Every Second Counts (7 page)

“My personal studio is at my loft,” Bridgette said.

“If that’s an invitation, I accept.” Ryder tossed enough money on the table for the meal and a generous tip, then slid out of the booth and held out her hand to assist Bridgette. “I’ve always found art to be very…inspiring.”

Their journey to the loft was one long, hot tease.

During their walk to the car, Bridgette linked her arm in Ryder’s, taking every opportunity to brush her tantalizingly erect nipple against Ryder’s bicep as they flirted. By the time they had reached the parking lot, Ryder had slipped her arm around Bridgette’s waist and drifted her hand down to palm Bridgette’s firm ass. She teased back, pressing Ryder against the car as she unlocked it, then stepping away just as their lips were a hairbreadth from their first kiss. Once in the car, Ryder took her hand and pressed it against her hard thigh. She retaliated by inching her hand upward until her pinkie barely touched the damp heat of Ryder’s crotch. She smiled when Ryder groaned under her breath.

She jogged to her second-floor loft while Ryder’s cane thumped noisily along the stairs behind her. Disengaging the lock, she grabbed fistfuls of Ryder’s T-shirt and yanked her inside. As they stood breast to breast, Ryder’s breath was hot on her face, her whisky eyes smoldering. She grazed her lips against Ryder’s, dodging her head away as Ryder’s mouth chased hers.

“I thought you wanted a personal tour of my studio.”

Ryder abandoned pursuit of her lips and sucked the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck, then licked upward. “I’d like to get to know the artist first.”

Her hips jerked when Ryder’s teeth nipped at her sensitive earlobe. She tore Ryder’s shirt from her jeans and raked her fingernails across her abdomen.

Ryder growled. She threw her cane to the floor, shoved the door closed, and whirled them around to pin her against it. The heavy oak was hard against her back. Ryder’s mouth was demanding, her tongue searching. She tasted of the woody bouquet from the wine they’d had with dinner. She skated her hand up to Ryder’s small breast and twisted the nipple hard. Ryder’s hips bucked against hers, her thigh rolling against Bridgette’s crotch. Sweet Jesus.

Bridgette felt like she was on a runaway horse, galloping toward a thousand-foot drop. No woman had ever gotten her this hot, this fast. Slow down. She needed to slow down. She shoved Ryder away and they stood panting, staring at each other.

“About that proposal.”

Confusion flashed across Ryder’s face, and then she narrowed her eyes and a slow smile dimpled one cheek. “I’m up for anything you are as long as it’s not too kinky.”

“I want you to pose for my art class.”

Confusion flickered again.

“Now?”

“Next week.”

“Fine. I said I’d do it.” Ryder reached for her.

“Nude.”

Ryder froze, then dropped her hands and laughed. “You thought you’d get me all worked up so I’d agree to anything you wanted?”

She stepped close again and traced her finger along Ryder’s cheek. “You’ve already said yes. Remember?”

“So?”

She trailed her finger down Ryder’s neck to tug at the collar of her shirt. “So, I want a,” she moved her finger lower to circle hard nipples straining against the cotton fabric, “preview of my model.”

Ryder stepped close to whisper in her ear. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

She shivered but again pushed Ryder gently away. “We’ll get to me later.”

Ryder’s grin was cocky. She jerked her shirt over her head in one quick motion. The tight material had done little to hide the well-defined shoulders and arms, but her breath hitched at the sight of Ryder’s small, soft breasts and carved abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch, but she drew in a deep breath and forced herself to focus with her artist’s eye instead of the throbbing between her legs.

She pointed to the knee brace wrapped over Ryder’s jeans. “Can you take that off?”

Ryder didn’t answer but snatched the Velcro straps open and tossed the brace to the floor. While her hands had worked quickly on the brace, they moved slowly over the buttons of her fly. The loose jeans dropped to the floor, revealing skin-hugging, low-cut black boy shorts and thick, firm thighs. Bridgette barely had time to register the roadwork of red scars along her left leg before Ryder turned away.

Sinewy lines moved smoothly under the flawless skin of her back as she hooked her thumbs under the Lycra material and slowly drew it down to reveal a tight, compact butt. Deep clefts on the sides of the rounded cheeks flexed as she shifted her weight.

