“George hates it, but I love it,” Cheryl said, staring at the abstract oil. “Emory Colter’s work has grown so much in popularity over the past ten years that we paid far more for it than we intended. But I don’t care.”

She stood in front of Marisol and Ian and chattered on and on about the painting, about their art collection, about the artists she’d entertained. He bent close and dropped a kiss on Marisol’s bare shoulder, his lips warm and damp. She pulled away, but Ian moved behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, smoothing his palms along her hips, then around to her belly and lower.

The silk provided no protection from his touch, the heat of his hands burning into skin. Marisol closed her eyes and leaned back against him as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. She didn’t care that there was another person in the room, yet she was aware that any moment Mrs. Templeton would turn around and see what was happening.

Why was she so defenseless against his touch? When he put his hands on her body, she lost the ability to think for herself. He took control and she was happy to surrender. Through half-hooded eyes, she watched their hostess, waiting for her to move and recognize what was going on behind her.

Ian’s thumbs brushed across her nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. Marisol reached back and ran her hands along his hips, rubbing against his erection, the silk transmitting the warmth and feel of him.

Suddenly, she regretted her decision not to duck into the bathroom. Any show of resistance was silly at this point. The attraction between them had become wildly overwhelming and she loved the way it made her feel-alive with excitement, as if every breath she took was filled with a hunger that begged to be sated.

When he touched her, or simply looked at her, she could think of nothing but tearing his clothes off and enjoying the pleasure of his body. And there were many pleasures to enjoy-his wide shoulders and narrow waist, his flat belly with the tiny trail of dark hair that led to temptations below. He had a small birthmark above his right hip and a scar on his left shoulder, just a few details she remembered from their time in the bathroom. But Marisol wanted more that just a map of his body. She wanted the key to his passion.

What made his heart pound, what made his desire for her burn? Did he like to be kissed in a certain way, was there something in her touch that made him hard and ready? And what would he feel when he finally moved inside her, when his orgasm overwhelmed him?

There were so many things she needed to know and she was impatient to learn it all, first in bed and then by sculpting him. Already, she could imagine Ian standing before her, quiet, still, relaxed and completely naked. But this time, she could touch him as she worked, run her hands along his flanks, explore the perfect curve of his backside and examine the beautiful line from his hip to his ankle.

“Well, I’m sure I’m boring you both to death.” Mrs. Templeton slowly turned and Ian’s hands immediately returned to his sides. Marisol felt a warm flush creep up her cheeks and was glad for the low lighting in the room.

“It’s a lovely piece,” Marisol said.

“And I can’t wait to get a look at your new work,” Cheryl countered. “Your friend here has been singing your praises all night.”

“Yes, well, I’m not getting much done lately,” Marisol explained, surprised that Ian had been talking about her. “And I really should work tonight.” She held out her hand. “Thank you for everything and would you say my goodbyes?”

Cheryl nodded, and when Ian reached around Marisol, she took his hand as well, then led them both out to the foyer before bidding them good night.

Ian and Marisol stood at the driveway while the valet retrieved Ian’s car, their fingers tangled together, Marisol’s thoughts focused on the rest of the evening. She was past playing coy games. When they got back to the gallery, she’d take him inside, tear his clothes off and force him to make love to her. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t imagine that he’d refuse.

When the valet pulled up in front of them, Ian walked around to the passenger side of the convertible and helped her in. They drove out the driveway and through Newport in silence, the warm night air soft on her skin. Marisol glanced his way every so often, trying to discern his thoughts. A tiny smile was the only hint he gave and she nervously toyed with her evening bag, snapping the clasp open and shut.

If everything followed as it had begun, he would stay with her tonight-and it would be wonderful, their naked bodies lying together, hands and mouths exploring until they both reached the point of no return and then the wild rush of pleasure as he moved inside of her.

Marisol took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She’d drunk too much champagne, but her head felt perfectly clear, every sense piqued, every nerve on edge.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

Marisol turned to find him looking at her. “No. Not at all.”

