Unbreak Me (20 page)

Her fingers wrap around my forearm and squeeze. “Does it bother you when I drink?”

“No,” I say, but she must see something in my eyes because she pulls back.

She drops her legs from my waist and settles her hands on the edge of the table. “It does bother you.”

“It bothers me when you get drunk, not when you have
a drink
.”

She swallows and shifts her eyes to the abstract painting that covers the side wall. “Do you want me to stop?”

I stand and take her jaw in my hand, turning her to face me. Her big green eyes are rimmed with tears. “I’m not trying to change you, Maggie. I’m trying to love you.”

She grabs a handful of my shirt and tugs me close. “Kiss me.”

I want to kiss her. Taste her. Cherish her. When she told me about her past last night, it explained so much, and my chest still aches with hurt for her.

“This is more than sex, isn’t it, Asher?” she asks softly.

“How can you ask that?” I run my thumb along the edge of her jaw. “I told you last night. I’m in love with you.”

Her chest rises with her shaky inhale.

“Do you believe me?”

“I do.”

I lower my mouth to hers, and I’m so damn hungry for this, my hands are on her before I even decide to let this be more than a kiss. I curl my fingers into her ass and draw her against me. I run my lips and tongue and teeth along her neck, and her fingers curl into my hair.

She’s so sweet and I could taste her for hours. I want to take her to my bed and keep her there. I test her reaction to my fingers, my mouth, my tongue and my teeth. Lifting her arms, I pull off the t-shirt she donned when we toured through my bedroom. I slip it over her head and toss it across the table.

Her nipples are hard and taut in the cool air.

“You are so fucking perfect,” I murmur, trailing my fingertips between her breasts and over her belly.

“Hardly,” she whispers, voice weak.

As I lower myself, my mouth follows the path of my fingers, and I circle her navel with my tongue. Tiny silvery scars snake out from here. As I taste each one, she tenses under me.

“Stretch marks,” she says softly, dropping her hands to disguise them. “Not so perfect.”

I move her hands. “Perfect.” And I kiss her there again, mouth, tongue, teeth. When I scrape my teeth across the ridge of her hipbone, she cries out and her moan echoes off the walls.

“I fucking love that I can do that to you.” My breathing is choppy, my voice weak.

Her reaction at the other hip is just as gratifying.

Then I slide my hand between her legs and she’s so damn wet, my cock jumps in anticipation. I slide her hips forward until she leans back on her elbows.

“I need you,” I growl, unbuttoning my jeans.

“I’m yours.”

Chapter Seventeen

Maggie

He strokes his thumb down my neck and back up, and it’s the innocence of the gesture that makes it so erotic. “You’re so blasé about sex, so matter-of-fact, but it’s an act. You hide behind blowjobs and hot, frantic fucking.”

“There’s nothing wrong with those things.”

His lips quirk. “Agreed.” He lowers his mouth to mine and his lips are so close.

I want him to kiss me. I need him to kiss me. I need him to need me. To use me.

His fingers skim up my arms, sending delicious chills through me before they skim down my body and settle on my hips. “Let me touch you,” he whispers. “Let me break down these walls you keep hiding behind.”

He’s so close, leaning over me, his mouth above mine, but I’m pretty sure I’m shaking. How does he see me when no one else has? How does he know?

When he kisses me, his lips aren’t gentle. His mouth is hard and hot and demanding over mine. His tongue invades and his teeth scrape my lips. This isn’t a kiss, this is a claiming. And it terrifies and exhilarates me.

His hands squeeze roughly at my ass as he settles me on the edge of the table, his mouth still on mine. The cool air is almost painful against my heated skin, but it’s a good kind of pain. I’m feeling. I’m present. I’m alive.

I reach for him, my hand trailing down the hard planes of his chest and below, but he clasps my wrist before I can take him in my hand.

“Let
me
,” he growls, trapping my hands under his.

His mouth trails down my neck and between my breasts. He presses his tongue to my navel and licks a trail back up to the pulse at the hollow of my neck. I am exposed and arousal pools between my legs, winds tight and achy and wonderful there.

When I lean my head back and close my eyes, I feel his breath at my ear. “Open them. Watch me.”

