Lance shakes his head. “No. No bother at all.”
“Will you have a drink with me? You know I hate to drink alone.”
He strolls over, one hand in his pocket, the other running through his hair. “Sure.”
“You know,” I say, pretending like a thought has just occurred to me, “I could use your help with something if you’re not too busy.”
“Not at all. What do you need?”
I lead him to the canvas. “I want to create something to hang over the fireplace, something big and eye-catching.” I reach my arms over my head, making sure to arch my back and rise onto my tiptoes, giving a little shimmy. “As you can see, I can’t reach the top.”
I bite my lip as his eyes drop to my ass, hoping he won’t point out the obvious. That all I have to do is turn the thing sideways to reach every inch on my own.
“So, you need me to pick you up to reach the top?”
“That’s an idea.” I have absolutely no objection to Lance’s strong hands cinched at my waist. “Or,” I gesture toward the open cans of paint, “you can paint with me.”
“I’m not an artist.” The words are soft, almost an apology.
“You don’t have to be. Just take off your clothes and get in here. I’ll show you.”
I sip at my margarita and try not to drool as Lance unbuttons his shirt, revealing his ridiculously defined pecs, washboard abs, and the treasure trail leading south of his belt.
This is happening. Definitely.
When I can’t hold back an exultant smile, I turn away to select a playlist from my phone, mostly instrumental and heavy on the bass. Just before it comes through the speakers, I hear the slide of leather against cotton, the clink of a metal buckle striking tile. When I turn back, there is a pile of clothes outside the doorway. And Lance, clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs that reveal as much as they conceal.
I take a last sip of my drink and set the glass down. “Ready?”
“I’m all yours.”
I hide my wince as I move in front of the canvas. Because Lance isn’t mine. He’s been clear about that.
But for right now, maybe even for the next nine days, he will be.
“There’s no wrong way to do this. But I like to start by building a foundation with the lighter colors, using the darker ones as accents.” I dip my hand into one of the jars and drag it across the canvas, leaving behind a streak of gray on white.
Lance joins me, his pale-blue arc a horizontal counterpoint to my vertical one. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
For a while we take turns, sometimes dragging our palms across the canvas, sometimes splattering the paint by flicking our fingers a few inches away from it. In the background, my playlist pulses, music swelling and receding like the tide crashing on the beach just thirty yards away.
The canvas is almost entirely covered when I finally follow through with the point of this whole exercise. With my fingertips drenched in gold and spread wide apart like starfish, I lock eyes with Lance. My palms hover over his pecs, so close I can feel the heat of his skin through my own.
He tenses. “What are you doing?”
“Switching to a different canvas. Don’t worry. It will come off in the shower.”
“I’m not worried,” he says, his voice rough-hewn and gruff.
The room is bright with sunlight, every plane and ridge of Lance’s body on display. It really isn’t fair that he’s so . . . delicious.
I lick my lips and slowly run my fingers over his chest, marking the grooves between his muscles. So many muscles. My heart aches as I trace the tattooed latitude and longitude coordinates that cut over his ribs, marking his stepsister’s gravesite. Lance is a man who loves deeply. Maybe, one day, he’ll even love me.
I get more paint. Navy this time. I add stripes to his cheekbones and down his arms. I circle his belly button and skim his thighs. And then I wait.
Come on, play with me.
The pulse at Lance’s temple thrums. “I can paint you?”
I nod, barely able to swallow. He dips one hand in blue, the other in gold. He starts at my neck, the warm paint covering my skin like a gossamer-thin film of the finest, softest satin. His thumbs sweep across my racing pulse just beneath my jaw, then down my collarbone, over the rise of my breasts and lower, stopping at my navel, his palms halting where my waist flares to my hips. More paint, more body parts. Everywhere he touches, he leaves his mark behind.
We are standing so close. A little breathless, I tilt my head back to take in the whole of his face. The bronze scruff dusting a jawline carved of granite. The dramatic cheekbones shadowed by long lashes. The high forehead and strong nose and cleft chin.
His eyes, though, are molten pools of intensity, locking onto mine in an electrified clash that singes the very fibers of my soul. Lance’s energy slams into me like a lightning bolt. And suddenly my hands are tangled in his hair, my nails raking over his scalp, my mouth pressed fiercely to his.
Chapter 43
Lance
When I first saw Vivienne in the kitchen, wearing one of her skimpy bikinis as she leaned over the counter to make a batch of margaritas, I felt a flare of lust. Hell, it’s become my baseline whenever she’s within view. But seeing her now, with my handprints all over her, her body streaked with the proof of my touch, is next level.
She tilts her head up for a kiss and I take her mouth with a fierce growl, tugging at the strings behind her neck, her back, and on either side of her hips. Four tugs and her bikini is just a couple of triangles at our feet. Before I can get too carried away, I back her up against the canvas, bending down to cover the tips of my fingers in navy paint. “Arms over your head.”
She complies, and I trace the outline of her body on the canvas. I’m not sure what will happen after Labor Day. It no longer seems like a finish line. More like . . . a milestone. One I can’t quite see past yet. For now, all I know for sure is that I want—at the very least—more than just a memory.
Of this.
Of her.
Of us.
The future is a question mark. But I can’t think about it now.
I pull Vivienne into my arms, her legs hooking over my hips, ankles locked behind me. I carry her to the narrow wall across from the door, using leverage to hold her against it as I slide my boxers down my legs. My cock springs free, hard and thick and aching.
“Don’t make me wait anymore,” she begs. “I can’t wait.”
“You don’t have to.” I can’t wait any longer either. It’s been weeks since we’ve had sex. Weeks of jerking off in the shower to memories of her, believing they were all I’d ever have. Though this past week was the worst. And the best.
Because Vivienne was back in my bed, every night. Her goodnight kisses an open invitation. Her head on my chest, hair falling over my neck, our legs intertwined. And still, I didn’t give into temptation. And there has never been a woman more tempting than Vivienne.
But now, Vivienne is in my arms again, needy and naked. Her face is beautiful, but it’s what shines from her eyes that has me spellbound. Strength and determination and vulnerability.
And this kiss is no goodnight kiss. It’s rough and hungry, vengeful and searching. This girl has torn down every one of my defenses like they were never there at all.