Being Me (6 page)

“I’m going to make love to you now, Sara.”

It is the last thing I expect, and everything I both want and fear. My world is spinning out of control and I’m not sure if it will stop in a place where I will have even footing. “What happened to fuck and get fucked?”

“Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you.” His lips part mine, his tongue delving deeply, exploring, and the demand of minutes before becomes a sultry, sensual caress. He has torn down every wall I possess and I cannot fight him, or this.

He spreads me wide and settles between my thighs, thick and pulsing, parting me with the promise of finally filling me. I feel him press into me and my arms tighten around his neck. I lift my hips and meet him, urge him to go deeper, to give me more, when I know it is him demanding more of me, taking what I try to hold back but cannot.

He sinks into me, buries his cock inside me, and we lie there, foreheads touching, breathing together. I have never felt as part of a man as I do in that moment. Never felt so a part of another human being. I do not know what to do with the emotions inside me. I do not know how to be this close to someone and still hold on to myself.

“Chris?” I rasp desperately, afraid of this, of him, of where I am spiraling and will never be found.

He moves then, the thick ridge of his shaft caressing a path backward until I think he is going to pull out, to move away. I arch forward, desperate to bring him back, and he answers me with a hard thrust. I cry out and wrap my leg around his, lifting my body, moaning as his hand slides under my backside and pulls me closer, drives him deeper. He pumps into me over and over and I feel him shaking, or maybe it is me who is shaking. I don’t want this to end, and I sense he, too, is fighting it, as if we both fear the moment after, and what comes next. But the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, to be sustained. My sex clamps
down on him, spasming with the most intense orgasm of my life. He growls low in his throat and thrusts deep into me, before I feel the wet, hot heat of his release. And then we are there, in the moment after, him on top of me in his bed. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what to do with this ball of emotion threatening to explode in my chest.

Chris moves first, shifting me to lie in front of him and pulling the blanket over the top of me. I feel the wetness clinging to my thighs but I don’t care. Chris is wrapped around me, holding me in his bed. For long minutes, we lie there in silence and I don’t want to sleep. I just want to feel him here with me.

“Come with me to Los Angeles.”

For a moment I consider saying yes and my reasons are many. Chris somehow steadies the shaky ground of uncertainty in my world.

“I bought you a seat on the plane.”

“Chris,” I say, rolling over and feeling defensive, and more than a little pressured. “You know I can’t. You know I have a job. And when did you even have time to buy me a seat?”

“Before I even knew about the storage unit power outage. I came here tonight determined to convince you to come back with me, and before you start to argue, getting out of town gives the private detective time to check on what happened last night and gives us some peace of mind that it was nothing to worry about.”

My stomach flutters wildly. “You think I’m in danger?”

“I just don’t want to take any chances, Sara.”

“You do think I’m in danger.”

“I’m not trying to scare you, but I also told you I want to
protect you and I meant it. That means being cautious.” He teases a tendril of hair at my forehead. “And I want you with me. I’d want you with me even if this wasn’t going on.”

He wants me with him. These words please me deeply and I yearn to say yes but my fear for my job holds me back. “I want to go, but I can’t. I have to stay. And I’ll be fine thanks to you. I feel safe here.”

His expression darkens. “You won’t be in the apartment around the clock.”

“I’ll be at the gallery and it’s safe.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he says dryly, and I know he’s talking about Mark’s presence there, not the security. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and casts me a wry glance. “I’m about as likely to change your mind about this as I am likely to get you to watch
Friday the 13th
with me, aren’t I?”

“Less.” I cup his cheek and plant a quick kiss on his mouth. “Buttered popcorn and the promise of a chick flick to follow might convince me to watch the movie.” I roll back over and he leans away from me and turns out the light before pulling me close, and yes, we are spooning. It’s wonderful.

“You really are making me crazy, woman,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear.

“Good,” I say, smiling into the darkness. “Because you make me crazy, too.”

“Is that right?” he challenges.

“Hmm,” I assure him, feeling the heaviness of emotional and physical exhaustion begin to settle deep in my limbs. “Yes. You absolutely make me crazy.” And it’s crazy good, I add silently, letting my lashes lower and the groggy sensation of sleep claim me.

