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He searches my eyes, and I swear he can see right into my mess of a soul. “How did she pass away?” he asks.
“Cancer. I was ten,” I tell him, determined to keep my voice even.
“I’m sorry.”
I nod. “She was amazing. So gorgeous, so talented. I feel connected to her doing this work. So, in that way, she’s always with me.”
This feels like too much. Too much sharing, too much personal shit. I glance at my watch. “Oh! It’s after nine already. I didn’t think I’d stay that long,” I add with a small laugh. “I should go.” Nathaniel nods.
I stand up, and so does he. I slip my shoes back on, and then glance up to see him watching me, his eyes are dark, and he has this unreadable look on his face that has my entire body breaking out in goosebumps.
“I want to show you something before you leave, if it’s okay?” he says.
For a split second, I consider refusing, but I’m curious. I nod, and he turns and leads me out of the room, into one of the smaller galleries off this main one. There’s a large canvas at the very end, and he stops in front of it. I catch up to him and study the canvas. It’s a portrait, a beautiful, laughing woman with dark wavy hair and hazel eyes.
She looks just like Nathaniel.
I glance at him and then back at the painting.
“This is stunning,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth. The brush strokes, the colors, the way the artist captured this particular moment in time… amazing. “Did you paint this?”
He nods.
“Is this your mother?”
“Yes. This was the first portrait I ever painted. I kept it to remind myself of where I came from.”
I look up at him, and our eyes meet. I swear it’s almost impossible to breathe, seeing that look in his eyes, and I can’t look away.
Hell, I don’t want to look away. He slowly lowers his lips to mine, as if he’s giving me a chance to run if I want to. But that’s the last thing I want, and the second his lips meet mine, it’s like being caught up in a storm—dizzying, electrifying, with more than a little sense of the fact that I’m doing something dangerous, something I should know better to resist.
He pulls me toward him, pressing my body up against his, and the feel of his hard, big body against mine has me on the verge of losing my mind. He buries his hands in my hair and tilts my head, controlling the angle, the depth of our kiss. He kisses me with hunger and possessiveness, which has me practically on the verge of an orgasm. When he sweeps his tongue over my lips, I open for him, and then his tongue is tasting me, darting into my mouth, invading me in a way that has me wishing with all my might that his tongue won’t be the only part of his body I’ll have inside of me.
He lowers his hands to my neck, resting them around my throat, and the sensation of his big, strong hands on the sensitive skin causes me to release a helpless little moan.
He’s using his body to back me up, maneuvering me, and a moment later, the backs of my thighs hit the arm of the chaise lounge in the center of the room.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Poppy?” he murmurs against my mouth, and I moan again. “I need to hear the words, darling.”
“Yes. I do,” I whisper. “But there’s something you need to know first.”
He lets out a low, dangerous laugh, and then his hands are trailing heat down my shoulders, down my chest, until he reaches my breasts and cups them. I cry out at the overwhelming sensation. I’ve fantasized about him touching me, wondered what it would be like to have his hands on my body this way. He cups my breasts firmly, weighing them in his hands, massaging them, and I thrust my chest toward him, needing more. In the next instant, he’s unbuttoning my blouse. He pushes it off my shoulders, and it falls onto the chaise behind me.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and I press my thighs together, needing some form of relief from the way I need him. He reaches up and unclasps the front of my bra, and my breasts spill free. He makes a low, appreciative growling sound deep in his throat, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s barely hanging onto control. He pushes my bra down my arms, and it joins my blouse on the chaise.
The second he cups my bare breasts, I cry out. It’s almost too much. Too intense. Too damn good. His thumbs flick at my nipples, over and over again, and I let my head fall back, thrusting my breasts closer to him. I feel his hands at my waist, and then he’s pushing my skirt down.
“Nathaniel, wait,” I tell him, stopping him before he can do the same with my panties.
His eyes find mine again, curiosity tracing across his brows. “What is it, Poppy? Am I going too fast for you?”
