Then, of course, there was her undeniable attraction to Beck. As many lovers as he'd had, as much experience as he'd garnered throughout the years, he could detect a woman's desire for him even if he were blindfolded. Every time Harlow looked his way, her electric blues projected longing hot enough to make him think total-body third-degree wounds would be fun. And when he neared her, her breathing altered. When he touched her, goose bumps broke out over her skin. When he'd talked about posing nude for her, her expression had gone slumberous, as if they were already in bed together.
She wanted him the way he wanted her. And despite all her talk of relationships, she would settle for what he could give her--a night of passion so hot they'd forget their own names. Temptation demanded its due.
She opened the door, wearing a tank and a pair of shorts, and smiled nervously in welcome. "Right on time."
His skin burned for contact, but he kept his arms at his sides. "Always."
"Except for the times you're late, right?" As she stepped back, he prowled inside and handed her the dish of food he'd brought.
Her eyes widened with delight. "I smell bacon."
"I had Brook Lynn make you some kind of stuffed peppers with your drug of choice."
"Seriously?"
At his nod, she ripped the foil off the dish and squealed with delight.
"It's not bacon and marshmallow, I know, but she ran out of marsh--"
"It's perfect!" She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around him. "Thank you, Beck. Thank you so much."
The softness of her body conformed to the hard, masculine planes of his. She was curvier now that she'd been eating properly, and he liked it. A lot. Her strawberry scent overshadowed the smell of the peppers and bacon, fogging his brain, and her warmth stroked over him, heating him, reminding him of the first rays of sunlight after a long, harsh winter. He held her tighter than he'd intended, anticipation building inside him, the burning only growing worse--and better.
The urge to pick her up and set her on the kitchen counter nearly overwhelmed him. One button on those shorts. Probably one hundred and fifteen teeth in that zipper. A tug of his wrist would leave her in a pair of panties. One strip of cloth separating his fingers...his mouth...from her sweet spot.
Not yet. He forced himself to release her. He'd thought about this, about her reclusiveness and the hatred of the townsfolk, and he doubted she'd been on a date since high school. He wasn't sure how far she had gone back then, only knew boys her age wouldn't have known their way around an orgasm with a map and a flashlight. He had to take this one step at a time.
Still smiling, glowing so brightly she made his chest ache, she skipped to the kitchen table. Did she have any idea how much he wanted her?
Earlier, the perpetually sweet Kimberly had finally revealed a pair of claws--for a bacon sandwich. Harlow, who had seemed to covet the item more than lottery winnings, had graciously relinquished her claim. The girl who had spent the past however many months starving had willingly given food to the one who had never known lack. It was that second, that moment, that slice of life, that Beck's icy facade had melted.
After that, there'd been no denying the truth. No holding back, his reserve nothing but a crumbled heap. He wanted Harlow, and so he would have her. No matter the consequences.
"Aren't you hungry?" Harlow asked, offering one of the peppers.
"Starving," he said, his voice low, nothing but gravel. At the table, he claimed the seat next to hers, making sure their shoulders and thighs brushed together.
He heard a hitch in her breath, saw a scatter of goose bumps on her arms--felt yet another fire ignite in his veins. In unison, they turned their attention to the food. Probably for different reasons. They ate in silence, the air between them still crackling with ever-sharpening tension. She'd missed so many of his cues today, but this closeness...this she couldn't deny.
Her hand trembled as she took a drink of water. She licked a drop from her bottom lip, and he hardened painfully, imagining the other things she could lick up with that little pink tongue.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, folding the edge of the sandwich's wrapper.
"Honestly? You're not ready for the answer." He tugged on the end of her hair. "Besides, I'd rather talk about the lies you told me when we first met."
Shame caused her shoulders to hunch in. "I'm sorry about that. But I promise you, I will never lie to you again, no matter how painful the truth is."
"Good. Prove it by telling me something about your past." When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, "Start with a favorite memory of the farmhouse." The need to learn more about her had yet to lessen.
