Page 114 of Sterling Stone

“And that one there, that looks kind of like a strung bow with an arrow, is the Swan.” He points toward another pattern, pausing a second. “Zeus in disguise.”

I settle into letting him quietly point out a few more constellations that I still don’t see.

Always waiting.

His heart is a slow drumbeat beneath my ear, and my hand rests on his belly. He aimlessly rubs his fingers along my arm.

What if I stopped spinning like the stars? Would I fall from the sky? Would I burn out my glow? Or would I become something softer, quieter, more settled?

Still.

Between the calm sound of Stone’s voice and the heat of his body against mine, I sort of melt into the night. Not sleepy or drowsy, just relaxed, just comfortable, just . . . still.

A girl could get used to this.

When I realize Stone is no longer speaking, I break the silence with a little lie. “You’re an excellent teacher.”

“And you’re not a great liar.” He chuckles against me and presses a kiss to my temple. He knows me so well.

“What are you drawing?” he asks.

“What?” I lift my head and he taps the back of my restless hand. I rest my cheek on his chest again. “Oh.” I hadn’t realized my fingers had been moving over his chest. Outlining something, filling it in with imaginary color.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Always moving,” he whispers, tugging me tighter to him.

“Meaning?” I say too defensively and clear my throat.

“I’ve seen your knees bouncing and your fingers twisting. You’re like one of those stars, Taxi, but out of her orbit. You’re holding yourself in place, but your body senses the need to move. Or is it your heart?” His voice is low. “Do you feel like it’s time to go?”

To leave a place.

“I need to paint,” I admit, my voice a little too loud.

He pulls back, glancing at me, eyeing me. “You need to create.” He stares at me a long moment, as if he might get it. Or at least he’s trying to understand.

I nod, almost sheepishly, almost embarrassingly, when I’m not ashamed of who I am in the least. I’m an artist, and I need a canvas to let out all the emotions swirling inside me.

The red of passion, and the blue of peace. The yellow of happiness, and the green of my addiction to this man. Basic colors. Basic needs. A kaleidoscope of want.

Eventually, Stone hugs me tighter, setting his lips to my head and lingering there.

When the silence goes on too long, and his lips don’t move, I take action. Turning my head, meeting his eyes, I lean in and kiss him. Needing the red and blue, yellow and green of him, filling in the outline of me.

The kiss stays slow at first, deliberate as we connect in soft sips and teasing tugs. But as we move into something deeper, desperation flares inside me. Broad strokes of passionate purple and vivid orange merge together, driving my tongue to seek his.

Within minutes, we’re making out as he suggested. Kissing with fervor. Our lips remain locked, hands only subtly moving. His fingers in my hair. Mine around his neck. But our bodies roll into one another, seeking, chasing.

Legs skim along legs. Belly meets belly. My breasts crush to his chest. And still, I’m not close enough.

“Stone,” I whimper.

“I’m here,” he says, kissing along my jaw and down my neck, and I tip back my head, giving him full access to me.

He sips along the column of my throat and ticklishly licks along my collarbone. I palm the side of his face, feel the bristly scratch of his stubble. His mustache scrubs playfully at my skin, along his trail of kisses.

“We need to go slow,” he says into my flesh as he moves lower on my body. “The candles.”