Inspire (7 page)

I reach out my hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he takes it. Then I hold tight and turn the showerhead on him.

Chapter Six

The shocked look on his face as the water sprays up his chest draws a laugh from my throat. I'm not completely psycho, so I don't turn the water on his face, but he wastes no time taking advantage of my hesitation.

He steps right into the shower with me, and I jump back, slamming into the tile wall. In my surprise I get a little wild with the water and end up catching him in the face anyway. I cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from laughing, and he takes hold of my other wrist, using my own hand to spray the water back on me. It hits me in the neck first, then as I try to pull away, sprays down my chest. I gasp as the water soaks through my dress, and if he didn't notice my lack of bra earlier, it won't take much for him to notice now. 

I fight back, trying to regain control of the nozzle, and instead I end up pointing the stream of water straight up and it splashes down on both our heads. I squeal, and try to squeeze around him, thinking maybe I can get out of the door. My feet slip on the wet floor, and he catches me around the waist, laughing. “Oh, no you don't. You started this.”

Another jet of water comes toward my face, and I manage to turn just in time so that it only catches my hair and neck. I look down, and can't control my laughter any longer. He'd stepped in still wearing his shoes, and they're soaked now. As are his jeans and the bottom of my dress. We probably look ridiculous.

In my complete and utter delirium, I forget about keeping a tight hold on the showerhead, and Wilder succeeds in wrestling it away from me.

“I've got you now.”

He steps back, lifts his arm to aim, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I raise my hands to cover my face, but the spray doesn't come. Hesitantly, I peek out from between my fingers to find him staring at me, his eyes dark and piercing. I'm aware then of just the way his soaked shirt clings to his toned body, and I have no doubt that my own clothes are plastered to my wet skin. Heat pools between my thighs, and I squeeze them together to ease the sudden ache there.

He moves in close, and I catch my breath. He circles one arm around me, and greedily I pull my own arms up to loop around his neck. But he doesn't come in for a kiss like I expect. Instead he turns the knob behind me, shutting off the water and returning the showerhead to where it belongs. I'd thought to make him smile, but the look he gives me now is all hard angles and dark, serious eyes. I look past his shoulder to see that we'd left the door of the shower open, and water has collected in a puddle on the floor outside.

I swallow.

Shit. This was not at all a good idea. I made a giant mess and probably pissed him off, and I really, really need to just get out of here. This is what happens when I'm not thinking strategically. Normally, with an artist, I'm able to keep my head. I play on their emotions, while keeping mine rigidly in check. I read them, trying to decipher what they want and need before they ever tell me. It's my job to be their ideal woman, the one who'll motivate them and make passion burn so hot in their blood that it spills over into their art. But I don't need to be Wilder's ideal woman. I don't want that. I just want to be me.

The hand that had held the showerhead smoothes over my damp hair and down until he pushes the wet mess off my shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That I'm an idiot.”

A slight curve curls across his mouth.

“Because you started a fight you couldn't win?”

“Because I just am. For so many reasons.”

His fingers trail from my shoulder down to the arc of my collarbone.

“God, do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are?”

I swallow and don't answer because I'll sound like a complete and total bitch if I say the truth. Beauty is the only attribute of mine that never changes, regardless of whatever guy I'm with. And it’s a compliment to which I’ve grown callous.

“Kalli, I—” He stops and closes his eyes.

I reach up and run my thumb across a drop of water trailing over his cheek.

He releases a heavy breath and turns his face into my hand.

“What do you want?” he asks. “Give me the truth.”

In a perfect world?

“You.”

His hand curls around the back of my neck and he jerks me forward to meet him halfway. His kiss is wet and brutal, and I feel boneless in his arms. Incorporeal. Like the only the thing holding me together, the only thing tethering me to this existence is the drag and crush of his mouth against mine.

My back presses against cold tile, and his hand bunches up the wet skirt of my dress until he manages to peel enough of it away to slide a large hand against the bare skin of my thigh. His fingers are slick against my leg, and my breath catches in my throat.

