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He tantalised and tormented her with his tongue as he strode over to the bed and lowered her down, stood above her. The sinful smile that tugged at his lips made her ache with a sudden poignant want as she etched this moment onto her memory. Joe looked younger, carefree, gorgeous, with his brown hair spiked and mussed from her fingers, his eyes dark and dilated with a heat that made her squirm.
As if her movement spurred him on, he shrugged himself out of his shirt, shucked off trousers and boxers.
Her gaze ran over his magnificent body.
‘You like?’ he asked.
‘I want,’ she replied and, sitting up, she reached to pull him down onto the bed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IMOGEN ADJUSTED HER sketchpad on the easel, dug her flip-flop-clad toes into the warm crunch of sand and tried to concentrate.
The lecturer was fully living up to his promise—Michael Mallory was brilliant, and in any other circumstances she would be riveted.
Chill out, Imo. So what if Joe hadn’t been there when she’d woken up that morning? It was no biggie that he hadn’t even left a note. They’d had a deal—she would paint and he would surf. So maybe the waves only worked at a certain time of day … he’d had to rush. Maybe he hadn’t been able to find a pen or paper. Maybe he’d written a note and a stray dog had crept into the yurt and eaten it. There were endless possibilities. There was no need for her tummy to be knotted with a sense of dread.
Instead she needed to enjoy the moment and anticipate later. After what they had shared last night—after falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, her head on his chest, his strong arm encasing her—there was no need for doom and gloom. Later they’d swap stories, have a meal, maybe a glass or two of wine and then … to bed.
And what happens after that, Imo?
Nothing. Nothing happens. Get a grip.
This was lust—pure and simple.
Only … was it more than that? Hadn’t they shared things on an emotional level? Could Joe tick the boxes on her list?
‘OK,’ Michael said. ‘Listen up, if you haven’t already.’
Imogen jumped and stared at the tall, lanky man who was suddenly standing right in front of her.
He stroked his beard and frowned down at her. ‘Yes, that means you. Here is your assignment. You have two hours and then report back here.’
Imogen glanced down at the piece of paper and then around her, realising that the rest of the class had already dispersed.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘Redeem yourself by producing a worthwhile exercise,’ he returned.
Determination seethed inside her. Joe had gone surfing reluctantly, this she knew, and he’d done it so that she could reap the benefits of this class. It was time to do exactly that.
‘I will.’
‘Good. I’ve assigned you a place—go there and come back with a land or seascape with a difference. It doesn’t have to be technically perfect—draw from your heart and dig deep into your soul.’
Picking up her sketchpad and pencils, she set off. Twenty minutes later she’d reached her destination. It was incredible—a tiny cove of rich golden sand at the foot of a cliff-face that swept the skyline.
As Imogen walked forward her mouth dropped open at the rock formations—arches and shapes that almost defied nature, rock pools galore. Other than herself, the place was completely deserted. It was if she’d gone through a portal and entered another world.
Ah!
That was how she would draw this scene—she would make it slightly alien, use the rock formations to indicate a time portal … subtly distort things … Her brain popped and fizzed with ideas.
Making her way to a handy clump of rocks, she opened her sketchpad and started to draw …
‘Imogen?’
A shadow fell over the sketchbook and she whipped her head up so fast she heard her neck crack.