•   •   •

Blinking awake, I am instantly aware that Chris is gone. For a moment, I fear that morning has come and he’s flown off to Los Angeles and hasn’t given me a chance to say good-bye. But there’s the soft hum of a light beyond the door, and it gives me hope he’s still here. The sound of muffled music slides into my awareness, and relief washes over me. I know I am not really alone and I am eager to seek out Chris.

I sit up and the blanket falls to my waist, the cool air chilling my naked body. Still, I toss away the comforter and find Chris’s shirt on the floor, and glance at the clock to find it’s almost five in the morning. I wonder how early his flight leaves and hope it’s not the early bird, but it must be since he’s awake. It is odd to imagine being here without Chris, and I am shocked and pleased at his willingness to allow me such a freedom.

Pulling his shirt over my head, I inhale the delicious scent of the man who has come to fill such a big part of my life, and I decide I’ll keep this shirt to sleep in until he returns.

I pad in bare feet to the doorway and stare at the empty living room. The music pulls me to my left and down a hallway that is long and narrow, and I pass several closed doors. The one at the very end of the walkway that serves as an endcap is open several inches, and I rest my hand on the surface. I am certain this is Chris’s studio, which I have longed to see, and I know the crack is an invitation. The music changes, and the song, “You Taste Like Sugar,” a sexy Matchbox Twenty tune, begins to play. I remember Chris saying he paints to music and I wonder what this song inspires, and I am almost nervous to find out.

The door opens, taking me off guard, and Chris stands there
wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and looking like
he
tastes of sugar. My eyes travel the rich reds, blues, and yellows of his dragon tattoo, which covers hard muscle and taut, tanned skin, and my mind plays something he’d said to me not that long ago.
Do you know what happens when you push a dragon? They burn you alive, baby. You’re playing with fire
. I’ve played with fire tonight with Chris, pushed him to be that dragon, and the way he’s looking at me now, the way he sees what I do not want him to see, is burning me alive. I know in that moment that I cannot keep asking Chris to show me who he is and not be willing to show him all that I am. My gut twists with the biting possibility that holds because it means confessing something I haven’t been completely honest about, something I don’t want him to know. Something I wish I could forget forever but it is carved in my chest like a brand that only seems to get deeper when I try to wash it away.

Chris draws my hand into his and my eyes lift to his and there is mischief dancing in their depths. “Come into the ‘man-cave,’ baby.”

Laughter bubbles from my throat and I am amazed at how he takes me from somber to lighthearted. I love this about Chris. “The ‘man-cave’?”

“That’s right. Are you scared?”

“I guess it depends what kind of man-cave we’re talking about. Wasn’t the room you took me to at that club called the Lion’s Den?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” He wiggles a brow and pulls me forward and I instantly forget man-caves and Mark’s club. I am standing inside a massive room carved into a circle and windows
surrounding me on all sides, the twinkling lights of the city enclosing me like a glove. I have this sense of being at the railing of a massive ship, about to tumble into an ocean of never-ending discovery.

“It’s amazing,” I whisper, my gaze brushing his.

“I told you,” he says. “This is why I bought the apartment.”

I nod. “Yes. I understand.”

He releases me, silently giving me the freedom to explore on my own, and I walk deeper into the core of this magnificent studio. Random easels sit on stands, all covered in cloths, and I am excited at the prospect of uncovering them and seeing what is beneath. My gaze catches on the splattered paint here and there beneath my feet, and I smile at the remnants of his work, his frustrations, his excitement to get paint on canvas.

“I’ve been known to get a little messy while I work,” Chris informs me, stepping behind me, his hands settling on my waist, and I am instantly aware of him in every inch of my body. The sultry words of the song filter through the air—
I just want to make you go away but you taste like sugar
—and Chris leans down and murmurs something in French in my ear.

I shiver with the erotic way the words roll off his tongue and twist in his arms to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “What did you say?”

“I said,” he murmurs softly, “that I want to make you melt like sugar on my tongue like you did earlier.” He tugs the T-shirt I’m wearing up my hips and cups my bare ass, pulling me against the thick ridge of his erection. “And if I didn’t have a flight in two hours, I’d lick all that sweetness until you begged me to stop.”