So I do. He dips his mouth to one breast and then the other, drawing my nipples impossibly tight. Then he sinks lower and opens his mouth against my belly. He hooks his hands behind my knees, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he lifts them, bending my legs out until they’re settled against me on the edge and I am completely and intimately open and exposed to him.

My breath is short and shallow, matching the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he pauses to look. When his eyes on me, on that most private part of me, are too much, I press my knees together. He stops me with the press of his thumbs into my inner thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, finally lifting his eyes to mine. “So beautiful that I won’t let you hide yourself from me.” He lowers his head and blows a cool stream of air against my exposed sex.

A cry slips from my lips.

“Let me kiss you here. Let go for me.”

“Asher,” I whisper. His mouth is so close and my body is humming, aching.

He lowers his head and puts his mouth on me. His breath, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, on and against me. And this feels so good, so amazing. The sight of his dark head between my legs, the way his muscles bunch as if his control is this heavy load he must strain against. I watch, and I feel, and I sink into the pleasure of his mouth working and teasing and exploring.

At some point, he releases one of my legs and slides two fingers deep inside me while his mouth closes over my clit. I think I scream and I lift my hips, rocking into his fingers and mouth. His fingers curl roughly against my thigh and he shifts my knee further back, opening me to his fingers and mouth somehow deeper still. And I shatter, my sex pulsing around his fingers, swollen and spent against his mouth.

I’ve hardly recovered when he’s standing, toppling the chair in his haste. He sheaths himself in a condom and slides into me.

Hands holding tight to my hips, Asher locks eyes with me as I rock into him. I want to close my eyes—wash away in the feel of his thickness invading my tender sex—but I keep them open. For him. For me.

***

Asher

She answers the door in a fluffy pink robe and a smile. “You’re early,” she says, but judging by the way her eyes skim over my body, she’s not disappointed to see me.

I couldn’t convince her to stay over last night. She had plenty of excuses, wanting to be at the gallery early in the morning, not wanting to leave her dog alone another night. Ultimately, I decided not to push it.

She backs into the house and waves me in. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”

As she retreats to the bathroom, I give a few seconds of consideration to following her, untying the robe and pulling it from her shoulders, but I dismiss the idea. I promised her I’d take her into Chicago to visit some art gallery today. When I get her naked again, I’m going to need more than a few stolen minutes, so I settle into a chair and look around.

I want to get Maggie out of this crappy little house. Before this year, I hadn’t spent much time in New Hope, but even I know this is an unsavory area more known for meth dealing than the neighborhood watch.

I could put her up in a nice apartment by campus, but she’s so drawn to the river, I think she’d be happier at my place by the water.

Who am I kidding? I want her close. After my probation ends, I’m planning on spending a month in New York talking to studios for the first time since Infinite Gray broke up, and I want to know she’s waiting for me when I get back.

My thoughts stutter to a halt when she returns to the living room.

“Jesus Christ.” I stand and step closer to get a better look. She’s in red. A flowing little sleeveless thing that shows just enough cleavage and a whole lot of leg. Her hair is pinned up off her neck, but a few little tendrils hang loose. My eyes trail down to her strappy heels and I’m struck with an image of stripping her down to nothing but her shoes.

Oh, hell yes.

When I return to her face, her cheeks are tinged pink. “I guess I don’t need to ask how I look.”

Closing the steps between us, I pull her into my arms and press my face into the crook of her neck—to taste her skin, to take a hit of her scent. “How am I supposed to look at you all day and not touch you?” I growl into her soft skin.

My hand slips under her dress almost of its own volition, and I trail my fingers up her thighs.

“Who said you couldn’t touch me?” Her breathing is already uneven as I trace the lace of her panties over her hip to the small of her back.

I slap her ass softly. “Don’t tempt me.”

***

I don’t understand the tension in Maggie’s shoulders. I would expect her to feel at home in a gallery like this.

The space is large, with high ceilings and track lighting that illuminates the artwork.

A man wanders from the back to greet us, and he takes one look at my tattoos and earrings and dismisses me. Never mind that there isn’t piece in here I can’t afford.
Asshole.

