Gabriel David's White Horse (9 page)

“I can think of nothing more spectacular than the beauty of your lines set to motion.”

Oh! That was a different kind of reasoning. His fingertips traced her collarbone and down her arms. Yeah, she just might dance for Gabriel David. “Do you want me to dance provocatively?”

He sat on the loveseat and placed an ankle on the opposite knee and stretched his arms across the back. “I think that would be lovely, but you should only do what feels natural.”

“Natural?”

“The atmosphere is speaking to us, Mirabelle. I know what it’s saying to me. What I don’t know is how you’re interpreting it.”

Was it guy mentality or his artistry that caused him to speak like that?

“Tell me what you feel.”

She shrugged one shoulder not completely certain this wasn’t weird. What did she feel?

“Come sit.” He patted the space next to him on the couch. “Close your eyes.” She did. “What do you hear?”

“Paula Cole.”

“Anything else?”

“Your voice, your breathing.”

“What specifically?”

“It’s deep, needy maybe, a little breathy.”

His warm hands started to rub the bare skin of her arms. “And what do you feel?”

“Heat and energy.”

“What kind of energy?” he whispered.

“Your breath on my skin is warm and there’s an electricity in your fingertips.”

“Now you are seeing things as an artist.”

Her eyes opened, flashing at him. “I’m not an artist.”

“Of course you are. Your beauty and the way your body moves in space are more beautiful than anything I could ever draw with a pencil or paint with a brush.”

This was good stuff. She wondered if he said this to all women. His hands cupped her jaw and then his lips were on hers. The caress of his lips and hands consumed her as the warmth of his soul seeped in through her pores. Slowly he slid beneath her and she was straddling him. His hands skimmed under the cotton of her knit dress. Her head was in a fog, but her body knew exactly what it wanted and her hips started to move in time to the sultry, breathy music.

He gathered and pulled her dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but a pair of sheer panties. Her hips continued to work them both into a situation where they sought release in one another.

Leaning back, he used the back of the couch to take the weight off of his hips. “Help me take off my jeans.”

She stood, feeling sexy in the lack of clothing when his heated gaze appraised her. Her breasts swayed with her movement and a growl emitted from deep within his throat. Once she had him unclothed she continued to move sensually with the beat that filtered into the room. With every move she made, his growls and moans became louder and more desperate. She’d never danced suggestively for anyone before and she felt provocative and powerful.

When the song ended, Lil’ Wayne took over the airwaves and started singing about licking lollipops. Gabriel grinned. “This song was written to fuck to. If you wanna make love, you better change it.”

His anticipatory look had him waiting for her to change the music, but instead she stood her ground. When he arched a brow she asked, “What happens if I don’t change the music?”

“Then you need to get your mouth on me now.” He lifted his thick cock. His command both verbal and of her body sent a flash of fire to her sex. She took a round throw pillow from the couch and placed it on the floor between Gabriel’s feet.

She lowered herself to her knees, using the pillow as padding. With her nails she teased the skin on his thighs bringing blood flow to the surface and further enlarging his cock and his moans. Grasping his heat in her fist she jerked him, swiping her tongue over the tip where he leaked. His hands slid into her hair and lightly fisted. He looked reverently down at her as she worked him over with her mouth, cradling the underside of him with her tongue and pumping with her hand at the root.

“God, your mouth feels so good.”

She moaned her response around his thickness in her mouth. His abs tensed and he grew even bigger in her mouth. One of his hands slid from her hair to her jaw, “Hey, being in your mouth is too good. I’m about to come.”

She looked up, connecting with is electric green gaze. The intense glow darkened as she continued to work him in her mouth. In a few moments thick, warm threads of cum slid down the back of her throat. She’d never swallowed before, but she’d not wanted to waste a drop of him. Everything he had to offer had been of the highest quality and the finest talents. If he were a fine wine he’d be…well, she didn’t know since most of the wine she drank came from a screw top bottle, but he’d be something aged and French. The taste of him was no different. It was as fine as every other part of him that she’d experienced.