“So, you need to work tonight?”

“No,” she murmured. “I was just saying that because I wanted to leave.”

His smile widened and he fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Marisol didn’t even notice when they reached Bonnett Harbor or when he turned down Bay Street to the gallery. When the car stopped, she waited for Ian to come around and open her door.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the car, then held out his hand. “Keys,” he said. But he didn’t wait for them. Instead, he pulled her into the shadows of the doorway and kissed her. “Keys,” he repeated.

Marisol drew back to search through her purse, then remembered. “No keys,” she said. “I gave them to Sascha.” She moaned. “And she likes to be the last one at the party. We’ll have to go back and get them.”

“No time,” Ian said, his voice low and seductive. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going? We can’t go to your place. You have your reputation to protect.”

“I know a place.”

They got back in the car and Ian drove toward the water. When they reached the bottom of Harbor Street, he turned left and drove along the docks, then turned again in front of a sign that advertised Quinn’s Boatworks. “My father’s business,” he said, nodding at the sign. When he reached a chain-link gate, he hopped out of the car and unlocked it, then drove the car through.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Wait,” he murmured as he locked the gate behind them.

They pulled over a small rise and Ian turned off the lights and the ignition, then coasted to a stop. She stared out across the waters of Narragansett Bay. In the distance, the lights of Newport twinkled. Just above the horizon, the moon shone brightly.

“We’re alone,” Ian murmured as he jumped out of the car. “This is the boat landing for my dad’s boatyard. The only way down here is through that gate. It’s completely private.”

He helped her out. “It’s beautiful,” Marisol said.

They walked around to the front of the car and Ian lifted her up to sit on the hood. He stepped between her legs and took her face in his hands. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her gently. “And you’re making me crazy, Marisol,” he continued, his breath hot on her neck. “All I do is think about you…about this. All day long, I can feel you on my hands and taste you in my mouth.”

“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, arching back, her hands braced behind her.

“Don’t be.” He yanked her closer, then ran his hand from her collarbone to her belly and back again. “I can’t stop touching you. I don’t want to.”

She closed her eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe it’s too soon.” But her words weren’t a warning, simply a test to see just how far he was willing to go for pleasure. She reached for his belt and began to work at the buckle.

“I’m the one who shouldn’t do this,” he said, brushing the straps of her dress aside. “I made a deal with my brothers.”

She yanked the belt out of his pants and tossed it over her shoulder into the car. “You made a deal?”

“No sex, no women for three months. My idiot brother thought it would be a good idea.” He pressed her back on the hood and kissed her neck, trailing kisses across her shoulder. “He thought it might help us understand women.”

“And has it worked?”

“No.” Ian reached down for the hem of her dress and drew it up, then groaned softly. “Do you ever wear underwear?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” she said. She furrowed her fingers through his hair and pulled him into another kiss, her head spinning. Every nerve in her body was on fire and his touch was the only thing that could soothe the burn.

He found the spot between her legs and she groaned, watching him in the moonlight. “You don’t need to stop having sex to understand women,” she said. “I think you understand woman just fine.”

“Do I?” He slipped his finger inside of her, once and then twice, and then began a tantalizing rhythm, teasing at her clitoris with each stroke.

“You know what I want, don’t you?” she said in a ragged voice.

“I do,” he replied. “I’m just not sure when.”

“Now would be good,” she said. She slid off the hood of the car and stood in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Marisol smoothed her hands over his chest, a light dusting of hair slipping between her fingers. “I came prepared,” she said. She walked around the car and fetched her purse, then pulled out a condom.

Chuckling, Ian reached for his wallet and retrieved a plastic packet. “So did I.”

She snapped her purse shut and tossed it back into the car, then grabbed the condom from him. Holding it between her teeth, she finished undoing his trousers, desperate to feel him inside of her. Marisol didn’t want to bother with foreplay, not now. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down.