“I’m Martin, the gallery manager. Are we just here to peruse?” But then he looks at Maggie and does a double-take, eyes widening.

Maggie doesn’t seem to notice. She extends her hand and flashes him that gorgeous smile. “Hello, I’m Maggie and this is Asher. We understand you have some Bauer paintings on display here?”

I thought we were here to check out the gallery. I didn’t realize she was looking for a specific artist.

The man’s expression is different when he looks at me this time. Being here with Maggie has clearly earned me some sort of art-world street cred. “Of course, yes.” He offers me his hand. “It’s such an honor. Let me show you to the back.”

He scurries ahead and we hang back. When Maggie turns, I catch her eye and mouth, “Honor?”

She lifts a shoulder and shakes her head, but worry creases her brow and her shoulders stiffen even more. There’s something she’s not telling me.

We follow the man through the large space, the echo of our steps mingling with the soft piano melody playing through the overhead speakers.

He motions to a doorway off the back. “Mr. Bauer’s collection has attracted a lot of attention to the gallery in the past months. Just stunning. You should be very pleased.”

I frown and Maggie hugs herself, rubbing her bare arms. Judging by the way she’s staring at the door, I’m not sure she’s going to enter.

“Shall we?” I say, taking her hand and leading her through the swinging door.

Inside the smaller room is a series of portraits of beautiful women. My eye catches a flash of red in the far corner and I turn to see a portrait of Maggie, her hair lifted by the breeze as she looks at the river. She wears nothing but a thin sheet wrapped under her arms.

Next to me, Maggie’s shoulders sag and she starts breathing normally for the first time since we arrived at the gallery.

The studio manager is eyeing her curiously. “Dr. Bauer has such talent. It’s true art. Not too sexy. Tasteful.” His eyes are on Maggie as he says the last. Those words can’t mean much coming from a man who looks at her like he jacks off to the image of her face every night, but I suspect he’s nearly as stunned to have her here as I am to see the painting.

“Do we need to go?” I ask softly.

She lifts her chin and smiles at the attendant. “Are these the only paintings of his you have?”

The man frowns. “Yes. Were you looking for something else?”

She shakes her head. “No. You’ve been helpful, thank you.”

I wrap my arm around her waist, half surprised when she doesn’t push me away, and we make our way toward the door.

“I’m sorry if that surprised you,” the attendant says behind us. “I thought you knew. I thought that was why you came.”

“I’m fine.” She says, but she doesn’t look at him or me as we head to the car. No, all she does is slide her hand into mine and squeeze hard. And it’s enough for me.

***

“Who painted it, Maggie?”

We’re at a little coffee shop down the road from the gallery. I offered to take her to a bar—God knows she looks like she could use a drink—but she declined.

So, here we are. Coffee in hand. The silence of unspoken secrets between us.

I need to know about the painting we saw, but more I need to know about the ones we didn’t, the ones she is clearly looking for.

“Ethan Bauer,” she says. “He’s an art professor at Sinclair.” Her voice is clear, strong, as if this isn’t difficult for her. I don’t buy it.

“When did he paint it?”

“A couple of years ago.”

The whirring of the steamer rents through the air as the barista fills an order.

When it stops, I say, “You were a student.”

Maggie takes a sip from her cup and avoids my eyes. “A lot of students pose and in a lot less than a sheet. Of course, I wasn’t a student of
his
at the time, but he was my mentor.”

“Your mentor?”

She nods. “I came to Sinclair for painting. Ethan took me under his wing early on. To foster my talent, he said.”

“That’s why we came up here, isn’t it? You wanted to see if he was showing a painting of you?” I pause for a beat. “You were relieved when you saw it. What did you expect to see?”

She studies her coffee, buying time, and I expect her to dodge the question. I’m surprised when she says, “Ethan painted a whole series of me. A semi-erotic collection of paintings he swore he’d never show.”

“And you’re afraid he will.”

“We had an affair.” The words are so soft I almost don’t hear them over the soft chatter of the people around us. “He had a bit of a…reputation for sleeping with his models. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.” She closes her eyes. “But I don’t want anyone seeing those paintings.”