Rebel Roused (Untamed #5) (8 page)

My mother sniffed. My father simply nodded.

“We will try to respect your wishes,” he said slowly.

“Fine. Then start by giving me space.” I couldn’t let them into my life yet. I’d been burned by them one too many times. “I’ll call when I’m ready to see you again.” When and
if
, I couldn’t help but think.

My father nodded toward the door. “Very well, Reagan. As you wish.”

I followed them to the door, watching my mother wrinkle her nose again and wanting to strangle her.

“How can you live in a place with no doorman at the very least?” she said. “There is no security here. Is this place safe?”

I’d been asking myself that same question ever since I’d come home. Every sound set me on edge—especially when Dare was out. I didn’t open the door if I didn’t recognize the person knocking. I’d just clutch the baseball bat I kept nearby, ready to strike, my heart racing, my palms sweating, until the person went away.

Only then could I breathe again.

I felt the panic creep up at my mother’s words as she studied the door. “Are those locks strong enough?” she said. “How do you keep the riffraff out?”

The door opened then, startling all three of us. My eyes darted for the bat—out of reach. But it was Dare. His eyes grazed over my parents, and landed on me, warm and worried. He knew how I was these days. I gave him a weak smile.

“Oh.” My mother gave him a slow, scrutinizing onceover as she walked by, her mouth twisted in distaste, then paused in the doorway to turn and say, “I see you don’t.”

eleven

B
y the beginning of December, we’d finished packing up Rex’s stuff, donating what we could, saving what we couldn’t part with, and storing everything Dare wasn’t sure what to do with. There were many of Rex’s personal belongings that he refused to sell, but he also couldn’t bear to bring them to our place. At least not yet.

And I totally understood that.

Everything was infused with Rex, and every time we went to his house or touched his things it hit us again. I kept expecting to find him behind his easel, at the stove in the kitchen, or just around the corner. I swore I could still hear his voice resonating in the now-empty rooms.

We could feel the echo of his life—of
him
—and with it came the fresh pain of his loss.

I knew what I felt was a fraction of what Dare was going through—I could see the darkness creep up in his eyes every so often, and I wished there was some way for me to take away his pain.

But there wasn’t. There never would be.

So I did everything I could to fill our lives with happiness.

Not long after my parents’ visit, I went back to the women’s shelter on 132nd Street where I’d volunteered before. In previous years, Sabine had sponsored an art show right before the holidays for the kids to be able to show their work, maybe even make a sale or two. Since Sabine was in Europe, I’d called up the volunteer coordinator and offered to help get the students get ready and run the entire show.

For the past two weeks, I’d spent three afternoons a week supervising the art class, bringing in whatever supplies the kids needed, and helping guide the young artists.

It felt so good to be useful again.

It also felt great to not be jumping back into the world with both feet yet. Baby steps, they’d called them in rehab. One thing at a time, one day at a time. I simply wasn’t ready for full-time again. And forcing myself to get out of the apartment a few times a week was hard enough. But I did it.

Those kids needed me.

Almost as much as I needed them.

Most of the time I stayed in, though, seeking shelter in my safe, little world with Dare. He tried to get me to go out more often—to dinner, an opening, a new gallery—but I felt too exposed. Too unanchored.

It didn’t make sense. I knew that. I didn’t need a therapist to point out that I’d been in the safety of Rex’s house when hell had unleashed its mangiest hound. And even though I kept reminding myself that Daren was dead—that he couldn’t ever come after Dare or me again—it still took everything I had to walk out the door.

My heart gave a little jump every time the door opened.

Like right now.

“Hey,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest, wondering when my heart would stop doing that. If ever. I wasn’t sure I could take a lifetime of these moments of fear and uncertainty.

Dare took one look at me, closed the door, crossed the room, and wrapped me in his arms.

“You’re safe, baby,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

“I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing my face into his chest, breathing in his calmness. “And yet I don’t.”

He ran his hands up and down my arms. “Give it time.” His chin rested on the top of my head and I could feel my heart return to its regular rhythm.

“So, how’d it go?”

“The insurance?” He shrugged. “It’s not much.”

“What? You lost twenty-three paintings in the explosion. How can it
not
be much?”

His head was shaking before I even finished. “Because I’m a nobody,” he said. “They don’t agree with the value I placed on my art. They’re giving me less than half.” His hands came down on my shoulders as I opened my mouth in indignation. “It doesn’t matter, Ree. They’re gone—there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“But it’s not fair! You’re an amazing artist and those paintings are worth—”

“Nothing.” He slid his hands down my arms, grasped my hands in his and raised them to his lips. “It’s okay. At least I’m getting some money out of it. It’ll keep us going while I build up my portfolio again.”

“So, you’re going to…”

“Start painting again?” He pressed his lips together and nodded. “He’d be so pissed if I didn’t, you know?”

It had been eight weeks since Rex had died. Eight weeks since Dare had set foot in his own studio, let alone touched a brush.

Art was his lifeblood—it flowed through his veins, beat in his heart. I couldn’t imagine Dare without his art—it was such an integral part of him, he couldn’t be whole without it. Actually he
hadn’t
been. Not fully. Not since Rex.

But today was different. I could see it in his face. He was back.

“I
need
to paint,” he said, and I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, my heart filling at his words.

