All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You ... #3) (7 page)

“Your dad didn’t support you being an artist?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate.

Well, if he didn’t have any family support, no wonder he was in advertising. That could be artistic—another outlet for creativity.

“But you like drawing.”

“I can’t not do it,” he said earnestly. “So I take classes when I can. Photography. Painting. Drawing.”

“What did you think of the life drawing class?”

He looked at me with a sexy stare that did things to my whole body. “It had a great model.” He continued, even quieter, “Actually, I was wondering what it felt like to be up there, naked, with everyone looking at you.  Drawing you.”

“It feels disembodied. I know all these art students are objectifying me, making my body into lines on a page.”

“I didn’t objectify you,” he said, intently. “I knew it was you, Lucy, my beautiful neighbor, the whole time.”  My margarita glass got really interesting to me all of a sudden and my cheeks grew hot. Yeah.  We liked each other.  But could anything happen?

I had to ask.  “So with all this work, do you actually have time to see anyone?”

He barked out another mirthless laugh and shook his head. “No.”  Great.  Stomach in my shoes.  Not the right answer.  But he continued, “That’s not the thing to tell you on a date, but it’s the truth.”  He took my hand across the table.  God, I loved his hands.  Artist hands.  Strong and warm and intelligent hands.  “Listen.  I’m always at the office. I know it’s unhealthy. But I want to see you. I want to get to know you. Will you give me a chance?”

Was there any question?  Of course.

I nodded. Yes, I could give him a chance. He was trying. He was so sweet and I just felt compelled to be with him. When I wasn’t around him, I was wondering what he was doing. I don’t know if that was healthy or unhealthy, but it was how I felt.

I also knew that I wanted to be in bed with him by the end of the night.

And I knew that it would be the first time I’d been with a man since Carlos.

This romance writer had a way more active imagination than active sex life.  For a really, really, really long time.  Yes, I’d been on dates.  Yes, I’d messed around.  Yes, I’d done things.  But I hadn’t been all the way with a guy since Carlos.  

Pathetic. 

It just hadn’t worked out.  Either the guy was wrong or I was wrong and I wanted Mr. Right.

Explanation?  Romance writer.

I didn’t know if Jake was Mr. Right.  He seemed kind of
not
.  But there was something about him, something complicated to him, that made me trust him.

He’d opened up to me.  Given his fancy import car, I couldn’t believe he’d ever been poor.  But we all have pasts and we all have things we aren’t proud of.

I did pay attention to how he treated me, however.  While he was clearly a workaholic, he was clearly into me and I felt a connection with him that I’d never felt with another person.  Everything felt right when he was around.

The way he talked, I think it was the same way for him.  Otherwise, why would he even bother stopping by my house when he got home from work so late?  Even though his body wanted to do nothing more than crash, he still made sure to stop by and check in on me.  I loved that.

As we drank our drinks, we watched the sun go down into the horizon over the ocean.  The sunset turned the sky a brilliant shade of pink, fading to purple, fading to gray, the water gray-blue and dark. When we finished, we went to a heated outdoor patio and had dinner at their Italian restaurant.

“So I have to ask this,” he said.

“Anything.”

“Were you ever married?”

“No.  My ex-boyfriend Carlos dumped me after he got me pregnant.  Actually before we found out.”

Jake looked pissed.  “Fucker.  That’s no way to treat you.”

I shook my head.  “You?  Have you ever been married?”

He looked amused.  “No.  Again, not a good first date topic, but I’ve never dated anyone long enough for that.”

“Big guy like you probably has no problems getting a date.”

He looked sheepish.  “The problem has been me, not them.  My work life is untenable.  It runs over my whole life.”  He sighed.  “Always so much to do in the office.”

“So tell me what you like to paint.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “You, for starters.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” I said, touched.  “What else?”

“Anything, really.  There’s no shortage of inspiration if you really pay attention.  I like photography, too.  There’s an amazing exhibit right now at the Getty, I saw it online.  I’d love to go . . .”

As I listened to him talk, I realized how much I loved hearing his ideas.  What a loss it would be if this creative man couldn’t draw, and I was so glad that even though he was a workaholic he took the classes to tend his passion.  Animated, lovely, he wasn’t so slick. There was something almost sad and wistful underneath. Someone who had been missing out on life. Someone who needed care and attention.

And I kept watching him. Watching his athletic frame move in his chair and the graceful way he held his silverware. Then in return, feeling his eyes on me, studying me. Enjoying him asking me questions—about Rob, about the people in our complex, about my childhood—and listening to the answers. I studied the way his neck moved, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The little glimpses of his chest that I got from the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.

Oh, yes, desire had been stirring in me for a long time.  And now I had it bad.

He’d been hands-off of me, other than giving me his arm.

But now, as we finished the last bite of tiramisu, he reached over and touched my hand and I loved it and he looked at me in a way I could feel between my legs.

“Let’s go back.”

Yes.

We didn’t even make it out to the Biltmore parking lot before we were joined at the lip.

Holding hands, we’d walked through the chic lobby of the hotel to the patio entranceway, lit with fairy lights wrapped around the palm tree trunks, making it look magical. We’d been serenaded by the crash of the ocean right beside us in the dark and the clink and murmur of dinner guests in the restaurant patio.

