The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (30 page)

Christina laughed
and patted him on the shoulder.  “I have a special request for you, if you’re up to it.”

“Name it,” he replied quickly.  “I’m all ears.”

She gave him a grateful smile.  “Your grandfather and I would like to donate something for the auction, the one benefitting our scholarship.”  John and Christina Collins had been involved, for many years now, in a scholarship fund for high school seniors.  It was a need-based grant that provided funding throughout four years of study.  The only requirement was an essay—students from all fields of study were considered.  “We were hoping you’d do a painting for us.”

“I’d be happy to, Grandma.  What’s the timeframe on this?”

“The auction will be held in early September.”

“That’s doable,” he replied.  “Subject matter?”

“Anything you’d like,” she answered.  “Maybe something hopeful, though.  Something that showcases the wonders of nature or life or simply something beautiful.  Maybe even all of the above, if you can swing it.”

He winked at her.  “I’m your man,” he teased.
  “I’ll get to work on it ASAP.”

“Thank you so much, sweetheart.”  He kissed her on the cheek and they said their goodbyes.  He hung the last painting and was making some notes at the front desk when Taylor arrived.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized.  “I fixed breakfast and cleaned up afterward, and I lost track of time.”

He pulled her into his arms, placed his lips atop the pulse in her neck.  “I told you come in late, remember?”  His mouth moved to hers.  “I’ve been plenty busy this morning.”

She stared at him, tracing the sharp line of his cheek and jaw with her eyes.  “Good.  I’d hate to think you were alone.  This place looks different, by the way.”

“I rearranged some things,” he explained.  “Keeps the customers on their toes.”

“And me, for that matter,” she teased.

“Don’t want you on your toes,” he replied, a twinkle in his eyes.  “Unless we’re in the shower.”

She ran her thumb along his eyebrow.  “Brute.”   Then she laughed heartily at what he’d said.  He was the kindest person she’d ever known, and she silently willed him to always look at her with such adoration, such want and need.  Was she foolish to want a lifetime of this?

“Have I told you today how beautiful you are?”  His finger lifted her chin upward.

“Not today, cowboy.”

“You’re be
autiful.”  His lips met hers.

No,
she thought. 
Not foolish at all.

***

Taylor pulled off her sunglasses and laid them aside.  She closed her eyes and felt the sun’s warmth seep through the lids, filling her with a contentment and peace.  Yards away, Chandler was swimming like a seal in the ranch’s secluded swimming hole, shrouded on every side by stands of trees.  She heard him turn over and splash in the water, liquid sluicing off him like he was a duck.  It wasn’t fair, she thought amusedly, for a man to have been born with a talent for art and swimming.  There was no pool on the ranch—if a person wanted to swim, this was their only option.

She heard him emerge from the water and grab a towel to dry off.  She opened her eyes long enough to see his own make a swee
p of her body, the towel slung over his shoulders.

“You look damned good,” he drawled.  “Might I interest you in a swim?”

She shot him a rueful glance.  “Maybe later.  I still can’t believe you got me in a bathing suit.”  His wet fingers grazed her bare stomach.  “A two-piece, at that.”

He smiled without parting his lips.  “The human body is nothing to be ashamed of.  Especially for you, sweetheart.”

She stared at the well-defined contours of his arms.  “I’ve hardly had time to get fat since we’ve been dating.  Being your girlfriend is quite the workout.”

His hand found her inner thigh.  “Horseback riding is great for the calf muscles,” he said from the corner of his mouth.  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, I’d agree,” she replied.  “Especially once the soreness stops.”

Chandler rolled over onto his stomach and stared in her eyes.  “I massaged them.”  His hand trailed up her chest, brushing the bottom of her breast through the fabric.  “And then some.”

She lifted her eyebrows.  “Why is it I think you had more than swimming on your mind when you brought me out here today?”

