“You gave it to me.”
“I didn’t know you kept it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“My sister’s picture. In your bedroom. All these years.”
“It’s your drawing.” Another half smile. “Your gift to me.”
That smile... It unlocked all kinds of things in me. All kinds of feelings. “Damn, you’re good.”
“So are you.”
“As an artist.”
“Not only as an artist,” he said.
Warmth flooded through me. He cared about me. He always had.He thought I was talented. He said I was fearless. Maybe it was time to prove it. If not to him, to me.
I slid the straps of my sundress off my shoulders, pushing it down my thighs to the floor.
His eyes met mine. Hot. Intent. “Nice underwear.”
“Are you sure you’re heterosexual?”
His lips quirked. “Signs point to yes.”
I raised my chin. “Most guys don’t notice what a woman is wearing.”
“If the woman is you, they do.”
I blushed, more flustered by his compliment than by his obvious erection.
He stepped closer. “I remember Bastille Day, three years ago.”
“The fireworks.”
“The gardens in the afternoon.” He reached out, brushing the backs of his fingers along my hot cheek. “You were wearing a blue dress, with the sunshine on your hair. And for days afterward, when I closed my eyes, all I could see was the reflection of your hair, like the sun burning in the sky.”
His words painted a picture in my head, seared into my brain. I closed my eyes. I could feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer. He brushed his lips over my eyebrow, his beard scraping my cheek. He smelled so good, like laundry soap, like bergamot and Theodore Laurence. My Trey. He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I was drowning or maybe I’d forgotten how to breathe.
I swallowed and leaned back a little. “Your turn.”
He looked at me, one brow raised, and then his teeth flashed against his stubble. His smile sizzled down to my toes. He pulled at his buttons. Yanked off his shirt. He was skinny in the sketch, a thin, beautiful boy. Now he was hard and lean, a dusting of dark hair over his golden skin.
Who needed fireworks? Not me.
He cupped my face. His mouth was soft and searching. Hot. My hands slid up his ribs, around his waist, and then we were kissing again, kissing and kissing, like I was meant to kiss him and only him for the rest of my life. I stumbled on my dress, and he grabbed me, steadying me, before he tripped, one foot caught in his jeans. We fell to the bed.
I laughed. “Very smooth.”
“I told you I have no game.” He raised his head, his eyes dark and liquid. “Not when it comes to you.”
“How about condoms?”
“Condoms, I have.”
Finally, his pants were off. His body was on top of mine, in mine, pressing me into the mattress, and oh, I’d missed this. Missed him, all his hard angles and warm, smooth skin and tensile weight. Missed the way we fit together.
