Holiday Heat (7 page)

He shook his
head. “You’re smarter than me.”

“I am not—”

“I can do one
thing really well, but you’re smarter than me in almost every way. I never did
well in school.”

She thought
about what he said—partly pleased by the way he’d affirmed her and partly upset
about how he might be putting himself down. “That must be because you didn’t
try very hard. Anyone who uses words as well as you is obviously really smart.”

“Maybe.” He
shrugged, as if his own intelligence didn’t really matter to him. “But you’re
smarter. Which is why you should really go back to college.”

She jerked,
surprised by the turn of conversation. “Don’t start that again. You can’t make
a conversation about your apartment turn into a lecture about—”

“Not a lecture.
Just a comment.”

“Fine. When you
start painting again, then I’ll go back to college.” She thought she’d found an
exceptionally good way to shut him up, since he hadn’t painted in two years.

He had another
strange expression—one she had no way to decipher. “Deal,” was all he said. He
slid both hands around her ribcage and pulled her closer to him, leaning down
to kiss her softly.

Feeling close
to him, despite the odd conversation, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re just as sexy as your apartment,” she said between kisses.

He laughed
against her lips. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Maybe we
should check out the bedroom, just to make sure it’s as sexy as the rest of the
place.” She pulled away, keeping only her hand in his, and turned to peer at
the doors leading off the main room. “Is that one the bedroom?”

“Yeah, but we
don’t have to head straight there.”

She looked back
at him, surprised at his hesitation, since sex was what they normally did. Then
she figured out an explanation and slid her free hand down his chest until it found
his hardening groin. “I guess doing it in the dressing room of the store raised
the bar for creative sex locations. What were you thinking?  The kitchen? The
balcony?” She massaged his groin, loving how his breath hitched in response.

“That’s not what
I meant,” he said, pulling her hand away with obvious reluctance. “I just meant
we don’t have to jump right into bed. It’s not all about sex.”

Her frown
deepened as she looked at his slightly frustrated expression. “Okay.” She
really shouldn’t have drunk so much. She was completely disoriented, had no
idea what was going on. They’d always headed right for the bed before.

She finished
off her water, hoping the hydration would help. Then she said, “I want to look
at the rest of the place anyway.”

She wandered
through the living area, poked her head into the bathroom, looked out onto the
balcony, and tried not to be jealous of such a great apartment.

There was one
more door that she assumed was a closet. She was reaching for the knob when
Matt came up behind her and slid a hand around her waist. “You don’t need to
look in there.”

“Why not? Is it
a closet stuffed full of junk? Because I have one of those too, and it’s
nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He smiled, but
he kept holding her back when she tried to move toward the door again. “It’s
not a closet.”

“Then what’s in
there?”

“Nothing
interesting.”

“You know me,
right? You must know that now I’m not going to want to do anything but open
that door. You might as well let me in now.”

“I’m sure you
can restrain your nosiness out of basic courtesy.”

She snorted and
relaxed, letting him pull her against his hard chest. As soon as she felt him
relax too, she took a quick step away and reached for the door.

“Damn it,
Carrie,” he objected. “I told you—”

He broke off because
she was standing frozen in the open doorway, staring into the room. It was
supposed to be a second bedroom, but there was no bed or dresser or chest or
armoire. The room had a skylight and was set up as an art studio.

She took in the
half-finished paintings scattered throughout the room, paint supplies on a
worktable, and a huge canvas on an easel that he’d obviously just started to
work on. There was no way this stuff had been sitting around like this for two
years.

He’d started
painting again.

She turned
toward him, her lips parting as she tried to process it all.

His eyes darted
between the floor and her face, uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“You’re
painting?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

He gave a
half-shrug. “A couple of months.”

“You didn’t tell
me?”

“I didn’t tell
anyone.”

“Why not?” Part
of her was thrilled by this revelation, this return to the person Matt really
was and all the deep gifts he possessed.

But part of her
felt a little betrayed, as irrational as the feeling was—that he hadn’t shared
something so important with her.

He shook his
head and looked away.

“Matt, why
didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,”
he admitted. He cleared his throat and met her eyes again. “I wasn’t sure I
could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Start over
again. Start living again. Be…be real again. Believe it or not, I’m not really
full of pomposity. The truth is I wasn’t sure I could do
any
of this.
And I didn’t want you to know…if I failed. So I kept it to myself, until I
knew.”

Her initial
hurt feelings faded as she understood what he was admitting, how authentically
he was opening himself to her.  “Do you know now?” she asked, her voice
wobbling slightly. “Can you…can you do this?”

“Yeah.” He was
gazing at her now in a way that made her stomach clench. “I can. I want to.”

“I’m glad.” Her
breath was fast and uneven, and she wasn’t even sure why.

“You know what
this means, right?”

“What?”

He smiled, warm
and affectionate. “You have to go back to college now.”

She gasped at
the realization. “That doesn’t count! You already knew you were painting again
when you made the deal.”

“That doesn’t
change anything. A deal is a deal.” He reached out and pulled her against him.
“Right?”

She grumbled
under her breath and slipped out of his grip. “I’ll think about it.” She walked
over to one of the half-finished paintings. It was a street scene in startling
slashes of color. Studying it, she forgot about what they’d just been talking
about. “This is really different for you.”

“Yeah. That’s
another reason I didn’t say anything. I’m not even sure if what I’m doing now
is any good.”

She gazed at it
for a long time, seeing emotion more than the details of the figures. The
painting felt like Matt—in all his fierce fire, brilliance, and pain. When she
finally glanced back, she saw he was watching her, obviously waiting for her
verdict. “It
is
good,” she said softly. “Everything you do is amazing.”