He rested the head of his spent body on the back of the couch and breathed deep. She stood and placed the pillow back to rights. When she attempted to put her dress on, he took it in his hands and pulled it gently free from her grip. His fingers slipped into her panties and found their way between her legs. When he felt her wetness his eyes flashed wide before they narrowed. In one swift move he had her in his former position on the couch and he was now on his knees between her legs. They’d switched roles. Bruce Springsteen’s
I’m On Fire
started to play and he slid her panties off. Looping his arms under her legs he pulled her to the edge of the couch and spread her wide before him. He placed her legs over his shoulders and hummed a sound of content.

She wasn’t opposed to receiving oral, but she’d never found it as fulfilling as sex. The guy always seemed to want her to do the reaching and try as she might she could never find what she was reaching for.

As soon as his fingers spread her and his head went down between her thighs, she knew this ride was going to be different. His highly skilled tongue feathered against her, distributing warmth that his fingers used to bring her from smoldering intensity to shear, blood-boiling climax. It hadn’t taken long, mere seconds, and she was releasing on his tongue. His exploration grew more exhaustive. He was almost inside of her, pleasuring from the inside out. She would surely lose her tether on this world…be lost in some eternal pleasuring abyss if he didn’t let her up soon.

“Ah, Gabe, I can’t—” her climax still lingered. How long had it been?

He pulled back, his nose and chin glistening with her juices. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No, you pleasured me.”

“You’re so fucking sweet. I so easily lose control when I’m with you.” He stood and carried her to the bedroom. On her bed, beneath him, she was in heaven. These moments with him made her wonder how she’d survive once he was gone.
Wasn’t there a saying about this type of situation?
To have loved and lost is better than to never have loved at all. That’s all well and good, but life after Gabriel would leave her exposed—naked—because having experienced him she knew there would never be any greater love than his.

* * *

They’d made love again and Mirabelle had fallen asleep in her usual position—with her head on his chest and her body entangled with his. The best thing about sleeping beneath her was the lack of nightmares. She saved him from desolation and he’d been happy to repay her in some way. Gabriel smiled; eating her out hadn’t exactly been a chore for him. God he loved her flavor. She’d admitted to not being able to climax with oral and he’d been happy to make a liar out of her. She’d been so giving and sweet on the couch tonight he couldn’t imagine only seeing to his needs and ignoring hers.

He’d become a master at sliding from beneath her sleeping form.

“Gabe?”

She always stirred a little but would hush at his coaxing words.

“Shh, go back to sleep.”

On his way back from the bathroom his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her bare cleft on display in the bed. He walked to the living room to retrieve his lamp, sketchpad, and pencils. He only hoped she’d stay in position long enough for him to accomplish his wish.

In the corner of her bedroom Gabe set up his lamp, ensuring the light was low and concentrated on his page to keep from waking her. His location gave him an unadulterated view of her the feminine lines created by her body. He began to sketch and the minutes started to fall away. He felt the exhilaration in the tips of his fingers and the pressure applied to his pencil. His focus was acute. Inspiration always hit him in the gut and spread outward. Nothing mattered but the pencil and the page. With each stroke he recreated her image on paper. Sketch after sketch he drew, harnessing the chance she’d given him to capture her beauty. By the time she began to stir at ten-thirty he’d completed five sketches.

She slid her legs from the bed, her every movement graceful even fresh from slumber. She covered her nakedness with a black silk robe. It called to mind his own nakedness and he smirked. Maybe he should invest in a robe. Currently, the sketchbook covered his lap. Mirabelle walked over to his make-do station.

“Hey, you.” She offered him a sleepy smile.

“Good morning, Mirabelle. Sleep well?”

“Extremely.” She tilted her head to better view his sketchpad. “What are you drawing?”

He passed her the sketchbook. Recognition of the image before her bloomed on her face and her jaw dropped on a gasp. She flipped the page and took in each picture he’d drawn. She snapped the book closed and regarded him with wide eyes and heightened color in her cheeks.