Bridgette circled, evaluating the boi-god, warrior-goddess physique. Well-defined and nicely muscled, but not too bulky. From the back, a careless eye would see a man. A careful eye would notice the faint flair of the hip, the lack of masculine hair, and the softer grain of the skin.

“Perfect,” she murmured to herself.

“Thank you.”

Lost in her observations, she jerked her gaze back to Ryder’s face after the husky voice startled her. Her expression had gone from smug to curious.

She should explain. “I want my students to recognize the subtle indicators of gender when they paint and sculpt.” She continued to circle, taking careful note, while Ryder stood as still as chiseled stone and let her look. “Our perceptions in general are shaped mostly by the dominant sex, by men. Conventional attitudes are that women are poorly muscled and have an hourglass shape.”

“I’m often mistaken for a man.”

“That’s why I approached you in the gallery.”

“I’m crushed. I thought maybe you were hot for me.”

She ignored the implied question for now. “From this view, you might be mistaken for a male. But an artist should be able to see the female.”

Ryder crossed her arms over her chest, flexing her back into a wide
V
-shape. Bridgette smoothed her fingers along the overly developed trapezius and latissimus dorsi above and below the shoulder blade. “These might be mistaken for masculine but,” she ran her hand down the trenched center of Ryder’s back, pleased at the faint shudder she felt, “the lumbar curve of your spine is definitely female. Women are more sway-backed than men, tilting their pelvis backward.”

In front of Ryder again, she moved her hands along the collarbone and over the firm deltoids of the shoulders. “Your shoulders are actually probably no wider than mine, even though the larger muscles make them seem broader.” She squeezed the hard biceps, then scooped Ryder’s hands into hers. “Interesting.”

“Something wrong with my hands?”

She moved them up and matched them with hers, palm to palm. Ryder’s hands were wider, hers longer. “On the majority of women, the index finger and the ring finger are usually the same length…like mine. Men generally have a shorter index finger…like yours.”

She entwined their fingers and squeezed briefly before dropping her hands to Ryder’s hips. “Even though you have very narrow hips for a woman, the hipbone still flairs slightly.” She crouched and squeezed Ryder’s thick quads. “Because a woman has a wider pelvis, her femurs are angled inward, shaping their legs into a slight
X
-shape.”

Ryder widened her stance a little. Eye-level with the short, dark curls, she breathed in the musky scent of Ryder’s arousal and looked up. Her eyes dark as chocolate and hungry, Ryder held out her hand and she took it as she stood.

“My turn,” Ryder said. “You left a few things out.”

Ryder held her gaze and worked her silk blouse open, button by button, then dropped it to the hardwood floor.

“A woman’s skin is like satin.” Ryder touched her cheek with the backs of her fingers.

Ryder released the front clasp of her bra and laid her cheek against Bridgette’s chest. “Her breasts like the finest silk pillows.”

Sliding behind her, Ryder reached around to pop the button on her leg-hugging jeans and lowered the zipper. She could feel the hard points of Ryder’s nipples against her shoulders and the calluses of her hands as they slid under the material to push it down.

“A woman’s body has curves like a mountain road, rather than sharp turns.”

Ryder appeared to have no trouble bearing weight on her healing leg, but difficulty bending it, so she helped by toeing off her ankle-high boots and bending to wiggle out of her jeans. She had barely straightened when Ryder molded to her back and held her firmly.

“But I don’t need to see to know male from female.”

Her flesh tingled as Ryder nuzzled her neck and inhaled deeply. “A woman smells of lilacs,” she gasped when Ryder cupped her sex, then lifted her glistening fingers to her nose, “and musk.”

Ryder’s mouth was on her neck now. “A woman tastes both sweet—”

She held her breath and watched out of the corner of her eye as Ryder sucked on the fingers she’d just sniffed.

Ryder groaned and she rubbed her hips against Bridgette’s ass. “—and salty.”

The last words, a hoarse rasp, flooded her crotch and dripped down her thighs. Her legs shook with her need to come. She wheeled to grasp Ryder behind her neck and, when their mouths met in a frantic devouring feast, she realized Ryder’s need burned as hot and bright as hers.