He breaks away from our kiss, and his mouth plays over my shoulder, dragging down the strap of my dress with his teeth until it falls to my elbow. The hand on my leg slips higher as his tongue teases at my collarbone. Then he moves lower to the drooping neckline of my dress. His fingers brush up against the edge of my underwear, and I can't stop the moan of anticipation that escapes my lips.

He hesitates then, pulling back slightly just before his hand or his mouth reach the places I really want him.

But I don't want him to slow down. I don't want him to think.

Because then I'll have to think too.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?”

I reach for him, plucking at the hem of his soaked shirt and pulling it up and away from a slim, toned stomach. When I keep pulling, he lets me tug it over his head. It slaps provocatively against the floor, and my body clenches in response.

“Please touch me.”

He seems to war with himself for a few seconds longer, but when I trail one long finger down between his pectoral muscles, the indecision disappears. He wraps an arm low around my waist and pulls me up against him.

“You could tempt a saint.”

“Are you a saint?”

He slides a hand down to cup my ass, pulling me forward against the hard ridge of his arousal and answers, “Not by a long shot.”

Stepping out of the shower, his feet slap against the puddle on the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist to be closer to him, but then he has to angle us sideways just to fit us through his narrow bathroom door. I drop my head to his shoulder and laugh, and his own chuckle sends shivers racing across my skin.

He walks us down to a door at the end of a hallway. The bed is big and neatly made, and the room looks comfortable. Nothing fancy or expensive, but it's well taken care of, well decorated, and well lived-in. There's a window air-conditioning unit, and he must keep it turned down low because the room temperature is cooler than the rest of the house.

He leans back against the door, closing it behind him, and captures my lips once again. I don't know whether it's the drop in temperature or the change in his kiss that has me shivering. Gone is the frenzy, and in its place is a slow, steady exploration that kindles an already burning need at the juncture of my thighs. When his tongue has touched every corner of my mouth, he breaks away, resting his forehead on mine as we both struggle to catch our breath.

He crosses the room, and sets me on the edge of his bed. I remember my soaked clothes and protest, “I'm wet.”

That draws another lazy chuckle from him and with a kiss to my forehead, he says, “I hope so.”

I hide a grin, and then poke him in the chest. “Dirty.”

He leans over me, until I have to lie back on my elbows to see his face. He braces his arms just outside my shoulders and lowers his mouth toward mine.

“Damn right. If you could see the way that dress is clinging to your body, you wouldn't blame me. Hell, even before the dress was wet, all I could think about was getting you out of it.”

“Then why am I still in it?”

“Truth?” he asks, and I nod. He trails one hand over my waist and down to my hip, and his warm touch burns through the wet fabric. He says, “Now that I'm back home, I've been trying to clean up my act. Be more responsible. Do things right.”

“And I'm wrong?”

“No. Jesus, no. You're … Fuck, I don't even have the words to describe you. And if you knew me, you'd know how rare that is.”

“But we don't know each other.”

We couldn't. He could never really know me.

“I'd like to know you.”

Gods, I wish things were that simple. It's too easy to imagine myself with him. Imagine lazy days in bed. Discovering other ways to make him laugh. What I wouldn't give to be able to be with someone. No thoughts to my ability and how long is too long to stay. No lies about my past or what I am. If I could be normal, live like a normal person, I think Wilder would be a pretty perfect choice.

But I don't get normal.

And it’s one thing to ignore that in the heat of the moment with his body flush against mine, but with him holding back? Not even I’m that reckless.

I place a hand on his chest to push him back so I can stand. “Maybe …” I don’t even want to say the words, but I force myself. “Maybe this is a mistake.”

I slip around him toward his door even though I don’t have the slightest clue where I’ll go or what I’ll do. As soon as I touch the doorknob, I feel him behind me. He places a hand on the door, holding it shut.