“Did I?”  His fingers slipped under the fabric, against the peak of her breast.  “I just wanted to work on my tan.”  He kissed the corner of her mouth.  “Everyone is off the ranch today except for
the hands, and they’re miles away.”

Chandler was the only man she’d ever made love to alfresco, and if he wanted to repeat the experience, she was game.  With his short,
wet hair and beads of water dripping down his neck, somehow she found him more enticing than usual.  Or maybe it was the heat.  For early June weather, this was pretty nice.

She pulled his face to her
mouth and he rolled atop her, his wet skin clinging to hers.  His kisses were tender and skillful as he made achingly slow work of her top, unfastening the catch and sliding it over her shoulders.  He left a trail of wetness, his mouth gliding over her chin, neck, and collarbone.  He kissed her along the sternum, making small movements with his lips.  Her skin tasted of heat and fresh air, the sun casting shadows of tree branches and their leaves on her, strange silhouettes forming on her face and body.  He took the hard peak of one breast in his mouth, exciting it with his lips and teeth before moving to the next one and repeating the exquisite torture.  He could feel her body twist beneath him, his fingers chasing gooseflesh over his skin as she slid them through his golden hair.

He pushed off the rest of her bathing suit, admiring her naked form with his eyes and hands.  The heel of his palm slid between her legs; she arched her body in pleasant surprise.  His fingers slid into her slowly, his thumb rubbing and stroking. 
She moved her hips upward against his hand instinctually, powerless to stop what was unfurling between them.  He clamped his lips passionately over hers, gathering her soft whimpers inside his own mouth.  He had only meant to tease her, an enticement before the show, but the orgasm unspooled before either of them had time to react.  She gripped his back, trembling with release, and went limp and replete beneath him.  He held himself above her but she could hear his labored breathing alongside her face.

“Chandler…”

“I know,” he whispered.  He struggled out of his trunks until he was naked above her.  She opened to accommodate him and he slid into her with one powerful thrust.  He burned inside her, atop her, all around her like hot iron, the hard heat ready to melt and reform something else in her grasp.  She could feel him sliding deeper into her with each thrust, his hips in concert with hers, their bodies molding together with each passing moment.  She moaned her pleasure, not giving a damn who or what might have been nearby.  Time stood still, his heavy breathing the only other sound in the world, until the madness stopped, his body shuddering with release.

He felt her second climax, her body breaking along with his into a thousand beautiful pieces.  He shut his ey
es so tight they hurt, water seeping from beneath the lids as he gasped his release.  He struggled to clear his vision, found her face.  He pulsed inside her, felt her hum against him, the aftershocks like volts of electrically-charged ecstasy.  Were they still alive?  His body felt like it had liquefied.  Maybe that was just the warmth between them, pooled at their hips, radiating outward across her breasts and his limbs.  When his thumb flicked her nipple, sensation washed through each of them again.  The sun’s warmth on his bare flesh was nothing compared to the heat her touch was sending through his veins at that moment.  When he withdrew from her, he felt her fingers slide downward, over his stomach, between his hips.  The world spun upside down, the ground suddenly above him and the sky beneath, with Taylor the only thing to keep him from falling headlong into nothingness.  The only way to right it again, he knew, would be an entire afternoon of this—or maybe a lifetime.   

***

Taylor awoke slowly, saw the curtains blowing in the open windows.  She was in Chandler’s bedroom, at his house, and it was Sunday.  She’d lost track of time—yesterday had been spent wearing very little clothing, sunning and doing other, more pleasurable activities, at the swimming hole.  Afterward, when they became aware either of the creeping darkness or their own hunger, they’d driven back to his house.  Sometime following dinner he’d chased her up the curved staircase and undressed her by moonlight.  The evening turned hazy after that, and she had no clue when either of them had finally gotten to sleep.  She gaze the room a cursory glance—aside from the bed and a nightstand, there was no furniture.  There was also no Chandler.  Her clothes were God knows where, but she saw his shirt lying in the corner.  She sat upright—where the hell were his jeans?  Her jeans?  She climbed from the bed, buttoned his shirt across her chest, and checked the bathroom.  No one there.  Still no sign of their clothes.