"A favorite memory..." A faraway glaze appeared in her eyes as her mind drifted. "Christmas, about a year after my dad died. My mother and I decorated the entire house with ribbons and bows and afterward she baked pumpkin spice cookies. For the first time, we weren't afraid of anyone finding fault with our efforts."
"You were afraid before?" he asked gently. "With your father?"
Her nod was reluctant, but it was a response and it was progress.
"I know you mentioned he called you names. Did he ever hurt you physically?"
"He didn't have to. His words did enough damage."
Beck took her hand and twined their fingers. "Sometimes that's worse. Physical damage heals. Inner wounds can fester."
She held on tight, and the ache returned to his chest. But he was used to it now. It was almost like an old friend. "You were hurt, too," she said, a statement rather than a question.
Oh, no, she didn't. They weren't talking about him. "Haven't you heard?" He smiled as he released her and gripped his knees. "I'm Superlover. Stronger--and harder--than steel."
She rolled her eyes. "You're also deflecting."
"No, I'm stating facts. Now, what's your favorite food?"
"Bacon. Isn't everyone's?"
"Your favorite drink?
"Lemonade. What about you?" she asked. "Your favorite memory of the farmhouse, I mean. And don't try to flirt or tease your way out of answering. I'll kick you out of my RV."
"Harsh, Harlow. Harsh. But okay, fine. I enjoyed finding a blueberry pie thief in my hallway." When she pointed to the door, he said, "I mean it. You looked both scared and determined, like you were defenseless, but you would kill to protect the pilfered dessert."
"I would have," she said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. A smile he wanted to taste.
"Bunny," he said, reaching out to finger the hem of her shorts, the need to touch her born from his most primitive instincts. "Have you thought long and hard about what position you'd like me in for the painting?"
Color bloomed in her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat. "Yes. You should be bent over the couch, your bottom red from a recent spanking."
"In to pain and punishment, are you? Good to know. Grab the supplies I sent over, and we'll get started," he said--and while she sputtered for a response, he began unbuttoning his shirt.
*
ONCE AGAIN THERE was something different about Beck. Only, this change came from the opposite end of the spectrum, and it was making Harlow nervous. He was charming, more charming than usual, and he was clearly bent on seduction. Did she have the strength to resist?
"Wait," she said. "I've been thinking. I should paint you with your clothes on first. You know, to make you feel more comfortable."
"Trust me. I'm always comfortable naked."
I'll bet you are.
He popped open another button. His nimble fingers had already worked halfway down the shirt, and what she saw of his chest captivated her. Well-defined pecs with a dusting of black hair that was golden at the tips. Tanned, unmarred skin. An eight-pack capable of intoxicating her after a single glance. He was altogether flawless and utterly divine.
His past lovers were probably equally flawless. Look at Tawny. Kimberly, whom he hadn't slept with but had considered dating. And then there was Harlow. Up top, she was like a p
atchwork quilt. "Don't you want to make sure I can get your upper proportions right before you trust me down below?"
A wicked sparkle in eyes now tilted with languid desire. "Do you think I'll be too big for the canvas?"
Kill me. Kill me now. "Just leave your pants on!"
He shrugged out of his shirt, saying, "You're sure?"
Not even a little, but she forced herself to nod.
He gave a heavy sigh, as if he were doing her a huge favor. "Very well. The pants stay on. For now."
"Sit on the couch," she instructed, pulling the easel, paints and brushes from the cabinet. Earlier she'd given him a list of everything she would need, and she'd had to make a split-second decision about acrylic paint or oil-based. In the end she'd opted for oil-based. Acrylic dried too fast, even when mixed with a retarder, making the blending of colors more difficult.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings by being truthful about how wrong you are," he said, "but even I know the bed will make a more visually appealing background."
The bed. He reclined on it, lounging against the pillows.
Tremors plagued her as she set up shop. "You'll have to be still."