His face
softened, and he looked so adorably real and vulnerable that she couldn’t
restrain the urge to touch him.

She reached out
and pulled him into a kiss. He responded, his mouth opening immediately and his
tongue darting out to meet hers. He let her push him until he was backed up
against the work table, using it for support as he fit her body against his.

She rubbed
against him, her palms skimming over the texture of his hair, the texture of
his jaw, the texture of his firm shoulders beneath his jacket. Soon, the kiss
had deepened to such an extent that she writhed against him, so aroused she
couldn’t hold still.

She clumsily
pushed his jacket off over his shoulders and moaned against his mouth as he
cupped her bottom and eased her pelvis against his.

They fumbled
for a minute until she’d managed to get his jacket off and his shirt untucked.
Then she freed his erection from his pants as he pushed her skirt up over her
hips.

“Matt,” she
breathed against his lips.

He made a sound
of response in his throat as he slipped his hand between her thighs.

“Oh, Matt, I
want you so much.”

“You have me,”
he murmured, so low she barely heard.

And that
terrified her again, made her feel far too much to be safe. So she grasped for
something light and familiar with a teasing tone. “I told you that the dressing
room raised the bar for creative spots for sex.”

He choked on a
laugh, his body shaking against hers. His laughter just intensified her desire,
and she gasped in pleasure when he turned them around abruptly and lifted her
so she was perched on the edge of the table.

Then he was
nudging her with the tip of his erection. Then he was maneuvering himself
inside. Then he was lifting her thighs and wrapping her legs around his hips.

“Everything
about you is incredible,” he said, his voice low and guttural. “You blow me
away. Carrie, baby, you’re so incredible.”

“You’re…not bad
yourself.” She arched her back against the sensations and the feelings,
tightening her thighs around him.

He was smiling
as he started to rock into her, their eyes meeting unexpectedly. She couldn’t
look away. His expression was so deep, so rich, so much of what she wanted. The
pleasure in her chest mingled with the pleasure in the rest of her body.

They moved
together with increasing urgency, until they were both panting with effort. And
their shared gaze never broke, shaping a different kind of feeling, pleasure,
meaning to the motion of their bodies.

She finally had
to drop her head back and close her eyes as an orgasm broke. She shuddered
through the sensations and felt him coming too, shaking and releasing a long,
thick groan.

She clung to
him desperately afterwards, strangely self-conscious by how emotional she felt
and terrified anew about what it might mean.

He held her
tightly, uncharacteristically silent. Occasionally, he pressed a kiss into her
hair, her neck, her shoulder.

“Can we go to
bed now?” she asked at last, searching futilely for familiar irony.

“A little
anti-climactic, at this point.”

“True. But
lying down wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

He smiled,
pulling away from her and fastening his trousers again.  Her knees buckled as
she straightened her legs and tried to stand up.

He wrapped an
arm around her as they walked to the bedroom, and his support was strong,
solid, everything she needed.

***

Several hours later, she woke up
to a dark room.

After a minute
of orienting herself, she realized Matt was asleep beside her. She could hear
his deep, even breathing.

She liked that
he was sound asleep. She liked how it felt to lie here beside him.

She liked it so
much that her warning sensors were triggered, and she carefully rolled out of
bed. After feeling around for the dress shirt Matt had worn that evening, she
pulled it on and silently slipped out of the room.

With Henry, she
had always felt comfortable and tender, safe and at home.

With Matt, she
had always felt wild and intense and free. But now she was also feeling tender
and safe and at home.

She simply
couldn’t understand how she could feel all of those things at once.

She made her
way without thinking to his studio, turning on the light and looking around at
the paintings.

There were
dozens of them, in various stages of completion. His earlier work had been very
abstract. His new stuff was closer to representational, although not completely
so.

He had changed,
though. Of course, his art would change too.

She’d made her
way through most of the studio, studying everything she saw, when she found a
canvas leaning against a wall in the far corner, covered by a drop cloth. She
pulled it away and gasped when she saw what was on the canvas.

It was her.

It wasn’t a
realistic portrait—the lines were fuzzy and the strokes were bold rather than
careful. But it was definitely her. Standing behind the counter of the coffee
shop. Looking much prettier than she was in real life and, at the same time,
strangely distant.

The painting
was full of emotion, but it wasn’t hers. The feeling was poignant, aching,
almost yearning.

A sound behind
her made her whirl around.

Matt stood in
the middle of the room, wearing nothing but his underwear, his bare body lean,
strong, scarred, and compelling. Deeply human.

He didn’t look
angry at her invading his privacy. Just a little uncertain.

“It hurts me,”
she whispered, nodding at the painting and putting a hand on her aching chest.
“It hurts me here.”

“It hurt when I
painted it.”

She turned back
to look and tried to understand what he’d been feeling when he painted this
image. “Does it hurt you to be with me?”

“Sometimes.”

And that felt
inevitable. All of it felt inevitable. They’d come together in pain, attracted
by the magnetic power of their wounded souls. She’d always known they would
drift apart eventually, when their hearts finally started to heal. “I guess
we…we can’t just have sex and nothing else forever.”

“I know we
can’t.”

She didn’t
understand his tone. She didn’t understand her own heart. She didn’t understand
how she’d ended up here, when she’d spent all year pulling away from anything
that might hurt her.

Matt had the
power to hurt her more than anyone ever had, and only tonight was she realizing
it.

“You’ll let me
know when you want out?” he asked, a new, wistful note in his voice.

It was somehow
comforting to know that he wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, that he
wasn’t eager for this to end either. “Yeah.”

They fell
silent for a minute, both lost in their own thoughts, staring at the painting
that seemed to be full of far more depth than Carrie believed she possessed.