Wearing his shirt and nothin
g else, she stepped out into the upstairs hall, found the French doors thrown open.  He was seated on the balcony, barefoot and hatless, wearing nothing but his jeans.  She watched the muscles of his back alter and flex as he worked at his easel, his right hand securely wielding a paintbrush while his left held the palette.  She didn’t need to see his eyes to know how deep in concentration he was. And she feared speaking, didn’t want to distract him.

“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart,” he said, startli
ng her.  “Come out here and join me.”

She stepped gingerly onto the painted hardwood, took a seat at the matching stool.  “Sorry I was gone when you woke up. I was exhausted and figured you would be, too, so I picked up our clothes and tossed them in the w
asher when I dragged my tired ass to the kitchen and got something to eat.”

She smiled at him, hoping he could see it from the corner of his eye.  “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.”  A self-satisfied laugh escaped his mouth.  “I found my Wranglers in the library.  I don’t even wanna speculate on how they wound up there.”  Their eyes met in a moment of recognition.

“Yesterday is kind of a blur, Chandler.  I felt great when I woke up just now
, but details escape me.”

He responded with a gentle sm
ile.  “Same here.  These bite marks on my shoulder tell me something happened, though—something good.”  His head motioned toward a red blotch on his right shoulder.  Her face screwed up in mild disgust.

“I can’t believe I did that to you.  I mean, I can, b
ut I can’t.”

His gaze returned to the canvas and he dabbed on a few spots of paint.  “We lose ourselves when we’re together, T.  It’s primal and
visceral.  No one gets hurt.  It’s raw and intense but it’s also tender and sensitive.  It’s a paradox like nothing else in the world.”

She hand-brushed her hair, which
she knew probably could’ve stood a good washing.  “What do you think it means?”

“That we’re too mild-mannered in our everyday lives and need to learn how to let loose?”  He exhaled a sharp breath
.  “We each know what the other needs,” he said thoughtfully.  “We’re attuned in a special way.  People spend their whole lives looking for a connection like that.” He set down the palette and reached for her hand.  “The sex is great.  I think we both know that.”  She nodded in accord.  “You know what else is great, though?  This.  Spending time together.  Holding you in my arms.  Feeling your hand on the side of my neck.  I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you all of that.”

He angled toward her and she stood,
taking a position between his knees.  He gripped both of her hands in his.  “I wonder if it’s always like this?” he asked.  “I wonder if love is always so all-consuming.  I feel like we could be together for fifty years and there’d still be things about you I wanted to learn.”

“Love is always like this, Chandler,” she replied confidently, “but only when it’s real.”

He gave her his best perplexed look.  “What does that mean, sweetheart?”

“I hope it means we’re going to be together for a long time.”

“For as long as you want, Miss Holt.”  He held her against his chest and they kissed.  “Maybe even after that.”  He felt her nod against his shoulder, the soft brushing of hair across his skin sending a tremor down his spine.

“Could I watch you paint, Chandler?”

His blue eyes sparkled with radiant warmth.  “Of course.  Then we’ll head downstairs and I’ll make dinner.”  She agreed and took her place atop the stool, the warm wood chasing the chill away from her bare legs.  She watched him work in silence, took in the measured rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.  He painted in an unhurried manner, not wanting to render a mistake on the canvas—but when he did, he simply wiped it away and moved to another portion of the board for a while.  He watered the colors expertly, each shade carefully mirroring those on the horizon.  She wondered how his eye did it—the shade and hue of the landscape were constantly changing, a shard of sunlight turning the mountains from a deep emerald to a spring green, and seemingly on Mother Nature’s whim.  The sky could vary from a pale, washed out blue to a brilliant cerulean in a heartbeat.