Leaving me by a lush, bright purple bougainvillea vibrant in the low light, Jake had strolled to the valet booth, handed the ticket to the attendant, and now came back to me, eyes on mine, intent. He bent down and kissed me hard.  His scorching mouth, chocolatey from the tiramisu, invaded mine, our noses smushing together. I kissed him back with fervor, loving the crush into his body, loving the way his arms wrapped around me and held me to his firm body, loving the way he smelled and the way he tasted.

He didn’t kiss like a distracted, workaholic businessman.  He kissed like he’d never heard of a cell phone. Like this was his way of creating art and he didn’t care who saw. It felt like there was nothing around us, nothing in existence except him pressing his body to me, his lips and tongue to mine. I was completely in his world and he was in mine and it was a heart-stoppingly romantic place to be. All of creation existed in that moment.  At least until he bit my lower lip gently, and he pulled back and looked at me, heat in his eyes.

The young, pimpled valet standing next to us cleared his throat.

I stifled a giggle. Who knew how long he was standing there watching us make out? Jake looked at me conspiratorially, kissed my nose, then took my hand and walked me over to his car. He opened my door and I slid in.

When he took off back home, he drove faster than he did on the way to the hotel. In no time at all, I was out of the car. I fumbled with my keys. Then my door was open and Jake followed me inside my home. I turned and closed my door. He boxed me into the back of the door, arms on both sides of me. His mouth came down on mine again, and this time it was even more frenzied because we didn’t have any chance of an audience.

Teeth knocked, tongues touched, he even growled against my throat.  I moaned when he started nibbling his way down my neck, sucking and caressing.

I pressed his jacket off of his shoulders, struggling with it, and finally getting it off. Then I started unbuttoning his shirt, crazed to touch him, wanting to feel his athletic body. As he leaned over to kiss me, he helped, and his shirt came off and fell to the floor.  Shoes kicked off.  I kissed his broad, muscular chest, licking his nipples, sucking my way up to his neck.

“I want you right now,” I said against his soft skin, and he groaned and then picked me up, carrying me down the hall while I squealed and kicked in his arms.  I was finally going to get some.  From the guy of my dreams.  God, I loved it.

“Where’s your room?”

I laughed.  I was loving this being carried thing, which surprised me since normally when you made me feel small I got fierce.  But with Jake, I delighted in his arms, feeling protected, dominated, cared for. And thrilled. This beautiful man would be mine.

“No, this one, there.” I pointed at my door when he almost went into Rob’s room.

Then he stepped inside and looked around.

My room looked like the day after Christmas at Macy’s.

His eyes widened as he took in my room.

“I kind of didn’t know what to wear.” I winced in embarrassment.

Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Lucy. You are wonderful.”

He set me down.  With a swoosh of my arms, I swept all of the clothes strewn across my bed onto the floor and pulled Jake on top of me.  But as he headed down, he slipped on a silky dress on the floor and grabbed me, twisting.  We both fell to the floor, me on top of him, laughing.

“Get this off of you,” he said, tugging at my skirt hem, feeling my booty, “I can’t wait to touch you. After that class today? Fuck me.”

“That’s what I want to do.” I giggled.  God, yes please.  Finally.  A man not thrown off by my son.

“Up,” he commanded. “Take it off.”

I got up and pulled off my sequined top, exposing my lacy black bra.

I may have chosen my underwear specifically with the knowledge that it would be viewed. Lying on the floor, shirtless, shoeless, propped up on his elbows, his eyes were on me, focused.

So I took my time, enjoying the tease. I reached behind me, unzipped my pencil skirt, and wiggled it off of my hips, leaving my strappy five minute only shoes on.

He seemed to like the way I looked in lingerie and stilettos, judging by the way he didn’t look anywhere else. With athletic grace, he stood up, pants tented, which distracted me.  I leaned down as he got up and we knocked foreheads.

“Sorry,” we both said at the same time.  He gently kissed my forehead, and then I kissed his.

He started walking me backwards to my bed, kissing my neck, insistently, running his fingers down my side. The back of my knees hit the bed, and I fell back.  He fell on me, his hot, athletic body feeling so, so good on mine, settling between my legs.

He traced his fingers down my arms.  “I drew this curve today.”  He moved to my fingers.  “And this one.”  Back up the underside of my arms.  “And this one.”  Then his fingers traced down my side.  “I drew this curve.”  And over my hip.  “And this one is especially beautiful.”

Even though I was comfortable with my body, I felt shy with the attention that he gave me. No one had ever touched me this way.  He affectionately caressed the curves of my upper thighs, my hip bones, and my belly button. I grabbed his ass, pressing his erection into me, feeling the hard muscle against me, making me wet.

I reached down to unzip his pants and he stood up, slipping again on the pile of clothes on the floor. He unbuttoned and unzipped, exposing classic chambray boxer shorts that made him look like a hot model in a catalogue.

“I have a confession,” he said, standing, staring at me, his hard cock at attention, barely constrained by his boxers.

“What?”

“It’s been a long while for me. I don’t think I’ll last.”

My heart melted.  “The workaholic hasn’t gotten some in a while?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s closer to the truth than I care to admit.”

Since he was brave, so was I.  “Me neither.”

Now he looked surprised.  “The romance novelist hasn’t gotten some in a while?”  I shook my head.