“I don’t beg,” I declare, though I have no idea how I’ve formed what could be called a sentence when his fingers are tracing the crevice between my cheeks and promising delicious exploration.

“Oh, you’d beg, baby. I’d bet on it and if you tempt me much more I might just have to prove how fast. In fact”—he starts leading me toward a stool sitting in front of an easel—“I have time.”

Yes. Please. “Two hours and you still have to drive across the bridge to the airport? You don’t have time.”

“I have time.” He sets me on the stool and his hands settle on my waist. “Now, about the begging.”

I smile. “You’re going to miss your flight. You do know that, don’t you?”

He turns me to face the easel and tugs the shirt over my head. I brush hair from my eyes and suck in a breath at the painting I’m now staring at. It’s me, and I’m sitting in the middle of the floor of the “man-cave” on my knees with my hands bound in front me. “What’s that wrapped around my wrists?” I ask, my throat rasping with dryness when suddenly my hands are behind my back and I feel the tug of them being wrapped and bound.

Chris steps in front of me and holds up a roll of tape. “Very efficient.”

“Chris,” I whisper. “You’re going to miss your flight.”

His lips curve seductively. “You clearly underestimate my efficiency.” He goes down on a knee in front of me and spreads my legs. “Now. On to the begging.” His hands, those talented, artistic hands, travel up my thighs and his thumbs stroke my clit. “I’m on a timer, right? I’d better get busy?” His tongue drags slowly,
sensually over me. “Like sugar, baby, and I’m going to melt you like honey.”

My body sways. “And I’m going to fall off this stool.”

“Not if you lean into me,” he says, and slides two fingers inside me. “Lean.”

I arch forward and slide. “I’m going to fall.”

“I have you, Sara.” His fingers splay on my thighs. “Trust me. I have you.” His eyes hold mine and the depth of power and heat I find there are as limitless as what he makes me feel. His voice softens into a caress. “Relax into me.”

Relax into him. Like I had in bed. I nod. “Yes.”

Slowly, he lowers his head and I feel the warm trickle of his hot breath a moment before his mouth closes down on my clit. I gasp as his hand leaves my leg and my body shifts forward, but then his fingers are inside me, and that arch of my body is like sweet, unbearably necessary pressure. I am on the edge in a flash of seconds and Chris is wrong, so very wrong. I won’t beg. There isn’t time. I’m going to come and there is no question, none whatsoever, that this man owns me and I can’t think of a single reason why that’s a bad thing.

•   •   •

Forty-five minutes later, I’m still wearing nothing but Chris’s shirt and standing in the kitchen, watching while he downs the cup of coffee I’ve poured him as if it’s not scalding hot. His hair is damp, finger tossed, and sexy, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front that one of the kids he’s seeing at the hospital gave to him, with black jeans. I’m eager to discover what has inspired such fierce dedication to this charity and wish I had more time to ask him about his involvement.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask, and I try not to let my insecurity run wild. But if he wanted me in his bed, why wasn’t he in it with me?

“I don’t sleep much at night. That’s when I paint.” He reaches for the cup I’m holding and sips some of my coffee. “I had something I wanted to paint for one of the kids. He’s a bit of a movie fanatic like I am so we’ve bonded over a few favorites.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirteen.”

“Cancer?”

He nods, his expression tightening. “Leukemia. Late stages. It’s destroying his parents. They’re good people forced to watch their child die.”

My chest pinches painfully. “You’re sure he’s going to die?”

“Yeah. He’s going to die. And believe me, if there was an amount of money or medicine that would change that, I’d make it happen.” He runs his hand through his fast-drying hair and turns away, walking to the phone and calling for a cab. I can see the tension ripple along his shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to know someone you love is dying and be powerless to stop it, but I think Chris does. I mean, didn’t he watch his father slowly drink himself to death? I suddenly wish I was going with him and decide right then to try to get Saturday off, even if I have to use the charity event as publicity for the gallery to make it happen. And I’m darn sure going to make Mark open his thick wallet for a big fat donation.