Page 7 of Broken Beauty (Beauty 3)
She took a sip. “This is good. Is it a special wine?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Special how?”
“I don’t know. You seem like the kind of guy who’d know about wines. Labels and wine tastings and stuff.”
He shrugged. “It’s Merlot. My mother is the wine enthusiast, and I mean that in the best and worst way. But that has nothing to do with who I am. I’ll serve Kool-Aid next time if you want it.”
She grinned. “You drink Kool-Aid?”
“What, everyone likes Kool-Aid. It’s a childhood staple.”
“Oh my God, you must have been an adorable kid. I can see it. Little Blake wearing his leading strings and suspenders.”
He snorted. “Exactly how old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know…but old.” She blinked innocently. “Like thirty?”
He threw the crust of his breadstick at her.
She ducked, laughing. “Thirty-one?”
Hiding his grin beneath a scowl, he rounded the table. “I may be ancient, but I’m still strong enough to deal with a mouthy little girl.”
“Feeling spry, are you?”
“That’s it.” He lifted her bodily from the chair and carried her into the living room. He didn’t let up even when he tossed her onto the couch. He followed her down and—he felt this was the only logical rebuttal of her accusations—tickled her until she was breathless and panting in his arms. Exactly as he liked her, laughing and so fucking perfect it made his heart hurt.
He pulled back slightly, feeling oddly reticent, like he couldn’t let himself reach too far. Which was crazy, because this was Erin. His Erin, his girl.
Her smile faded. She put a hand to his cheek, stroking gently. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“Don’t keep it from me, whatever it is. Remember? Every part of you and every part of me.”
She looked up at him in the dim light spilling over from the dining room. Her dark golden hair framed her face against the brown leather of the couch. He wished her eyes weren’t so wide, her lips weren’t so full. He wished he could turn away.
Instead he stared back, his mind racing with words like steadfast and loyal and kind. With lovely. He understood it now. So much more than how she looked or talked, though that was part of it. Every part of her, and he wanted to drown himself in every sweet, doleful inch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said thickly, because it was all he could say.
Something flickered in her eyes. Wariness. Guilt? What was she keeping from him?
But she kissed him, pressed those lush lips to his, and he let her. Let her slip the invisible blindfold over his eyes and let her, let her, because he trusted her. Even if it made him an idiot, he needed to trust in that dark place where he’d been beaten and burned and come out stronger this time.
She tasted faintly of wine, rich and velvety. He recognized notes of chocolate and red fruit, because he was exactly as stuffy as she’d thought he was. He’d only had Kool-Aid on the occasions he’d gone to friends’ houses, but that was all in the past. From before. He hadn’t died in that godforsaken bunker, but he’d been reborn. He was a different man now, a better one.
He slipped his hand behind her neck, reveling in the silky strands between his fingers, in the delicate nape cradled in his palm. He felt suffused with her softness, bruised and beaten by it. How could she accept him so fully? But she did. She pressed her cheek against him, right where he was most mangled. Her skin was cool, soothing him. Marking him, like he wanted to do for her.
He stood up, leaving her sprawled and languid on the sofa. The purple dress she wore hugged her curves and rode up her thighs—it had to go. He pulled it off her, careful not to tug her hair and not letting her up either. Her bra and panties went next so that she lay on the soft, cool leather wearing only her black heels.
If he could paint her like this, he would. Make her stay in this position for hours while he stood behind the shield of an easel, capturing a part of her for himself. Instead he could only look at her, burning the memory into his brain. But hell, already he’d never forget. He knew every color of her skin, from the pink of her nipples to the pale porcelain of her belly. The tanned slope of her shoulder and the golden hairs behind her neck. He had catalogued her like the most diligent of researchers, leaving little notes scribbled in the margins. Here she’s sensitive but she likes to be licked. And there, God, she can com
e right there.
A brief squeeze of her wrist told her to stay. He retrieved a glass of wine from the dining table. Is it a special wine? she’d asked, and yes it was. He would never again be able to taste it without tasting her too.
He dipped his forefinger in the drink and touched her nipple, allowing the deep red liquid to coat her puckered skin. He’d meant to paint her all over first, but impatient lust had him mouthing her breast, swirling his tongue around the tip, and sucking on her. The other one was delicious as well, the dry, spiced wine contrasting with the sweet, fresh flavor of her.
