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He could feel her surprise in the dark at his invitation. He could practically see her smile. "I'd love to' she said.
It took everything in him to move away from the heat of her body, to pick up her clothes, barely illuminated by the moon that was rising over the barn roof, to hand them to her, to say, "I need to clean out my brushes before they dry out' to leave her standing there, naked and perfect and sexier than any woman had a right to be.
He worked on autopilot, forcing his hands through the motions, knowing the exact moment she walked inside, even though she barely made a sound. He felt as if he were being stalked, knew that he was, in fact, and found that it was yet another thing he liked about her.
She left him to his task as she walked around his gallery, studying the paintings and the sculptures. From the start, Sam had been confident enough in his talent that he'd paid little attention to what the critics said. They'd mostly loved him, but still, he was surprised to find himself anxious for Vanessa's opinion. Finally done with his brushes, he wiped his hands off on a clean rag and moved to join her in front of a small sculpture.
It was Marissa, of course. Everything for those two years had been about Marissa. She'd been a sickness, a compulsion, and he'd been slave to it. To her. She was his best work. Until Vanessa walked in just hours before, all he had left.
Was he about to repeat history with Vanessa?
Even if he was, it didn't matter. He needed to ride the wave of inspiration she'd provided. On Monday, he'd take stock and find out if his will to paint again, if his talent, his focus was back. Or if Vanessa was simply a blip in the screen of his fading career.
Her sultry voice broke into his overly angst-ridden thoughts.
"You have a way with your hands' she said.
Gently, she ran her hands over Marissa's hips, then up to the small of her waist, one finger sliding into the valley of her spine, then up to cover her br**sts.
Sam held his breath. Everywhere that Vanessa's hands went, he remembered touching Marissa. She'd been soft and warm and wet. Everything Vanessa had thought she was. And yet, somehow, his vision was turning around in his head, and Marissa was no longer lying beneath him.
Now, it was Vanessa who was so supple and soft and beautiful and perfect.
Her hands moved to Marissa's throat, her thumbs pressing into the hollow, as if she were trying to cut off the statue's breath.
At that moment, she looked at him, and it was no longer about Marissa.
It was about Vanessa.
HE WAS CLOSE. SO CLOSE. She had him in her back pocket. She'd been with guys who'd been hung up on their exes. And frankly, it had gotten old real fast. But this time, she sensed something different. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the difference:
His ex had been his muse. And when they'd broken up, she hadn't
left him with a broken heart.
She'd stolen his art too.
Vanessa didn't believe in lying, either to her friends or herself.
And the truth was that she'd never thought of herself as a particularly giving person. She gave to the Red Cross and The Leukemia Fund every year, but writing a check was easy. It had been just as easy to remain emotionally detached from men. To sleep with them, then walk away, with no regrets, no doubts or questions about the future.
But with Sam, she couldn't hold herself aloof. Maybe it was because she was drawn to what he'd created on paper, in clay. Maybe it was because she loved sex and knew that Sam would be at the top of her list of hot lays. But she couldn't deny the unmistakable urge she had to erase his ex-muse, his ex-girlfriend from his memory. And she was certain she could do it, no matter how lush, how exotic, how sexy the other woman had been. An uncomfortable sensation of possessiveness crept up Vanessa's spine, almost as if she were jealous of Sam's ex-muse. Quickly, she shook it away.
She wasn't jealous of what Marissa had had with Sam. No, the reason she wanted to wipe Sam's slate clean was simply because Marissa had been a bitch. A selfish, man-eating bitch. In every painting that hung on Sam's gallery wall, Vanessa could see it in her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the expression that said, "You can have me. Until I leave you for someone better:'
Vanessa had always had a healthy respect for bitchy women.
She was one herself and knew the power in it. But this time, there was a score to be settled. And she was the woman to do it.
The last hour had been all about a seduction of the obvious kind. Naked. Wet. Willing. It was the kind of seduction that went straight to a man's cock.
Now she would try a different kind of seduction altogether.
One that would involve Sam's heart. She would make him realize that he liked her, that he was having fun. He would learn that she was intelligent, that she challenged him to think with his brain, not just with his penis.
Most men were easy. You went straight for their penis and didn't have to worry about the rest. But getting into bed with Sam would require her to be more tactical that that. It was going to require a combination of desire and affection.
Vanessa had never had to go there before and had to admit that she was looking forward to the challenge. It was time to shake things up.
It was time for slutty to become smart and slutty.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, she was freshly showered and wearing white slacks and a white scoop-neck top. No bra, of course. It was an outfit that showed a whole lot less skin than she normally did on a Friday night. Incredibly alluring, yet classy. And given the way Sam's eyes heated up when he saw her, she was dead on.
Utterly gorgeous as he waited for her on the sidewalk in front of Gerard's, Sam had on clean jeans and a long-sleeved black Metallica T-shirt from their St. Anger tour. Somehow she knew this was as dressed up as he got. She'd always gone for men in tuxes, but suddenly, she could see the appeal of a dressed-down man. Plus, she liked his taste in bands, having always had a soft spot for the local San Francisco heavy metal band.
He didn't kiss her cheek, didn't reach for her hand, simply gestured for her to enter the restaurant. She was a woman used to being wooed, used to being fawned over, and his reserve was oddly alluring. She sensed that if they never so much as touched palms, when they finally connected it would be so much better.
Her breath caught at the thought of that first touch. When would it happen? Where? How? His mouth on her lips? His hands on the small of her back? Would she reach for him, desperate to finally feel his heat pressed against her? Would he brush her hair away from her shoulders and bite her softly below her earlobe? Would he throw caution aside and slide his hand into her panties, into her wetness?
Her silent erotic questions made her ni**les grow taut beneath the thin sheath of her top, and Sam's eyes locked on them as though guided by the heat of her skin. She took a deep breath as he turned to the maitre d', reminding herself that tonight during dinner she'd have to put more than her body to work: She'd have to bring into play her brain and her wit too. Sure, he was aroused, it was obvious that he wanted her. By the time she was done with him, Sam would be begging her to have sex with him.
