The Collector
Page 94

“Okay, got me.”
Yes, she thought, she did. “Even in that mode of travel I’m like jersey.” She pulled out the band she’d used to tie back her hair, tossed it on the long, smooth counter.
“You’re like Jersey.”
“The fabric, not the state. I’m easy care and travel well.” Testing, she opened the shampoo in a basket on the counter, sniffed. Approved. With another glance at him, she smiled, peeled out of her shirt, her pants, the lacy tank she’d worn in lieu of a bra. “And I can take a lot of handling before I show any wear.”
She gathered the shampoo, the shower gel, strolled to the shower. “Silk’s gorgeous, but jersey holds up better.”
She turned on the shower, stepped inside. Left the door open. “I did mean long, and hot, by the way.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
He watched her as he undressed, the way she lifted her face to the spray, let the water run down her hair until it was sleek as a seal.
When he stepped in behind her, she turned, linked her hands behind his neck. “This is the third place I’ve had sex with you here.”
“Was I in a coma?”
“It was in my mind, but it was excellent.”
“Where were the other two?”
“Trust me.” She rose on her toes to meet his mouth. “You’ll find out.”
He caught the scent of peaches as she skimmed her hand over his cheek, as she pressed her body, already wet and warm, to his.
He thought of the gypsy, daring a man to take her, and the faerie queen, lazily waking after taking one for herself.
He thought of her, so open, so fresh—with little secret pockets holding so much more than she revealed.
Steam rose; water pulsed. And her hands roamed over him in challenge and invitation.
The wanting of her was a constant hum in his blood. It built now with the feel of her against him, thickened like the steam with them alone in the wet and the heat.
He lifted her another inch, held her like a dancer en pointe, ravishing her mouth, her throat, until she fisted a hand in his hair for balance. She’d loosed something in him, she could feel it in the violent thud of his heart, in the rough race of his hands on her body.
Thrilled by it, she fell into the wild with him.
Taking, just taking, all greed and lust and insatiable hunger for flesh. The feel of it under groping hands, the taste of it along seeking tongues. With a breathless impatience, he gripped her hips, lifted her yet another inch.
And plunged into her, so fierce and desperate she cried out in shock as much as triumph.
To be wanted like this—unreasonably—and to want in return was more than she’d ever imagined knowing. She clung to him, her breath sobbing out against the sharp slap of flesh striking wet flesh.
She took him in, surrounded him, possessed as she allowed herself to be possessed.
And finally, when pleasure screamed through her, blood and bone, surrendered all.
She clung to him, would have slithered down in a liquid pool to the shower floor without his body bracing hers.
She’d lost her grip on where they were, could barely remember who they were, so just hung on with the mad gallop of her own heart thundering in her ears.
He’d have carried her into bed if he’d had the strength. Instead he held on as she did, drenched by the spray. Saturated with her.
When he had his breath back, he rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Hot enough?”
“Definitely.”
“Not especially long.”
“Sometimes you’re just in a hurry.”
“And sometimes you’re not.” He eased back, opened the shampoo.
He watched her face as he poured shampoo into his hand, as he slicked his hands over her hair, combed his fingers through it. Then he turned her, gathered her hair up, dug his fingers into her scalp.
A new thrill shivered along her skin. “God. You could make a living.”
“Everyone needs a fallback.”
This time, it was long.
He woke in the quiet dark, reached for her. A habit now, he realized, even as he did so. And rolled over, unsatisfied when he didn’t find her.
He checked the time, saw it was well into the morning. He’d have been happy to stay just where he was—if she’d been there—slip into sleep, or that half-state with her.
But alone, he rose, opened the curtains and let the Italian sun beam over him.
He’d painted scenes much like this—the shapes, sunbaked colors, the textures. Beautiful, but too typical for the canvas—for his canvas.
But add a woman on a winged horse, hair flying, sword raised, it changed things. An army of women—leather and glinting armor—flying above the ancient city. Where did they go to wage the battle?
He might create it, and find out.
He walked out of the bedroom, found the large parlor as empty as the bed. But he caught the scent of coffee and, following it, found Lila in the smaller second bedroom, sitting at her laptop at a small, curved-leg desk.
“Working?”
She jumped like a rabbit, laughed. “God! Make some noise next time, or call the paramedics. Good morning.”
“Okay. Is that coffee?”
“I ordered some up—I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay.”
“It’s probably not really hot. I’ve been up awhile.”
“Why?”
“Body clock, I guess. Then I looked out the window and I was done. Who can sleep with all this? Well, apparently Luke and Julie, as I haven’t heard a peep out of them.”
He drank some coffee—she was right, hot it wasn’t. But for now it would do.
“It was nice going out last night,” she said. “Walking around, eating pasta, having a last glass of wine together on the terrace. They’re so great together.”
He grunted—thought of what he had in the vault. “Are you interested in breakfast or do you need to work awhile? I’m going to order more coffee anyway.”
“I could eat. I’m done working for now. I finished the book.”
“What? Finished? That’s great.”
“I shouldn’t say ‘finished’ because I still need to go through and polish, but essentially finished. I finished my book in Florence. I finished my first in Cincinnati. It doesn’t have quite the same cachet.”
“We should celebrate.”