She didn’t expound and he didn’t ask her to. She wanted him to know just how right, just how intuitive he was.
He smiled. “Makes sense,” he said finally, draining his beer and adding the empty back to his cooler. “The writing thing. And the art thing. You see things from a slightly different angle. Original minds generally do.”
He sighed then, a sound of pure contentment, hooked an arm about her and then drew her against his body and wrapped her loosely, so that he could rest his chin on top of her head. Her butt was nestled against his groin. She rested her hands on his corded brown forearms. It was both unutterably peaceful and yet so very much the opposite of peaceful, because want hummed between them like a plugged-in appliance. They each settled into the luxury of that sensation. Knowing they could afford to savor. And that savoring was really only honing the edge of something spectacular.
“You still write? Or paint or...?” His voice was a murmur above her head.
“I draw. I stopped for a while, but I started up again.”
They admired the view, changing ever so slightly every second thanks to the shifting light.
“You ever been married?” His voice had gone a little husky.
There they were, at the crux of it.
And yet she sensed he was only looking for confirmation of something he already suspected.
“Yep.”
“Mm.”
He didn’t say anything else. Then again, it was amazing what could be conveyed in one syllable.
He tucked his chin into the sensitive spot between her ear and shoulder, the one near the small, small, ugly scar that now formed the heart of her flower tattoo.
She was positive he knew how erotic his little bit of stubble felt against the tender skin there. And how his breath sent her nipples erect.
Speaking of erect things, she was beginning to feel one against her backside.
But they just lingered and watched the sun paint the canyon gold, quietly.
She was conscious of the movement of his chest swaying ever more swiftly against her back.
“Red-tailed hawk, right there,” he murmured as the wedge of the bird cut across the sky.
“Looking for dinner,” she mused.
“Sometimes they hunt in pairs. Maybe we’ll see another one.”
As he spoke, he was casually working loose the tie at the waist of her halter top as if it were the most natural thing in the world, an extension of the conversation. Just like they were two animals out here doing what came naturally.
When it was undone it fell open. The breeze slipped in. A glorious sensation against her hot skin.
He slid his hands up over her ribs. His thumbs fanned beneath her breasts, casually, oh, so leisurely, without preamble, cupped them, and then stroked, and traced them with his fingertips, took his sweet time with her nipples. Dear God, the layer upon layer of bliss.
She moaned shamelessly.
She arched beneath his hands, reached back to latch her hands behind his head, her head fell backward and she found his mouth waiting for hers. They met in a take-no-prisoners kind of kiss, hot, deep, thoroughly carnal, and just like that her blood was lava.
He slid his hand slowly, steadily down over her rib cage, her belly, straight into the gap of her shorts’ waistband, right between her legs, where she was already slick and wet and getting wetter. She groaned when his fingers slid over her and lingered to rub, and she arched up against his hand to help him reach exactly where she wanted to be touched.
The man was no frills and knew exactly what she wanted.
Which was exactly the same thing he wanted.
“Take them off,” he murmured, making it sound more like a suggestion than an order.
He tugged at her top button until it came loose to get her started, and she gave a yank and all the butter-soft worn buttonholes gave and the buttons on her shorts rippled open in a cooperative little row. He pushed them down her hips; she shimmied them down to her ankles.
