The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (22 page)

“Chandler…”

“Shh.”  He placed his hands on either cheek, pulled her mouth to his.  His kisses were gentle, tender, each one filled with a silent plea for her love, her touch.  He scooped her beneath him, pressed her body into the couch.  He went hard as steel, not just in his groin but everywhere.  He was tense, pulled tighter than a fresh piece of barbed wire.  He ripped open the shirt, not giving a damn that he’d just destroyed the buttons, and ran his hands along her breasts and stomach.

His body felt like it was carved from granite, a solid surface that surprisingly yielded to the touch of her fingertips.  She unfastened his jeans and he squirmed out of them, barely coming up for air in the process.  His mouth seemed mag
netized to hers, his lips pressing against hers so firmly that it literally hurt—hurt in every vein, every synapse, low in her stomach.  She craved him like he was made of sugar, like he was the last meal she’d ever consume in her life.  He accidentally bit her lower lip and she cried out.

“Sorry,” he whispered in a ragged breath.

“That’s okay,” she crooned.  “It’s been a while for me.”

He rested his forehead atop hers, reluctantly admitting, “For me, too.” 

He freed her, at last, of the shirt, and teased her gently with his fingers, each touch sizzling between her thighs.  He entered gently, trembling as he lowered to her depths.  Her limbs went limp and she clawed at his back, drawing satisfied pangs of joy from him.  They worked into a rhythm, seeming to know just what the other needed, how they wanted to be held and touched.  Every muscle of his body appeared to move in unison, thrusting into her, pulling her tighter to him, to his mouth, to the flat plane of his chest.  She melded to him, flicked her tongue against his, felt the cling of sweat, the wonderful beading of water across his body, falling slowly onto hers.

They came together, the climax unspooling, ripping them down the middle, causing them to crash
relentlessly until it eventually subsided.  The sensation of falling was temporary.  When his thumb slid against her nipple she found the safety of him once again, his huge frame resting atop her so easily that they could have been lock and key.  Her hands gripped his shoulders and he shuddered like a frightened horse.  He kissed her again and again, until neither of them could breathe.  When it seemed like they would die of suffocation, he rolled to his side, held her facing him, separating their bodies just enough to run a hand between them.  He flatted his fingers on her stomach, felt it rise and fall. He’d done all of that—made her react, made her cry out in pleasure.  And in return she’d given him the best orgasm of his life, the cells in his brain slamming together as they tried to comprehend it.  Just the sweep of her eyes across his face was enough to arouse him with renewed vigor.  But the rest of his body was replete, and her face was sated.  He watched her eyes fall closed, his own mirroring them as he followed her into the dreamlike haze, the slow-burning afterglow.

*** 

Taylor felt a chill against her bare shoulder as the light of morning compelled her eyelids to open.  A flash of remembrance swept over her, brought back to the forefront of her mind the reason she was unclothed, and provided a happy explanation for the whisker burns on her chin.  She adjusted the blanket over her, careful not to wake Chandler.  Though waking him up before had been more than worth the risk.  She stared at the walls, their white paint hued with grey where no shards of light tumbled.  The curtains made it seem darker, more intimate, but there was no mistaking what had gone on undercover of night.  She was glad it’d happened, and couldn’t help but hope he’d share the same lack of regret.

She snuggled further un
der the blanket.  The couch felt huge, but then she realized it had to be in order to accommodate the six-and-a-half-foot man dozing in front of her.  His tanned face, coated lightly with golden stubble, carried a placid expression.  She found herself wondering what he dreamed, and whether she played a part in his private bliss.  He looked glorious in the bright of day, the hard lines of his chest visible in the shadows.  She wanted to reach out and run her hands over him again, watch herself explore his torso.  She’d made do last night, imagining it in her mind while her body yielded to his.  Heat stirred within her, enough to make her rethink her plan to be quiet.

