* * *
Darius was the first to recover, straightening, lifting Natasha to the floor, holding her until he was certain that she could support herself. Or maybe holding on to her so that she could support him.
That was so not how it was meant to be.
Wound up by a day that had been filled with memories he’d spent half a lifetime trying to eradicate, he’d come looking for a hot, fast, cleansing release. Basic sex. What had just happened was something else...
He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’
She lifted her head, kissed his cheek. ‘Sounds perfect.’ She spotted the bottle he’d put on the kitchen table, picked up the glasses and handed them to him. ‘Bring them through to the bathroom.’
There was no way they could both cram into her tiny shower cubicle so Tash filled the tub, added some bubbles, lit scented candles. He brought two glasses half filled with a pale chilled wine, set the bottle on the ledge and climbed in. She settled between his legs, leaning back against his chest, sipping the wine in restful silence as she relived each moment, each touch.
So much for the keep-it-simple sex. That had been as far removed from the simple gratification of a basic need as she’d ever experienced. No one had ever concentrated so completely on her in that way. Given so much...
His skin, golden in the candlelight, was too tempting and she turned her head, found the tender spot behind his knee with her tongue. He rescued her glass as, spurred on by his instant reaction, she half turned to take her mouth on an exploration of the smooth silk of his inner thigh, then turned to face him.
‘Here or in a nice safe bed?’ she asked.
‘No bed is ever going to be safe with you in it but I’ll risk it,’ he said, drawing her up his body so that he could kiss her. ‘And this time I’m going to lie back and let you do all the work.’
Not work... All pleasure.
* * *
Tash woke to the early-morning sun, her body all delicious aches, and the night came flooding back. How she had made him the centre of their lovemaking, focusing on him so intently that she could read his response to every touch, giving herself in a way that she had never imagined and discovering a whole new level of pleasure in doing so.
She turned to reach for him but she was alone but for a sheet a paper on the pillow beside her. He’d drawn her as she’d slept—her breasts exposed, the curve of her buttock visible above the sheet tangled around her thighs, her hand extended towards him as if calling him back to bed.
Anyone looking at it would know that she had spent the night making love to the artist. If it had been anyone else, she’d have said that it was beautiful, but looking at herself, so vulnerable, so exposed, was disturbing. And why had he left it? Did he leave a picture for all his lovers? Something for the scrapbook? Something to scandalise the grandchildren?
Coffee. She needed coffee. Peeling herself off the bed, she tucked the drawing away in a drawer, pulled on a wrap and went through to the kitchen.
There was a note propped up against the kettle.
Sorry to kiss and run, but the horse is booked in at the foundry next week. Keep the Land Rover and the house keys for as long as you need them. D.
Next week? The horse had looked a long way from finished when she’d seen it and yet he’d taken a precious day to drive her to Hadley Chase. Of course this was a Darius Hadley sculpture. What she thought was finished and what he considered finished...