“What can I do to help?” I started for the kitchen. “You need coffee? I’ll put some water on. I’ll be—”

“What I really need right now is a model.” He trapped my wrist to stop me from moving. Lifting one eyebrow at me, he grinned. “How about it, Muse?”

I shook my head. “Dare…I don’t think…” There was a horrible red scar in the middle of my phoenix. I hated every time I saw it in the mirror—it was too much of a reminder. And so I always kept it covered up. What he was asking for was—

“Ree. All I want to do is paint.
Finally.
And all I want to paint is you.” He pinned me with his gaze and closed the distance between us. “Only you.” His fingers slid under my long-sleeve tee and pulled it over my head.

I grabbed the camisole I had on underneath and tugged it down, covering my scar.

“I would,” I said as I took a few steps back and bumped against the wall, “but I’ve got to…”

“You’ve got to what?” His hands reached for the waistband of my jeans and he popped the button open. “Make coffee? I can do that myself. But I’m not thirsty for coffee right now.” He knelt in front of me, his gaze locked on mine as he slowly slid the zipper down.

I swallowed hard as his fingers brushed against my panties, starting a fire in my core that was quickly spreading throughout my entire body. Ever so slowly, he slid my pants down, his hands setting my skin ablaze as they trailed down my legs.

A throbbing ache was growing between my thighs and I moaned as he slid one hand up to cup my calf and lifted my foot out of the pant leg, and then again on the other side. He leaned forward and kissed one inner thigh, up, up, up until he was almost at my center, then he kissed his way down the other.

Panting, aching, alive with his touch, his name slid between my lips as my nails dug into his shoulders. His hot breath skated over me while his fingers curled around the top of my panties.

“Was there anything else that you needed to do?” He bathed my core in warmth, his words caressing the spot where I wanted him most.

“The shelter…I have to…”

“You will. Tomorrow. Today, you’re home.” He started inching the lace down over my hips. “Lucky for me.” As the fabric slid down my thighs and fell to the floor, he added, “Because I’m in desperate need of a model. And only you will do.” Dark eyes holding me captive, he leaned forward until he was a whisper away from my ache. “Say you’ll pose for me, Ree.”

Oh, god. His breath against my swollen clit sent shivers up my spine.

“I’ll pose for you.” My voice was breathless. “I’ll do anything.”

“All I’m asking is for you to let me paint you.” His tongue flicked against me as he laughed. “But I’ll keep that in mind.” Warmth spread from his mouth to the rest of my body as my hips began to rock. When he stopped licking me, I whimpered in protest. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” he said. “I paint nudes, remember?”

His hands gripped the camisole I was wearing and started lifting it as he rose to his feet, his hard body sliding up mine.

“Wait…” I clamped my arms down on my sides, and he paused, quirked an eyebrow in silent question. “The scar…” I shook my head, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just…I’m…”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, dropping the shirt and cupping my face in his hands. “The scar doesn’t change that. No amount of scarring would.” He pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, making me melt into him again. He reached for the hem of my shirt. “Let me paint you. Let me show you how incredible you are.”

Searching his eyes, I found only love and truth reflecting back at me. Well, love, truth, and
lust
. They burned equally bright.

“Okay.” I nodded and he lifted the shirt over my head, threw it to the floor. His hands skimmed my sides, his fingers barely tickling the shiny red skin marring my beautiful tattoo.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked. I shook my head as he leaned down to press his lips against it, and the heat of his kiss shivered through me. His eyes met mine. “Once it’s totally healed, I can cover it, fill in the tattoo, if you want.”

“I do,” I said. “I want my phoenix to be whole again. I want to be whole.”

“You already are.” Dare’s lips grazed my hip, his tongue following the lines of the tattoo as they swooped and swerved up my ribs. Then his hands cupped my breasts as his lips found my nipple. My head fell back, and I arched into him. His thumb teased my other nipple as he sucked the sensitive flesh, spreading tingles all the way down to my center.

He lifted his head and I opened my eyes to find him gazing at me.

“I want to paint you just like this,” he said, his fingers caressing my face. “Overflowing with love and radiating lust.” He pulled me against him, the hardness in his jeans rubbing me just right. “You are my best work, Ree. You always have been and always will be.”

He burned a path of kisses across my chest and down the center of my stomach before heading south as he knelt in front of me again.

His hands slid up my legs and grasped my hips. And then his warm, wet mouth took me in, covering my ache with kisses as he licked me over and over again. My thighs opened on instinct and my hips rocked with him. Moans floated past my lips as I wove my fingers into his dark waves.

And when his lips closed around my throbbing clit, I lost the ability to do anything but feel. Feel him everywhere. Tingling spread from my core up into my abdomen and chest, then all the way out to my fingers and toes. My whole body electrified under his touch as his tongue undulated against me, his lips sucking, sucking, sucking, the intensity building until I was calling out his name over and over again as the waves rocked through me.

As the spasms ebbed, I tightened my grip on his hair and pulled him up. When his lips were level with mine, I took them, bruising them with the fervor of my love.

His fire matched mine, kiss for kiss, flame for flame.

“How do you do that to me?” I whispered against his mouth. “How do you burn me up and rebuild me every single time?”

“You’re my phoenix,” he said, his lips smoldering my skin. “And I’m yours. Two parts. One whole. Never forget that.”

twelve