“Chandler?”  His head was burrowed into the pillow, so deep that she saw one blue eye pop ope
n, and his mouth draw into a slaked half-smile. 

“I was afraid I was having the world’s best dream,” he muttered from the corner of his grin.  “Thank God you’re still here.”
  He lifted his head until both eyes stared at her tenderly, then pulled her against him, plunging inside without preamble.  She arched her body into him, close enough to his hips to be another layer of skin.  He felt her tremble, was startled at her movements.  “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” she replied honestly.  She placed her lips to hi
s chin.  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you last night.”

He chuckled in agreement.  “Same here. 
I guess it’s a cliché but we wore each other out.”

Taylor placed her lips to the corner of his mouth.  “Only one way to rectify the situation.”

His lips nudged hers apart.  “You read my mind, sweetheart.”

His hips rocked into hers, pushing against her body, pulling her closer to him, feeling the heat when she met him thrust for thrust. 
She grasped his shoulders, then his back, her soft moans ending as torrid breaths against his face.  He forced his eyes open, watching her as she accepted all of him, her face forming a mask of desire.  He lost the ability to reason, to think clearly, and his eyes shut tightly as he spilled into her.  She wracked against him as a broken gasp escaped his mouth, the world turning in slow motion with each climactic aftershock.  He held her close to him, letting the final ounces of pleasure fall to earth like stardust.  He struggled to breathe, kissed both of her eyes to make sure they were still alive.  A slick of sweat ran down his chest, creating a strange sensation amidst the heat.  His eyes found hers, and she made no move to pull away from him. 

She stroked the sides of his face, let her hands drop to his collarbone and chest.
She grazed his nipples slightly, enough commotion to send a bolt of lightning straight between his hips.  The edge of her thumb finally lingered against the interior of his arm.  “You still have this birthmark.”

He laughed
, glancing toward the wisp of a spot on his left bicep.  “I’m still me, honey.  Did you think I wasn’t?”

Her eyes teased him
.  “It’s good to remember, to know I’m not wrong about you.”  His body was harder and leaner with the passage of time, and still felt great atop hers—that definitely hadn’t changed.

Chandler let out a sharp breath from the corner of his mouth.  “Sorry I ripped that shirt off you last night…or this morning.  I must’
ve appeared overeager.”

She maneuvered enough to view the faint red lines on his shoulder blades.  “Sorry
about what I did to your back,” she countered.

“Battle scars,” he joked.  “I enjoyed every last second of it.”  Their lips met softly.  “And I ruined my own shirt in the deal.  It was worth it to be with you again.”

Her fingers trailed through the fine hair at the base of his stomach.  “So…”

“So…” he repeated warmly.  “You’ve got me prone and vulnerable.  Ask me anything.”

Her green eyes studied his face, looking for the edges of reluctance or hesitancy and not finding them anywhere.  “Are we…together?”

He
kissed her on the tip of her nose.  “Call me old-fashioned but I don’t want just casual encounters with you.  We made love and I’d like you to commit to us.”  He groaned.  “That came out all wrong, T.”  He cleared his throat but felt it go raw again immediately.  “I love you,” he said hoarsely.

“I love you, too.”  She nestled against his chest.  “And after only one date.”  His ribs vibrated with laughter.

“Two dates, counting last night,” he contended, “and a lot of history.”

“Good and bad?”

“Uh-huh.  Same as any other couple.”
“How long do you think we can lie here like this?”

“With all of the wine we had last night?” he said roughly.  “I’d imagine not much longer.”

She frowned in acknowledgement.  “I’ve gotta head home eventually.  Mom will be missing me.”

“Did you call her last night?”

“I did, but still…”

“I understand.  Believe me, I do.”  He kissed her ardently, then
slid off the couch and into his jeans.  He stretched and ambled toward the window.  Peeking through the blinds, a reflection of sunlight stung his eyes.  “Hell,” he said, “we got an inch or two of snow last night.”  He made a quick circuit of the apartment, gazing out the front window now.  “They’ve plowed the road.  You should be able to get home okay.”   

