He walked carefully through canvases in varying stages of completion. One stood apart, and he migrated to it.
In muted grays and fractured light, the abstract had a smear of deep red dragged from one corner. She’d titled it,Tension Coiled in Paint.
“This one’s different from the others.”
“I painted it before I knew who she was,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Before I had a name to give to the fear.”
He took that in, didn’t try to dismiss it or explain it away. Then he returned to her, his warmth palpable as he moved closer, invading her space.
“You said usually. Are you happy now?” he asked.
She looked around her studio, through the open door to her gallery, then up at him. “I’m leaning that way.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Lean harder.”
His hand slid to her waist. The other came up slowly, brushing a loose tendril of hair from her cheek. Her body locked, pulse kicking up. She wanted him to kiss her so badly, it scared her. Despite the horror show her life could become, she hadn’t been scared like this in a long time.
His head dipped until she felt the rush of his breath on her lips. He paused there. “Still nothing?”
She closed her eyes for half a second, testing the energy surrounding them. “Nothing that I’m not supposed to feel.”
“Good. Because I don’t want anything or anyone in this with us.”
When his mouth met hers, it wasn’t tentative. It was controlled, heat building by slow degrees, as if he were measuring how much she could take before she unraveled. She wondered that, too.
Her hands slid up to his chest. She couldn’t miss the steady strength and the firm contours beneath his cotton shirt.
His fingers slid into her hair and found the twist. One careful tug and the clip loosened. Her hair spilled down around her shoulders.
He made an indistinct sound in his throat. “It’s as soft as I imagined,” he said against her mouth.
The kiss deepened, and her head was blessedly silent. No borrowed emotion or intrusive panic. Just him and his body pressed to hers and the heat of his mouth.
When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she tasted beer, mesquite, and something entirely male. Her fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt, and she opened, for him, craving more.
A phone vibrated between them. Annoying and intrusive, but they both ignored it.
His hand splayed wide over her lower back. She leaned in to be closer.
At a second vibration, she lost his mouth when he swore under his breath. Resting his forehead against hers, he apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m on call. I have to take it.”
She nodded, trying to steady her breathing and racing pulse.
“Cooper,” he answered, one arm still around her, keeping her close. His expression shifted, becoming the controlled Ranger again. “I’ll be there, but I’m about thirty minutes out.”
He ended the call.
“Duty calls?” she asked.
“At the worst of times.”
He put space between them. The slight downturn of his lips said it wasn’t because he wanted to but because he had to.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
He didn’t leave her alone in the gallery. He didn’t let go of her hand until they reached her vehicle. And when he did, his thumb lingered over her pulse point.
“Seven tomorrow. Your place,” he said quietly.
