bud in her mouth seemed to be savouring, and his hips moved slowly, steadily, so that with each long stroke he seemed to touch another part of her. The gentle rocking built up until she closed her eyes, until her tongue stopped dancing against his, and all she knew was the heat building, spreading inside her, and she came in a gentle ripple of want that made tears prick at the back of her eyes.
‘And what would you like to do next, Miss Tring?’ He pulled her gently to her feet and tugged the zip of her jumpsuit back up, right to the top.
‘Paint.’
Chapter Six
Something about that day freefalling with Tom had triggered a need in her to paint, to prove to herself that she could do it. Even if he was there in the background, even if bit by bit every hard block of resolve was melting away and being replaced with need and want and something she really didn’t want to put a name to.
The large paintings for his office reception area had taken on a life of their own; all she had to do was imagine, feel, and the colour and form flowed on to the canvas.
Each morning he supplied her with croissants and coffee before heading off to his office, and each evening he’d be there with beer or wine and a wicked, sexy smile that short circuited every bit of common sense. A smile that made something deep inside her clench tighter, and made the battle to get the picture for his office done that much more like fighting heat with fire.
She’d get up in the night and pad barefoot up to her study to rework lines, screwing her eyes shut to try and block out every facet of his face, even though she’d just left him in her bed and the heat of his body still warmed her. Trying to stop the images that crowded her head from leaking on to the canvas and make it all go wrong. And he didn’t comment or ask when she was wound up and scratchy, he just pulled her close, wrapping her in a cocoon of two. Which made it worse and better all at once. But now she had to stop. Share.
‘So what do you think?’ She’d dragged him straight up to the studio, too twitchy to wait, and now he stood in front of the canvases. With maddening deliberation he tugged his tie loose and undid his top button. She could scream, but it probably wouldn’t help.
‘Those are …’ His gaze never left the pictures as he dropped his jacket onto the chair. ‘They’re spot on, brilliant.’ He grinned and sent a tingle straight down her spine. ‘Very clever.’
‘You think they’re OK?’
‘I love them.’ He somehow got a step closer and slipped his arm round her waist, hitting the spot that never failed to send a shiver of want though her. ‘And I think I …’
He was too close, looking at her too intently. ‘They’re not quite finished yet, I just wanted to give you an idea.’ She was babbling, but sometimes babbling was good. Sometimes it stopped things you didn’t want to hear.
‘You are giving me ideas.’
The panic subsided. ‘Rude ones, I bet?’
‘Rude and very crude.’ He turned back to the pictures and a whoosh of relief escaped from her lungs. ‘I do really like them; they’re kind of fresh and new, but not too much in your face, if you know what I mean.’ Relief mixed with emptiness, like she’d turned off the radio before the song had finished.
‘I know. That’s what I wanted, new but almost traditional. A twist so that you’d start to walk past them and then suddenly realise they were different and you might go back for a second look. I’ll finish them properly next week. And this –’ She hesitated, as doubt grabbed at her gut. She’d known those pictures were good, she’d known he’d like them, they captured every emotion, every feeling she’d wanted them to. But this was different, this was the one she’d fought with and still wasn’t sure if she’d won or lost. The personal touch. ‘This is the one for your office.’
It was hard to flip the cover from the canvas that she had a love/hate relationship with,
‘And what would you like to do next, Miss Tring?’ He pulled her gently to her feet and tugged the zip of her jumpsuit back up, right to the top.
‘Paint.’
Chapter Six
Something about that day freefalling with Tom had triggered a need in her to paint, to prove to herself that she could do it. Even if he was there in the background, even if bit by bit every hard block of resolve was melting away and being replaced with need and want and something she really didn’t want to put a name to.
The large paintings for his office reception area had taken on a life of their own; all she had to do was imagine, feel, and the colour and form flowed on to the canvas.
Each morning he supplied her with croissants and coffee before heading off to his office, and each evening he’d be there with beer or wine and a wicked, sexy smile that short circuited every bit of common sense. A smile that made something deep inside her clench tighter, and made the battle to get the picture for his office done that much more like fighting heat with fire.
She’d get up in the night and pad barefoot up to her study to rework lines, screwing her eyes shut to try and block out every facet of his face, even though she’d just left him in her bed and the heat of his body still warmed her. Trying to stop the images that crowded her head from leaking on to the canvas and make it all go wrong. And he didn’t comment or ask when she was wound up and scratchy, he just pulled her close, wrapping her in a cocoon of two. Which made it worse and better all at once. But now she had to stop. Share.
‘So what do you think?’ She’d dragged him straight up to the studio, too twitchy to wait, and now he stood in front of the canvases. With maddening deliberation he tugged his tie loose and undid his top button. She could scream, but it probably wouldn’t help.
‘Those are …’ His gaze never left the pictures as he dropped his jacket onto the chair. ‘They’re spot on, brilliant.’ He grinned and sent a tingle straight down her spine. ‘Very clever.’
‘You think they’re OK?’
‘I love them.’ He somehow got a step closer and slipped his arm round her waist, hitting the spot that never failed to send a shiver of want though her. ‘And I think I …’
He was too close, looking at her too intently. ‘They’re not quite finished yet, I just wanted to give you an idea.’ She was babbling, but sometimes babbling was good. Sometimes it stopped things you didn’t want to hear.
‘You are giving me ideas.’
The panic subsided. ‘Rude ones, I bet?’
‘Rude and very crude.’ He turned back to the pictures and a whoosh of relief escaped from her lungs. ‘I do really like them; they’re kind of fresh and new, but not too much in your face, if you know what I mean.’ Relief mixed with emptiness, like she’d turned off the radio before the song had finished.
‘I know. That’s what I wanted, new but almost traditional. A twist so that you’d start to walk past them and then suddenly realise they were different and you might go back for a second look. I’ll finish them properly next week. And this –’ She hesitated, as doubt grabbed at her gut. She’d known those pictures were good, she’d known he’d like them, they captured every emotion, every feeling she’d wanted them to. But this was different, this was the one she’d fought with and still wasn’t sure if she’d won or lost. The personal touch. ‘This is the one for your office.’
It was hard to flip the cover from the canvas that she had a love/hate relationship with,
Similar Books