Taylor wrapped the blanket around herself, feeling foolish at doing so but enjoying the warmth.  “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

He wrapped her up in those strong arms and smiled.  “Sure thing.”  He kissed her on the forehead.  “I’ll make breakfast.”

“Good.”  She placed a kiss against his bare chest, the muscles warm and loose beneath the skin.  “I’ve worked up an appetite.”

He watched her disappear into his bedroom, did a double take, and smiled to himself. “Hot damn, cowboy—how’d you get this lucky twice in one lifetime?”

***

After breakfast he finished dressing, pulled on his snow boots, and went downstairs to clean off her car.  Inside the office, his back pressed to the wall, he held her loosely against his waist.  He stared into her eyes, happiness washing through him.  He leaned down to kiss her.  One hand brushed against his bristled cheek, and the other tugged on his untucked shirt tail.  He was vaguely exhausted, but more plaintive about having to let her go.  And he noted that her eyes reflected his wistfulness, and he pressed his lips softly to hers once more before speaking.

“You okay?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yeah,” she said with a nod.  “It just feels strange, you know?”

“Unexpected.”

“Exactly.”  She exhaled against his chest.  “I don’t want you to think I’m having second thoughts.”

He massaged her back gently.  “I don’t.”

She glanced up and into those penetrating blue eyes.  “I never expected to make love to another man aside from Liam.  Does that make any sense?”

He nodded swiftly in response, unsure of the appropriate re
ply but turning the wheels in his head in search of it.  “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”  And then he frowned at his platitude, but Taylor simply smiled.

“That was exactly what I needed to her,” she replied.  “See you Monday?”

He chuckled.  “I’ll be here.”   She flattened her hands along his chest, against the soft flannel, and pushed their lips together.  “Bye,” he said, watching her go.

Afterward he went back to his apartment, set up his easel, dug out a canvas and paints and rendered the previous evening’s sunset from memory—no studies, sketches, or outlines. It was burned onto the surface of hi
s brain as sure as anything ever had been.  He pulled out a smaller canvas and did something a little more abstract.  Those things were easy.  The hardest was still to come, when he realized he hadn’t showered in more than a day.  He slipped into the bathroom, out of his clothes, and reluctantly washed away the scent of her, lingering like a memento on his skin. 

***

Taylor missed his warmth as soon as she was in her car, headed home.  As much as she would’ve liked to spend the entire day in his arms, she fretted over her mother, worried about leaving her alone.  Maybe it was supposed to be that way.  Maybe she was meant to care for her mother, the roles reversed now.  Only that arrangement didn’t seem to fit either of them.

“Mom?”

Alice didn’t spare her daughter a glance, but did smile warmly as she entered the living room.  “Hi, sweetie.  Did you get home okay?”

“Yes, they’d plowed the main road this morning.”  She gave her mother a peck on the cheek.  “And Chandler cleaned off my car.”

“Hmm.  I was actually hoping you’d spend the entire weekend there.”  She glanced up at her daughter with a knowing smile.  “Did you get any sleep at all?”

Taylor feigned shock as she dropped into the chair closest to Alice.  “One, I didn’t have a change of clothes, and two,
aren’t you supposed to be setting a better example for me?”

“You’re old enough,” she replied with a laugh bubbling under the surface, “to have a few drinks and spend the night with your boss.”

Taylor eyed her with heavy sarcasm.  “I really did have too much to drink, Mom.  And I slept it off in his room while he sacked out on the couch.”  Alice’s eyes remained fixed on her knitting, but she took in every word.  “Nothing happened until I was sober.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“What a completely inappropriate question.  And the answer is yes.”  She gave a faint sigh—yeah, definitely not a role reversal.  She and her mother were more like roommates, even girlfriends now.  “Did anything interesting happen while I was out?”

“Penelope called.”

“Your friend from church?”