“Tell me why first.” He looms behind me, his body tempting and his breath teasing at the nape of my neck.

I sigh, but don’t turn around to face him. “Because you’re not sure you want this. That’s reason enough for me.”

He spins me around with surprising speed, and presses me back against the door. He leans his weight into me, not enough to be heavy, but so that I can feel the hard jut of his erection against the softness of my belly.

“First, you’re wrong.
Want
doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about having you in my bed. You’re sexy, intriguing, and you look damn good in my shower. Though next time I’d advocate we do that part without our clothes.” I scoff out a laugh, but when he tips my chin up with his finger, he looks serious. “But I wasn’t asking why you thought it was a mistake. I want to know why you look so exhausted, and why you’re not wearing shoes, and what that homeless man on the street said to make you look so scared. I want to know why I couldn’t take you home and do this in
your
bed. Those are the whys I want answered.”

And those are precisely the answers I can’t give him, so instead I rise up on my toes and kiss him again. He groans against my mouth, and his tongue delves inside, searching and demanding. When I’ve forgotten everything besides the heat of his kiss, he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine. I’m panting for breath when he says, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about those questions.”

That leaves me two options. Leave before he digs any deeper … or work harder at distracting him.

The choice is easier than it should be. 

Chapter Seven

I touch his chest, and push him back until he stands far enough away for me to gather the ends of my damp dress and pull it up and over my head. I'm not wearing a bra, so my nipples immediately pull into painfully tight buds in the cold room. His gaze drops down to take me in, and I fix my eyes on his bare chest in turn. I'm confident in my looks, but I also know that I don't necessarily meet modern society's idea of a perfect beauty. I was made for a time when men valued the curves of a woman. My breasts are plump and full, and my stomach slopes out into generous hips. Sometimes men would rather I be thinner, but that's another thing about me that I can't change. This is the shape I'll always have.

From the dark look in his eyes, I guess he’s not the type to prefer stick thin girls. His face dips close to mine, and his stubbled cheek rubs against my jaw. Hot breath tickles my ear, and he whispers, “You're so damn beautiful it hurts.”

This time I don't have to ask him to touch me. His hands reach out to cup my breasts, his palms rasping over my taut nipples. I bite my lip and close my eyes.

Sweet suffering
.

That will be how I remember this night for the rest of my days.

I should walk away. I might make a point to avoid emotional attachments, but I know a few things about highs and lows. And Wilder is one peak that’s guaranteed to come with a miserably low valley. But I also know that I wouldn’t normally risk a dalliance with a non-artist. Too many risks. Too many complications. But tonight there's so little energy in me after that fiasco back in the club that there's almost no risk at all to take this one thing for myself, this one night.

“Look at me, Kalli.”

I open my eyes and think
one night
. And I’m not sure which is more overwhelming, my excitement for what’s to come or the dread for the moment when that one night ends. He lifts my breasts, dragging his thumbs over the tips; it takes all my concentration to keep my eyes on him.

“We might not know each other now, but I have every intention of knowing you after tonight,” he says. “I'm going to know every inch of your body. I'll know what makes you breathe faster and what makes you feel like you can't breathe at all. I'll know what makes you close your eyes, and the sounds you make when something feels good. If there's one thing I am, it's determined, and I've decided to know you better than anyone ever has.”

I must have been holding my breath during his speech because he leans down and kisses me before murmuring, “Breathe.”

And I do. I drag in air desperately, and he smiles. “Well, there's fact number one. You like it when I tell you what I'm going to do to you, don't you?”

“Gods, yes.”

He laughs. “One God wasn't enough for that one, huh? I'll keep that in mind.”

With a hand on my shoulder, he maneuvers me to sit on the bed, and then he kneels in front of me. With a gentle hand, he picks up my foot and props it on his knee. He studies the scrapes for a moment, but they must all be minor because he abandons that foot to pull up the other.  He looks confused for a moment and I say, “Don’t you dare ask me if I’m drunk again.”