“That’s better,” he murmured when he finally drew away. He pressed his forehead to hers and looked down into her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
“I-I’ve been thinking about you,” she admitted. She didn’t really want him to know that he’d plagued her thoughts, but what harm could it do. They’d both been honest about their desires.
“I’ve wanted to-”
She placed her finger on his lips. “I’ve wanted to call you, too, but I-”
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to-” He paused. “Maybe we should stop with the excuses now? So, what are you doing here?”
“Getting something for supper.”
He glanced in her basket, then frowned. “And what are you planning to make?”
Marisol smiled wanly at the collection of junk food in her basket. “It’s an old Portuguese dish passed down from my grandmother.”
He took her hand and pressed a kiss onto the inside of her wrist, his lips lingering over her pulse point. “Come on, leave the groceries. I’ll take you out for the best steak on this side of Narragansett Bay.”
Marisol grabbed her purse and followed him out of the store. They passed the man in the suit and he gaped at her, obviously thinking that he ought to have introduced himself sooner.
Ian’s car was parked on the opposite side of the lot and Marisol wondered if their meeting had been fate. In the end, she really didn’t care. She and Ian were together again and nothing else mattered beyond this burning desire she had for the man.
When they reached the car, Ian grabbed her again and kissed her, his fingers furrowing through her hair as he molded his mouth to hers. She felt the possibilities in his kiss, the certainty that, once alone, kissing would never be enough.
She opened to him, her tongue teasing at his in a silent assurance that they both wanted the same thing. The taste of him was like a narcotic, erasing her worries and doubts. She needed Ian in her life, regardless of the risks. And maybe it was just for physical release, but why should that make a difference? If he wanted her and she wanted him, then they could come to some understanding.
“You’re hungry?” he asked, his words tinged with another meaning.
She nodded. “Starved.”
Ian grinned then took her hand and helped her into his car. As they pulled out of the lot, Marisol tipped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the warm night breeze caress her face, suddenly anxious to rid herself of her clothes.
They only drove for a few minutes before Ian pulled into the driveway of a pretty clapboard bungalow on a tree-lined street. She glanced around. “Where are we?”
“My place,” he said.
Marisol glanced over at the house and then at him. They’d always indulged on her turf, on her terms, not on his. She had invited him into her life, for her own purposes, but this was different. He was inviting her into his life now. She sent him an uneasy smile. “I-I thought we were going to go get a-”
“I make a mean steak,” he explained as he hopped out of the car. He circled to her door, then opened it and helped Marisol out. He held her hand as they walked up the front steps to the door, then opened it and steered her inside.
The living room was furnished beautifully in an arts and crafts style, with Stickley-inspired furniture throughout. She walked over to a chair and ran her hand along the cherry finish.
“My brother Marcus and I made the furniture,” Ian said. “He’s kind of an expert with wood.”
One side of the room was lined with bookshelves and they were filled from top to bottom. Marisol crossed the room and studied the titles, surprised at the variety. There were classics and contemporary fiction, how-to books and biographies. “Have you read all these?”
Ian nodded. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine?”
“That would be nice.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and Marisol continued her study of her surroundings. As she looked at the bits and pieces of his life, she realized she didn’t know Ian Quinn at all. They’d shared the most intimate of experiences, yet they were little more than strangers. He returned a few moments later with a bottle and a glass. But instead of pouring her a drink, Ian took her hand and pulled her along with him up the stairs.
At first, Marisol thought they might end up in the bedroom, but to her surprise, he took her to the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wondering if he was about to repeat what they’d shared in the Templetons’ powder room.
“I’m drawing you a bath. It’s about time someone took care of you.” As he bent over the huge claw-foot tub, her eyes fixed on his shoulders, the muscles moving beneath the T-shirt. A lock of dark hair hung over his collar and she reached out to brush it aside with her fingers. He glanced up at her and smiled as the hot water poured into the tub.
No one had ever taken care of her before, she mused. But it seemed to come so naturally to him, as if he’d accepted the responsibility without a second thought and was happy for it. Ian held up a bottle of bath salts and she nodded.
