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“I’ll get over it,” she said with a half-smile and a shrug. “And I’ll get everything, too.”
Well, at least she had a sense of humor about it. She was easy to talk to, and right now anything was better than being alone with his own thoughts.
A soft jazz tune sprang up from the jukebox. Brett decided it was time to test the waters. One woman was just as good as another, right? He turned to the woman and held out his hand. “My name’s Brett.”
“Nice to meet you, Brett. I’m Gail,” she said in return, sliding her hand into his.
“Would you like to dance, Gail?”
Her eyes lit up like emeralds and she smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Two hours later he had Gail in his car, wondering what the hell he was doing.
No, that’s not quite right. He knew exactly what he was doing. Making a huge fucking mistake. Gail was three sheets to the wind, obviously lonely and horny. And he was being an asshole and taking advantage of it. Then again, she’d been the one who suggested they go back to his place.
Only she wasn’t the woman he wanted stretched out on his bed, naked and primed for fucking.
“Let’s go, babe,” Gail said, her legs splayed out in front of her, showing off the tops of her thigh-highs. Her tongue swiped over her full lips and she said, “I’m ready to get these clothes off.”
Any other guy would be eager as hell to get her into his house. But his blood ran cold at the idea. Disgusted, he turned the ignition back on. “Honey, I’ve just made a huge mistake. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to take you home.”
Hurt glistened in her widened eyes. “Why? Don’t you like me?”
So far tonight he’d hurt two women. Maybe he could go back to the bar and pick up another one, see if he could go for a triple.
Or maybe he could do the right thing and undo the mistake he’d almost made. He turned to her, gently drawing her skirt down over her thighs. “Gail, you’re a beautiful woman. You just picked the wrong man for a husband. And what you want to do with me is for all the wrong reasons.”
She snorted. “I just want to get fucked.”
He smiled and caressed her cheek, well knowing how pain could cause a person to do a lot of really stupid things. “No you don’t. You want to hurt your husband.”
She pulled the edges of her leather jacket closer together and sniffed. “So, what if I do?”
“This,” he said, pointing his finger to her then back to him, “isn’t really what you want.”
“You have no idea what the hell I want,” she muttered, looking down at her lap. “I thought you wanted me.”
“Give me your address and I’ll take you home. You deserve a lot better than me. You deserve a lot better than your husband. Go get sober and get your life together, Gail. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
After she mumbled her address, she promptly passed out.
Brett found her place, grabbed her keys from her purse and took her inside, depositing her on her sofa. That was as far as he’d dare go. He slipped the door closed and got back into his car, realizing what a mistake he could have made.
No, he didn’t just want any woman. And it didn’t matter how many women he met, dated or screwed in the future. He’d still only want Kaitlyn.
He was so fucked. If he ever thought he’d been on the road to recovery, he was dead wrong. He had simply traded one addiction for another.
Kaitlyn stood in the dressing room of Brett’s home studio, not at all in the mood to pose tonight. Admittedly, she had been surprised when he called her today. After he’d made his escape from her parents’ house a couple days ago, she was certain he never wanted to have another thing to do with her. His call and suggestion they meet to work on the portrait tonight had been a total shock.
Once again, she couldn’t figure him out. He blew hot and cold worse than a woman in the throes of raging PMS. Her first thought was to tell him he could take his painting and shove it, that she was tired of trying to decipher his ever-changing moods. But since the painting had been her idea in the first place, and it meant he did have the urge to paint, she couldn’t very well say no.
Now she stood staring at herself in the dressing room mirror, the silk robe covering her naked body. The last time they’d done this, she’d ended up in his bed having the wildest sex of her life. What would happen tonight? Most likely he’d paint her, not say a word, and then send her home.
Fine. If that’s the way he wanted to play it. She was tired of throwing herself at him. Or at least that’s what she had to keep reminding herself. After all, a little self-respect was in order here. And his brush-off hurt, dammit. She could only handle so much rejection before she had to admit defeat.
Armed with as much self-dignity as she could muster, she opened the door and found him waiting beside the easel, paintbrush in hand. Tonight he wore gray sweats and a sleeveless shirt that showed off way too much of his muscled arms and shoulders.
She decided to ignore him. And since she no longer had anything to hide, she stepped to the chaise, slid the robe off and tossed it on one of the nearby tables. He arched a brow but didn’t say a word as she positioned herself on the chaise, then stared at him, waiting for him to start.
Though she did catch the darkening of his eyes, the hot gaze he couldn’t disguise before he slipped behind the canvas and began to paint.
Okay, so he wasn’t immune. Good. She hoped he suffered terminal hard-ons for the rest of his natural life.
She posed until her body went numb, absorbing the quiet of the room. The only sounds were Brett’s brushstrokes on the canvas and him occasionally asking if she was comfortable.
No, she wasn’t comfortable. She was naked in front of a man who a few short days ago had taught her more about her own body than she’d ever known. And she still wanted him, wanted his hands, his mouth and his cock on her and in her, painting her body with strokes of utter pleasure.
Her nipples tightened. She knew they were erect but could do nothing to stop her wayward thoughts. The sounds of brush against canvas made her imagine Brett taking the soft paintbrush and stroking it around her nipples, then drawing a swirling trail over her belly and lower. Her clit throbbed as she envisioned him taking that brush and drawing featherlight circles over the tight bud. She moaned, unable to hold it back before it spilled from her throat.
Brett peered around the easel. She met his gaze with one of dark hunger and a need she couldn’t deny to herself, let alone to him.
Tension filled the room as he stood and stared at her. Unable to help herself, she rose from the chaise and approached him, her body on fire, torching her from the inside out. Only his touch could douse the flames. Her senses told her he wanted her, but he wasn’t moving fast enough for her.
Okay, so she had no self-respect. But dammit, she loved him! And when had she ever given up until the last flame of hope had been doused?
“I need you, Brett.”
“I’m painting,” he said, his voice low and husky. His words didn’t match his voice, or the way his eyes sparked and flamed with the desire she saw evidenced in the erection straining his zipper.
“Then paint me.” Her hands rose to her breasts, her fingers swirling around the globes. “Take a paintbrush and paint my body, Brett. That’s what I’ve been thinking about for the past two hours.”
She watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, saw the need burning in his eyes. She reached for him, but he caught her wrist in his hand before she could touch his face.
“Stop.”
She shuddered and watched him hurry from the room, then turned away, the heat of desire melting into a hot flush of embarrassment. Once again she’d made an utter ass of herself with him. At least the last time he hadn’t run when she pushed. This time he’d left the room.
How long was she going to go on being stupid? She wasn’t the kind of woman who threw herself at a man. Ever. Yet she had no shame where he was concerned. What was wrong with her anyway
?
Tangling her fingers in her hair, she combed it away from her face and went to pick up the silk robe she’d tossed on the table earlier. She was about to slip her arms into it when she heard Brett.
“Stop.”
Clutching the robe in her hands, she spun around to face him, about to tell him he didn’t have to worry about her trying to seduce him ever again. But her jaw dropped as he approached.
He held a thick, soft-bristled paintbrush in one hand, a jar of something dark in the other. He set the items on the table and snatched the robe from her hand.
“You won’t be needing this,” he said, casting it to the floor before walking right past her.
