His entire body flexed and surged, pressing her hard into the couch. His thigh wedged higher between her legs. A ragged breath shuddered out of him. “I feel like a teenager making out on the living room couch. I’d forgotten how damn frustrating it is.”
Sweeney brushed her lips over the underside of his jaw. She was inexperienced, but not naive or ignorant. There were several ways they could satisfy each other, without actually having sex, and the temptation was strong to suggest one or more, or all. She didn’t. Not only did she doubt her willpower would stand the test, but to do so seemed like cheating—getting off on a technicality, so to speak. It would be delicious, and wonderfully satisfying, and wrong. Until his divorce was final, it was wrong.
Maybe most women wouldn’t feel that way, but then they hadn’t grown up with her parents as examples.
She didn’t dare even kiss him, though she hungered for his taste. She could feel the tension humming through his big body, feel her own flesh throbbing in response. It would take so little to push them both over the edge that she was afraid to move.
But there was pleasure in just lying there with him, his arms around her, feeling his chest expand with each breath, hearing his heart beating. There was animal comfort in sharing his heat. Above all, there was a sense of belonging that she had never before known, the startling realization that she was not alone in the world, that somehow she had become part of a couple.
It was a heady sensation, to know that he cared for her, that she was important to him. Sweeney couldn’t remember ever being important to anyone before. She didn’t know how this sense of connection had formed so fast, or how she had so quickly come to trust and rely on him, but it had and she did.
“What did you paint this time?” he asked, after ten minutes had passed without a return of the chill. She was warm and drowsy, almost in a daze.
“I don’t know,” she said, a little surprised. “I didn’t even go in the studio. I have an electric blanket on my bed, and when I woke up cold anyway, I just assumed I had been sleepwalking again. What if I called you for nothing?”
“I would rather you call me whenever you have the least chill, than let things get as bad as they were yesterday morning. You worried the hell out of me.”
“I worried the hell out of myself,” she said wryly, and listened to his laughter rumble in his chest. It was nice, the way his voice was so deep. The hair on his chest was rough under her cheek, and that was nice, too. Everything about him was so damn masculine she could barely control herself.
“Are you warm?”
“Toasty.”
“Then we need to get up.”
“Why? I’m so comfortable.”
“Because I’m not a saint. Come on, let’s see what you painted.”
She wanted to groan and moan at the loss of his body heat, but for his sake she decided to be gracious about it. “Oh, all right.”
He grabbed his sweater from the floor and tugged her to her feet, then headed toward the studio. Sweeney detoured into the kitchen and nuked another cup of coffee. Richard declined her offer of coffee and leaned against the cabinets with his ankles crossed while he pulled the sweater on over his head. She didn’t think she’d ever had a man in her kitchen before, and she sneaked a couple of admiring glances at him. As the sweater settled in place, she stifled a sigh of regret. It was a damn shame to cover a chest that looked like his.
“Come on, quit stalling,” he said, and until then she hadn’t realized she was. Yesterday she had painted shoes; who knew what she had painted last night, if indeed she had done anything.
With his hand resting comfortably on the small of her back, they went into the studio. Sweeney looked around and saw that the shoe canvas wasn’t leaning against the wall where she had left it. “Looks like I worked on shoes again last night,” she said, relaxing inside. She didn’t like walking in her sleep and doing paintings that she didn’t remember doing, but she could have picked subjects a lot more upsetting than shoes.
An easel had been moved, positioned so the canvas was facing the north wall of windows.
Together they went over to study the canvas. Sweeney studied the details she had added during the night, clinically examining the brushstrokes. The details were so fine, the lines so soft, that the painting looked like a portion of a photograph. It wasn’t her usual technique, but the work was still undoubtedly hers. She had added another shoe to the painting, a high heel that matched the other one. Last night’s shoe was still being worn; she had completed a woman’s foot to the ankle. And she had painted a woman’s bare foot and part of that leg, up to the knee, lying close to the empty shoe. All in all there was nothing horrible about the painting, not in what she had done so far, but still she felt her stomach knot in dread, and she shivered.
“Great,” she muttered. “I added some body parts.” Despite her flippancy, her voice was tight.
Richard felt her shiver and gathered her close, hugging her to him. His expression was grim as he stared at the painting.
“It’s going to be like the hot dog vendor, isn’t it?
She’s dead. She’s lying down; she’s lost one shoe. Or if she isn’t dead now, she will be soon, and it feels as if it’s my fault.” Sweeney tried to pull away, but Richard turned her to him and held her tighter, cradling the back of her head in one big hand and pressing her face into his chest.
“It isn’t your fault and you know it.”
Her voice muffled, she said, “Logically I do, but emotionally—” She waved a hand. “You know how emotions are.”