed her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I… I can’t do it. I can’t get your skin right. Not your hair, your lips. It’s not the right shade or the right hue. The lighting is all wrong.”
“Why?” Her eyes flicked open and she looked up into his.
“Because,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t paint you until I know what you feel like. Until I learn you.”
She knew she was playing with the worst kind of fire. Taking the kind of risk where she was sure to lose, a gamble that she already knew would break her heart. She gently reached out, took his hand in hers and guided it to her lips. “Then learn me,” she commanded with the last breath left in her breathless lungs.
CHAPTER 14
Joe
What am I doing? He had to stop himself, had to control himself, keep himself from igniting the wild fire that burned inside of him, the spark long dampened and forgotten.
He knew nothing but the fact that he wanted her. It was so very hard and obvious to him. His hand extended, reached out, landed on the creamy swell of her calf. Silk rasped under his rough fingertips, so smooth, so feminine and beautiful.
There were pain and panic, but not the sense of betrayal he expected. A rush of heat traveled up his hand, his arm and flooded his chest. It blossomed, hard and hot, the ache growing, taking over. His hand shook as he moved it up the silken planes of Charity’s leg.
She gasped, and his eyes flew to her face, to her slightly parted coral lips, her eyes, which fluttered closed. She leaned into his touch. Her dainty shoulders rose and fell as his hand traveled upwards, learning the shape of her muscle, up, to the edge of the silk stocking. He paused, his own breath hard and raspy, the tide of desire sweeping over him, consuming him.
“Joe,” Charity breathed. Her eyes flickered open and he was astounded at the ache in their depths. She truly wants me to touch her.
He caressed the silk of her skin, so much softer, smoother, warmer than the stocking had been. She made that raspy breath sound again, but this time it was combined with a little whimper. It was amazing to him that she didn’t disappear. She didn’t turn to ash. He watched her face as he traced the curve of her thigh. His fingers skimmed under the bottom of the thin white shift. He kept his hand there, at the top of her thigh, froze, afraid to move.
Charity blinked hard, emotion warring on her face as it probably was on his. Her eyes darkened with desire. There was something raw that hadn’t been there before, and he knew it was his touch that brought it out.
“I want you to touch me, Joe,” she whispered, pleading. “I want you to learn all of me.”
His inhale was ragged and hard, filling up his burning lungs before he exhaled loudly, letting out the captured breath. He never thought he’d get another chance. Another chance at life, at feeling, at this… it scared the hell out of him, what Charity did to him just by existing.
“Joe.” Her fingers curled over his at the top of her thigh. “Please. I want to feel alive.”
Alive. That was something he hadn’t been in years. Not until Charity. She was like the wind; completely unexpected, blowing all around him, unseen, but no less powerful for it.
She was everything all at once. She was fire, she was desire, she was healing and guidance and a second chance at a life he’d given up on. A life that betrayed him and gave up on him, left him wrung out, pain-filled and trapped.
She was freedom. She took his hand and slowly guided it to the warmth of her. His fingertips rasped against the lace of her panties. He groaned, his hand moving with hers. He brushed aside the lace there and ran his fingers over her slick heat.
A violent shiver ripped through them both. Charity jerked hard at the contact. Pleasure pulsed deep in his stomach, hard and heady and astoundingly raw.
He gave up on control, on rationalization, on reason. He lost himself in giving her pleasure, tearing those whimpers from her throat. He lived for her raspy breaths, the shudders, the tremors that started under his fingertips and radiated through her. He stroked her there, his fingers becoming slick with her arousal.
He didn’t know it could be so good just touching someone else. He slowly explored her, caressed her, circled her sweet folds, smearing her slickness over her clit, arching back, away from the hard, sensitive bud. He created the rhythm they both so desperately needed. She arched into him, her hips writhing. She leaned back on her elbows, not quite sitting, not quite laying, trapped somewhere in the middle.
“God, Joe,” Charity gasped. The sound was raw, all liquid fire and white-hot heat.
He realized how close she was then, how close to finding release, to shattering under his hand. He wanted to see her come. He wanted to make her come.
Instead, he moved his hand away, but she trapped it with hers. Her gaze slammed into his, those grey eyes so very dark, swimming and shining. He lost himself there, in her gaze. She slowly guided his hand to her mouth. He trembled, his body bracing for the impact of her warm, sweet tongue. Her coral lips parted. The minute his finger met her mouth all he knew was ambrosia.
His body responded viscerally, all male, the raw, hard heat slamming into every single cell and nerve ending he had. He came alive. Aware. Awake. And it fucking hurt. It hurt, but it was so very, very sweet.
Ch
arity suckled his finger into her mouth, tasting her own juices on his hand. Her eyes fluttered closed and she moaned low in her throat. It was sexy as hell and it inflamed Joe. It drove him wild, his senses a jumble of madness and desperate need.
He extracted his hand gently, giving them the freedom, they craved so very badly, like air itself, to explore her body. He was hardly aware that he’d moved at all, but suddenly he was on top of her, pressing her back, one strong, jean-clad leg braced against her thighs. Her shift was rucked around her hips, exposing her beige lace panties, soaked through.
He bent his head, closed his eyes and found her breast. He suckled her through the shift, through the thin lace of her bra underneath. Her nipple responded instantly, despite the layers of fabric. The dusky peak hardened under his tongue as he flicked it over her. He rasped his teeth over the fabric and Charity whimpered again. Her hips bucked under his, her pelvis slamming into his jeans, aching, wanting.
His hands moved over her, caressing her arms, the silk stockings, her shapely legs, the thin shift that clung to her sweat dampened skin. He found the silky swell of her hip and gripped it, the rough of his palm meeting the sweet, smooth, delicacy that was all hers. All woman. Mine. My angel.
Charity’s fingers tangled wantonly in his hair, tugging it free from the elastic he’d wound it into.
“Joe.” She said his name in her low, husky voice. It was the only word she seemed to be able to say, but he loved the sound of it on her tongue.
Her hands flew over him, frantically, down his chest, over the hard planes of his abs, to his jeans. She deftly undid the button and he let her push his jeans and his boxers down his thighs. Her small, warm palm gripped his cock. He groaned, the sound wild, torn from the depths of him, as he pulsed and ached in her hand.
She arched under him, slamming her pelvis into his, grinding deliciously against his tender, bared flesh. His cock hit the warm, soaked lace of her panties. He saw stars. He had to grind his teeth to keep himself together. God, he wanted her. He needed her.