"I can do anything you need me to do, lover." His voice had gone low and husky again, stroking over her with the power of a caress. "All you have to do is tell me, and it's done."
Her hand trembled even harder as she picked up her brush. "You're not supposed to flirt with staff."
"It'll be our secret," he said. "You've done portrait work before."
She began to etch his silhouette. "Yes. My mother was my favorite subject."
"What happened to the canvases? Because there weren't any in the house when I moved in. I would have seen them."
Why not tell him? "I burned them." Watched them smolder to ash.
He frowned, suddenly as serious as a heart attack. "Why?"
"I didn't like how I felt when I looked at them."
"I thought your mother was kind to you."
"She was, but every time I spotted her image, I remembered I never became the woman she expected me to be. I remembered the years I kept her bound to the house, and I just... I guess I decided to finally set her free."
"You loved her. And she loved you," he said, his voice weighted with an emotion she guessed was envy.
"Yes. Very much." Tears welled in her eyes, the lines on the canvas blurring. She paused for a moment, calmed herself with a few deep breaths, and continued. "What about your parents?"
He remained silent. Of course. He could prod into her life, but she had no business poking into his.
"Biological? Foster?" she prompted.
More silence.
"You know," she said, not trying to hide her irritation, "you insist I tell you all kinds of stuff about me, but you shut down anytime I question you. It's really not fair. I'm not going to do anything with the information but know you better."
Another minute passed before he said, "My mom died when I was five. My dad pawned me off on relatives for a while, and after I'd worn out my welcome, good ole Dad relinquished his rights to me."
"Oh, baby. I'm so sorry." Wait. I called him baby? The embarrassing slip had come out so naturally it scared her.
Thankfully, Beck hadn't seemed to notice. He merely hiked up his shoulders and said, "It is what it is."
"No. I refuse to think that way. What happened clearly hurt you. What was shouldn't have been." He'd lost a parent, only to be rejected by the other one. Harlow couldn't imagine what she would have done if Momma had cast her away as soon as Dad was buried. "You deserved better."
Beck cleared his throat. "Artists work by inspiration," he said, steering the conversation in a different direction. "What's yours?"
She didn't protest the change, saying, "Pretty much everything."
"Tsk-tsk. Harlow told her first lie of the evening. I'll give you that one, but the next one will cost you."
"I didn't lie," she said, earnest. But...what will the next one cost me?
"If everything inspired you, you never would have stopped painting in the first place."
"I was too poor to buy the supplies."
"Poor or not, if you'd wanted to paint, you would have found a way."
He had a point. "Allow me to amend my statement." She traced her brush over the canvas, beginning to bring him to life with color. "Everything inspires me...when I'm feeling safe."
"Safe. Interesting word choice, considering you have a shirtless man in your bed."
As if I need the reminder. "Hmm," she muttered, unwilling to commit to an actual response. And for a heartbeat, maybe an eternity, she became utterly lost in her art... Lost in Beck. In his beauty and charisma. His carnality. It was there in his eyes, staring at her from the bed as well as the canvas. Soon she was panting as if running a brush through paint were somehow a physical workout. Her skin hot with fever, her limbs not just trembling but buzzing with electricity.
"You okay over there?" he asked. "You look a little flushed."
"I'm fine," she said, breathless. "Just fine."
"You lying again?"
"No."
"My Spidy senses tell me otherwise."
"You're Superlover, remember? You have X-ray vision, not overdeveloped senses. But what if I was lying? What would you do then?" The impish side of her had to know.
He shifted, resting at a higher incline, his legs open and bent at the knees, creating the perfect cradle for her. "Let me show you," he said and wagged a finger at her. "Come here."
Self-preservation forced her to reply, "No way."
"Come here," he insisted. "Please, Harlow."
Please...
Her limbs acted the traitor, moving without her brain's permission. She set down her brush and stepped out from behind the easel. When she was halfway across the room, she realized what was happening and stopped.
Suspicious, she asked, "What are you going to do to me?"
