I reach down and take care of the other one before she slides her hands into my pants again. “We’re going naked,” she says. “I want naked.”
“Naked it is,” I say, kissing her hard and fast before I undress and pull her to my lap, her long, sexy legs straddling me and she is sliding down my naked cock, the wet heat of her naked body gripping me, that is pure fucking bliss.
But more so is the moment that I’m kissing her, and then I’m not because we’re just breathing together. I feel this woman in ways I didn’t know it was possible to feel a woman, and I just met her. I feel her everywhere, burning me alive. And maybe I’m making the biggest mistake of my life with her, but if I die, I’ll die happy. And when we do kiss again, it’s slow, sexy kisses. And slow, nerve-stroking slides of our body, that meld our breathing, our tongues, our bodies, until we both shatter into release. Until I release inside her as I have with no other woman since I was a young fool, and I bury my face in her vanilla and amber smelling hair.
And I hold her.
When I never hold women.
It sends the wrong message.
And yet, I hold Faith now. I inhale the scent of her hair.
“Tell me you don’t regret that,” she murmurs against my neck.
I lean back to look at her. “What the hell am I supposed to be regretting?”
“Not using a condom.”
“No man or woman has a regret over a missing condom unless the result is later regrettable, but since I don’t fuck without a condom, you’re safe.”
“I don’t either, Nick. Never with Macom. I…he liked…I didn’t.”
I want her to fill in those blanks but I sense that this is another one of those moments where pushing is the wrong choice. “We’re naked in every way and safe,” I say softly. “Except that now we have to get you off me and save your chair from our mess.”
“Kleenex on the table,” she says, and without warning, she leans over and she starts to tumble. I catch her but not without a lean that puts us both on the floor, her on her back, me over the top of her, and us both in an eruption of laughter.
And when that laughter fades, we don’t move. We stare at each other, and I have this sense that we both are trying to read the other, I damn sure am her. That we both are trying to understand what this is between us. Sex? Really damn good sex? Or…what? I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s a powerful force between us, a magnet with a pull that won’t be escaped. Seconds tick by and I pull her to her feet, our gazes colliding before we both dress. And as we do, the reason for the explosion that led to taking our clothes off in the first place, comes full circle, expanding in the air between us. The minute we’re dressed, I pull her to me. “Faith.”
“I probably overreacted,” she says, reading where I’m going.
“You didn’t,” I say. “I had no right to come up here. And I repeat, I didn’t look at the painting. I am, however, as intrigued by your art as I am you. It is you. It’s a gift you alone possess.”
Her lashes lower, her expression etched with torment before she looks at me again. “Thank you for saying that.” She covers my hand with hers. “Let’s go heat up the food.”
She’s slammed the wall down again, evidence that I’ve hit a nerve. And as much as I want to push and know this woman, for right and wrong reasons, I let it go. But I’ve made my decision. I’m not letting her go. Guilty or innocent, she’s mine now, even if she doesn’t know it. And guilty or innocent, wherever that leads.
ONCE WE’RE DOWNSTAIRS, FAITH STICKS our food in the microwave, while I unpack the groceries she’s bought, which includes milk, eggs, and… “Pancake mix?” I ask, holding up the instant mix. “I don’t get your famous pancakes?”
“I guess I didn’t mention that they’re famous because that’s all I ever make.”
I laugh. “No, you didn’t.” I walk to the pantry and find the proper spot to stick them before turning back to her. “I might have to make you pancakes.”
“You cook?” she asks, setting bottles of water on the island where we plan to eat.
“I picked up a few tricks from one of my many nannies who had a thing for cooking contests.”
She opens the microwave. “The food should be ready,” she says, inspecting it and then removing the container. “We’re good to eat.” She sets our sealed containers on the table, and I move to the spot directly across from her, both of us claiming our seats before returning to our prior conversation. “As for cooking,” she says. “I don’t. Neither of my parents cooked and I didn’t have to learn. Growing up at the winery, there’s two chefs on staff. One for the restaurant and another for the staff.” She lifts the lid to her food to display spaghetti and meatballs and I do the same.
“Looks and smells amazing,” I approve, the scent of sweet and spicy tomato sauce almost as good as her amber and vanilla scent right about now.
“It is,” she assures me. “An Italian family owns the place. And I’d offer you wine, but I don’t keep it here.”
I arch a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be a wine lover?”
“I like wine,” she says, “but when I’m here, I just want to escape everything to do with the winery.” She picks up her fork, and clearly makes a move to change the subject by adding, “I’m starving and real women eat everything on their plate.”
“Sweetheart,” I say, wrapping pasta around my fork, “you keep up with me on everything else. I’d be disappointed if this was different.” I take a bite.
Faith watches me with intense green eyes. “Well?” she prods.
“Damn good,” I say. “And I’ve eaten my share of pasta in Rome.”
She sighs. “Oh how I’d love to go to Italy. My parents went a good half dozen times for ‘wine research’ as they called it. My father loved those trips. My mother was all his then. I can’t imagine wanting someone so badly that you’d allow yourself to be treated that way. I never understood.”
Which, judging from what I know of her, is why Macom got kicked to the curb after only a year. “There’s a fine line between love and hate,” I assure her. “Lovers become enemies. I see it all the time with my work.”
“But you do corporate law, right?”
“Personal relationships are common disruptors to business. The worst kind because they get emotional and dirty.” I stay focused on her past. “Who stayed with you when your parents were traveling?”
“A friend of my parents who passed away a few years ago. And Kasey, the manager at the winery, has been there for twenty years.”
I study her a moment. “Why, if he’s good at his job, can’t you paint, Faith?”
Her answer comes without hesitation. “Kasey and my father were a team. A few years back, we were just getting by, but they’d built our retail sales to a huge dollar figure the year before my father died. That’s why I was able to buy this house with my inheritance.”
“And your mother inherited well, I assume?”