Ryder’s hands were on her buttocks, massaging and lifting her. She wrapped her legs around the trim waist and they both moaned as she rubbed her slick clit against Ryder’s belly. She tightened her legs without breaking their kiss, and Ryder carried her toward the only interior doorway in the open loft.

The red silk sheets were a rumpled pool on the king-sized bed. She bounced slightly when Ryder dropped her onto the mattress, finally breaking their kiss. Ryder’s eyes bored into hers, dark and wild. Her chest was flushed, her nipples stiff as she climbed onto the bed and hovered over her.

“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” Ryder said. “I hope you’ve got all night, because I’ve got a long list I want to check off with you.”

“Good.” She was a bit out of breath. “I was afraid you were one of those one-and-done kind of women.”

Ryder threw her head back and laughed. “Hardly. When I get done with you, beautiful, you’re gonna know what it means to be rode hard and put up wet.”

Before she could answer, Ryder sucked her breast into her hot mouth. Her hips jerked and her thighs fell open as a hard nip sent a wave of pleasure all the way to her toes. Ryder took the opening and moved between her legs, holding her thighs apart with her weight.

“I love a woman who likes it a little rough,” she said.

She grabbed a fistful of Ryder’s dark hair and yanked her down for another forceful kiss. Their tongues battled. She opened her legs wider and dug her fingernails into Ryder’s ass. Ryder bucked, rubbing their clits together, and they growled into each other’s mouths as they began a furious hump. They were both so wet, so hot.

The pressure gliding against her clit was too much, and she whimpered as her orgasm gathered in her belly. She broke their kiss and screamed at the ceiling as it swarmed through, convulsing her body. A second later, Ryder’s body went rigid and she joined her with a muffled groan.

Her legs were still trembling from the aftershocks when Ryder slithered down and slipped her shoulders under her thighs. She sucked in her breath when Ryder opened her with her fingers and greedily bathed her with her tongue.

God, she was good. The talented mouth probed and swirled and lapped and probed until she began to wonder if Ryder was a medical freak with two tongues, at least one of them unnaturally long. Her heart hadn’t slowed from her first climax when the second orgasm flashed through her.

This time, when the spots before her eyes cleared, she was cradled against Ryder’s soft breast and warm hands stroked her back.

“Wow.”

“You okay? I think you may have left me for a minute.”

“Wow.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe she did black out for a second or two.

Ryder chuckled. “We must have killed some brain cells. I know you definitely short-circuited mine, and you seem to be reduced to a one-word vocabulary.”

She rubbed her cheek against Ryder’s still-hard nipple. She was surprised that she felt energized rather than depleted.

“Still want to see my studio?”

“Do we have to get dressed?”

“Not unless you’re cold-natured or modest.”

“What do you think?”

Bridgette kissed her, tasting herself on Ryder’s lips before pushing inside to languidly roll their tongues together, then ending it with one last brush of their lips. She studied Ryder’s oval-shaped face and strong jaw. She hadn’t noticed before how long and thick her dark lashes were.

“I think you’re hot-blooded and completely without modesty,” she said. “Why haven’t I met you before now?”

“Karma? Fate? Just plain bad luck?”

“You didn’t just get out of prison, did you?”

Ryder laughed. “No. I’ve never even spent a night in jail.” She looked thoughtful. “No, wait. That’s not true. There was that one night in Texas. But that wasn’t my fault. The woman didn’t tell me she was married and that her husband’s father was the county sheriff.”

She shook her head and climbed out of the bed. “Should I get your cane?”

“Nah. I don’t use the cane or the brace anymore around the house, unless I have to tackle steps.”

However, she didn’t miss the care Ryder took to stand gradually and the effort to hide her limp as they walked through the loft to her studio space behind the massive stone fireplace.

The room was filled with half-finished canvases, some sitting on easels and others stacked in the corner. Sketches were pinned to the wall around a tilted art table littered with more drawings. The fore part of a horse was emerging from a large block of clay on small, elevated table in the center of the room.

Bridgette was suddenly uncomfortable, watching Ryder carefully examine each painting. She glanced at her several times as she rounded the room. Did she notice that nothing was finished? Ryder touched the clay sculpture, then looked up, seeming puzzled.

“Your clay is dry. You don’t intend to finish this?” Ryder looked at the sketches laid out on the floor around the sculpture. “The sketches are great.”