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She slid her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, whispering his name. He pulled down his pajama pants, then did the same to hers, reaching across the table to find another condom.
Thank fuck he’d bought a lot.
“Can we not?” she asked him.
“You sore?”
She shook her head. “Not use a condom. I have an IUD. I’m covered.” She scraped her nails against his scalp and he wanted to growl like a wolf. “I want to feel you. Just you. I’ve never had that before.”
“Christ.”
“You’re clean, aren’t you?” she asked him. He nodded. Yeah, he’d had his annual checkup right before leaving for the states.
And he wanted it. Fuck, did he want it. Wanted to feel every part of her around him. Wanted to feel the warmth of her, the velvet softness. The way she rippled when he made her come.
“The food will be here soon,” he said.
“Then we’d better make it fast.”
He smiled. “If I’m inside you bareback, I can guarantee that.”
* * *
“It’s a horse,” Michael said, his fingers trailing down her arm.
“It’s not a horse.” Grace shook her head. “Where’s the mane? The body? The tail?”
“So, what do you think it is?” He turned to look at her, amused. The way his eyes caught hers sent a shiver down her spine.
They’d both agreed they had to get out of the hotel room before they ended up having sex again, and neither of them could walk for the next week. That would take some explaining. How she ended up with a stride like a cowboy from a weekend in New York, and Michael winced every time he moved after business meetings in Charleston.
“It’s a rectangle.”
Michael laughed. “I know that. But what’s it supposed to represent?”
She leaned in closer to the painting. “I don’t know,” she said, her nose wrinkled. “It’s called Unimaginable.”
“Yeah, I can see where they came up with that title.”
“Can I help you with anything?” a soft voice asked. Grace turned to see an older gentleman in a suit and bow tie standing behind them.
“We’re interested in this painting,” she said.
“Of course. Would you like to know the price?”
Her eyes met Michael’s. She hadn’t meantthatkind of interested. And yet now she wanted to know. How much did a painting like this cost? They’d only come into this tiny art gallery to get out of the heat of the afternoon sun. And it had been fun, looking at the paintings with Michael, learning his taste.
He liked landscapes. And seascapes. Things, not people.
She loved portraits. Trying to imagine the people who sat for them. Whether they were rich or models or simply a figment of the artist’s imagination.
Before they walked in here, they’d spent the last hour wandering around a flea market, hand in hand. She’d stopped to look at some jewelry and he’d bought her a cameo brooch. It was old-fashioned with a gold chain and extra pin to make doubly sure you’d never lose it. It was already the favorite thing she owned.
She loved being able to hold his hand in public. To tease him and make him smile. To feel his eyes on her as she rifled through old dusty books on a table, calling out with glee when she found a hardback copy ofMoliere, in original French.
He’d insisted on paying for that, too. She wasn’t used to that yet. She was a split-the-bill-down-the-middle kind of girl.
And now she knew he was a that’s-never-happening kind of guy.