The scent of rosemary filled the air and bubbles floated on the surface of the water. “I wouldn’t think you were the type to take bubble baths,” she said, kneeling down beside him to swirl her hand through the water.
“My sister gave me these for Christmas last year. She’s into aromatherapy.” He leaned against the edge of the tub, his gaze skimming over her face. Then he suddenly stood and pulled her to her feet, his hands sliding down along her arms then lower, to the hem of her sundress. Marisol held her breath as he drew it up over her head.
His gaze raked along the length of her naked body and he laughed softly. “Forgot the underwear again, huh?”
“Yes,” she murmured, watching him watch her. She liked how it made her feel when he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, the little shiver of anticipation that ran through her. He wanted to touch her; she could see it in the way his fingers twitched. But he was doing his best to resist for now.
Marisol reached for his T-shirt but he gently took her hands and kissed them both. “Why don’t you relax? I’ll go start dinner.” Taking her elbow, he helped her into the tub, then handed her a sponge.
Marisol sank down into the warm water, sighing as she slipped beneath the surface. The scent of the bath salts filled her head and she closed her eyes and lay back, smiling to herself. How was it that he knew exactly what she needed? She hadn’t realized how tense she was until the warm water surrounded her.
Marisol opened one eye and found him still staring at her, his gaze lazily focused on her breasts. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” She held out her hand, beckoning him to come closer, inviting him to touch her. “It’s just a bath. And we have been naked before. Or almost naked.”
“I thought, after the last time we spoke, you wanted to slow things down.”
“It’s just a bath,” she repeated. But they both knew where it would lead.
“I don’t think it would be just a bath, Marisol.” He paused and shook his head, sending her a reluctant smile. Then he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it off. Ian knelt next to the tub and took the sponge from her hand, then slowly ran it over her breasts. She reached out and drew a damp finger along his chest.
He did have the most incredible body, long limbed and lean, yet muscled in all the right places. There was a perfection about him that she’d never seen in another man, every part of him in balance, from his broad shoulders to his flat belly and narrow hips, and his long legs.
“That feels nice,” she murmured. Marisol leaned back and closed her eyes. She felt his lips on her breasts and she moaned softly. He kissed the curve of her neck. “I’ve missed you,” he said.
A tiny thrill raced through her and she opened her eyes. “You’ve missed me? Or the sex?”
“You,” Ian said as if insulted by her insinuation. He chuckled. “And the sex, a little bit.”
Marisol’s eyebrow shot up.
“All right, a lot.” He ran the sponge along her arms. “Funny. I can’t really remember why we decided not to see each other.”
“You said you’d call me and you didn’t,” Marisol said.
“No, I think you said you’d call me.”
In truth, she knew exactly why she hadn’t called him. And the reason was now hidden in the back of a storage room in her apartment. For almost a week, she’d been trying to contact her father about that damned painting, but it was as if Hector Arantes had dropped off the face of the planet. She’d left messages with his landlady, who had assured Marisol that her father was well. But that didn’t go very far to explain why he’d suddenly disappeared.
The more time that passed, the more Marisol thought she might have overreacted to the whole mess. After all, Ian wasn’t about to come banging down her door with a search warrant and a reason to arrest her. He knew nothing about her father and she wasn’t about to enlighten him. There were secrets in her life she wasn’t required to tell a lover-or even the man she loved.
“How is your work coming?” he asked, drawing the sponge over her shoulder, then following it with his mouth.
“Not well,” she said, enjoying the soft caress of his lips on her skin. “I’ve lost my momentum. I’m going to put off the opening for a few more weeks. I need one important piece and I don’t have it.”
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
Marisol turned, stretching her arms along the edge of the tub. “You can make love to me,” she whispered, running her hand over his cheek. “That always helps.”
His gaze flickered, and for an instant, she thought he might refuse. “Is that all you want from me?” he asked, a sober expression clouding his face.
“What do you mean?”
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