He smiled slowly. "Everything I've been dying to do."
Red alert! He clearly planned to give her a night of pleasure...only, true to form, he would end things in the morning.
"If you'd rather keep working, fine," he said. "Let my body be your canvas and your tongue the brush."
So blatant. Anger flared, a halogen lamp in the forest of her conflicted emotions. He really does want me. Me! But he will still discard me.
Would he fire her afterward?
Her nails dug into her palms. Was this the routine he used on every woman? Hook her with a little romance, line her up with a slight baring of his soul, then sink her by convincing her to touch him?
Bastard! He needed to be taught a lesson.
Welcome to Miss Glass's classroom.
"You know, Beckham," she said with a sunny smile, wishing she could think up a more original nickname--and maybe one that insulted rather than praised, "I can think of a few things I'd like you to do for me." As she finished the journey to his side, being sure to sway her hips, raw hunger gleamed in his eyes, the green flecks brighter than ever. It threw her, made her stumble.
This is a game to him... Of course it's just a game.
She sat at the edge of the bed and cupped his hand in hers. Tingles, heat. She ignored both.
He went still, the pulse in his neck quickening. She fought the urge to lean over and lick it--an urge she'd never before entertained. In high school, the hickey had been something of a specialty for her, but it had never been about passion. She'd simply marked the guys as her property.
"Your hands are placed awkwardly," she said, getting back to business. "This is what you should always do with them." She folded one of his fingers, then another, another and another, leaving only one. The middle one. "Yes, that's right. I want you to go screw yourself!"
His gaze jerked up to hers and narrowed.
"I know what you're doing," she said. "You're lining me up to be your next one-and-done, and I won't stand for it."
"Now, now, dumpling. You're hurting my feelings."
"As if you actually have any feelings!" She slapped at his chest. "But guess what? I do. And you want to know what isn't nice? Using a girl for sex and ignoring her afterward!"
When she drew back her elbow to deliver another strike, he caught her wrist. He didn't grin, he didn't smirk, just flashed raw desire at her. "You want the sex, too. Admit it."
At least he'd dropped the pretense. "I admit to nothing."
"Back to that, are we?" He tugged her forward, at the same time swinging her around. She hit the mattress and bounced, Beck moving over her. "First, I wouldn't ignore you afterward. We'd remain friendly. Second, if I took these fingers," he said, waving them in her face, "even the one you seemed to favor, and tunneled them under your shorts...your panties...I'd find you wet. Wouldn't I."
The bastard didn't even pose it as a question.
"No!" You'd find me soaking. "Don't you dare do it. I... I want someone else."
"West?" He shook his head, adamant. "I know that's what you think, baby, but you're wrong. You want me."
She'd figured out she didn't really want West, thank you, but she wasn't going to give Beck the satisfaction of admitting the truth aloud. Well, not the full truth, anyway.
"I want a dream man, and you're not him."
Far from angered, he said silkily, "Tell me about him, then," while tracing his knuckles over the curve of her cheek.
Fighting to gain control of her treacherous body, she lashed out. "For starters, he's interested in marriage, not a fling."
Beck laughed. Actually laughed. "And you think West is the marrying kind?"
"Why wouldn't I think so? He hasn't been banging his way through the female population."
Low blow. He flinched, his good humor gone in a blink. "You are not a Victorian maiden, Harlow. You don't have to get married to have sex."
"You're right. I don't have to, but I want to. Or at the very least, I want to know I'm on that path before I take such a big step. I want to be part of a family again."
The scowl he flashed was dark and lethal. "Have you practiced before marriage?"
"That's none of your business," she muttered.
"I'll take that to mean very little."
"Or a whole hell of a lot." Or not at all. Whatever.
"And you think you want your family to include West?" he said. "Fine. Come on, then. Let's get this over with so we can move on." He stood, pulled on his shirt and buttoned it halfway up his chest before yanking her to her feet. He held on tight as he tugged her toward the door.