“They’re exceptional, but we spoke about provocative drawings. You said you wouldn’t—”

He stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. “They’re all for you, Mirabelle. Only you.”

He placed a kiss on her forehead, and then went to his room to dress. The cogwheels in his mind spun as if powered by an infinite number of hamsters. The last time he’d been so inspired was when he’d drawn the horse and landscape. He planned to go by Max’s and gather all of the canvases. He couldn’t wait to get to his New Orleans studio. He’d lock himself in to ensure he’d be undisturbed and he wouldn’t come out until he had all of the paintings finished.

He had to finish this albatross if he were going to be able to crawl from beneath the weight of it. It was a sign that he’d seen the horse and Mirabelle the first time he’d been home since the deaths of his parents. He was sure she’d been sent to save him. He’d seen beauty so perfect it had captured every facet of his mind and cleared it like the sun coming out after a week of clouds and storms.

When he couldn’t capture Mirabelle’s beauty he’d gone into a period of extreme mental block that he thought he’d never break out of. Worse were the nightmares that had haunted his sleep. It had gotten so bad that the very bed where he rested his head represented pure torture and evil, so much so that he hadn’t been able to sleep in a bedroom or a bed until he’d been at Mirabelle’s.

It was time for him to finish the paintings he’d begun more than ten years ago. Then he could finally let go.

Mirabelle emerged from the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy yellow towel. She inhaled deeply, picking up the nuances of Gabe’s scent. The only towel in the bathroom had been the one he’d used for the past week and it smelled of him. She walked to her bedroom where the drawings he’d completed were displayed across her bed. She hummed in satisfaction while she thought about having the sketches framed and hung around her bedroom. They captured the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Was that how he saw her? Sated, but pure and real with ample curves and beautiful lines. In the drawings thick curls hung across her forehead and a delicate nose with high cheekbones rounded out the face. The provocative pose was an afterthought to the beauty that took center stage.

Her stomach rumbled and she thought if she were hungry then he must be starving after the performance he’d given her just a few hours ago. To keep the color theme going, she donned a yellow knit dress and teal shrug to keep her shoulders from getting too cold. She placed her feet in sandal wedges and started drying her hair.

When she finished her ablutions she went to find Gabe, hoping she could talk him into going to breakfast at her favorite greasy spoon. She could use a short stack of pancakes right about now. In mockery her stomach panged loudly and she caressed the empty organ with her hand, blushing at its assertiveness.

“Gabe?”

She checked the kitchen, living room, and bathroom, but couldn’t find him. Finally, she walked into his room, noticing immediately that the bed had been made and the clothing usually piled in the corner chair was gone. She skidded to the front door and opened it to reveal that his truck was no longer parked in the drive.

Frowning, Mirabelle picked her cell phone up from the kitchen counter and searched his name, tapping when she located his image. Her call was sent to a voice mailbox that hadn’t been setup. She opted for a text:

Where R U?

An hour later the message still had not been read.

Two hours later the unread message stared at her in mockery. She threw the phone across the room, hearing it shatter against the brick hearth in the living room. Her head went down on her arms at the kitchen counter and she cried.

Four hours later she reached for a shot of whiskey. Once she had a significant amount of alcohol running through her veins she carried the remains of the bottle with her to his bedroom, unable to even consider sleeping in her own bed after what they’d shared. Tired, she climbed on the bed and rested her head. She’d take a nap and maybe when she woke he’d be back. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was the empty corner chair. He wasn’t coming back.

Gabe sat back and admired the finished product that had consumed all thought for the last eight days.

“It is finished,” he said as he used a fine-tipped brush to apply his signature to the corner of the last canvas in the lineup. He’d managed to complete seven works of art. His muse stared back at him.

“Mirabelle.” Shit, he missed her. Needed her. He’d said it before: being an artist was a lonely business. He couldn’t wait to show her what he’d created all because of the spark of inspiration that she created in him.