Under His Protection (14 page)

Awareness exploded throughout his body, his
cock going on high alert. All from the tentative touch of her lips.
“So make love to me without a condom, Mason. I trust you.”

Before he could reply, she reached down, her
hand closing over his erection, smoothing over his denim-covered
length. She undid the snap of his jeans, drew down the zipper and
dove her hand in. Since he wore no underwear, she cupped him, her
fingers curling around his cock. He jerked against her hold.

“Take me here on the counter,” she urged,
slowly sliding her hand up and then down. Up and down again, her
thumb swirling over the head, smoothing the bit of liquid that had
formed all over. “I want you, Mason. I want to feel you come inside
me.”

He groaned and kissed her, hot and heady,
completely out of control. The counter’s height perfect, he
positioned her so he could enter her with ease. Bending his knees,
he thrust upward, filling her completely.

She closed her eyes when he entered her,
expelling a sweet sigh. Her head dropped back, the little moan of
pleasure escaping her making him plunge deeper, her beautiful face
contorting with ecstasy. He couldn’t help the dose of male animal
pride that swept over him at being the one who put that expression
on her face.

He held on for dear life, moving within her
deep, deeper. She clutched at him, her nails digging into his skin,
her legs sliding around his waist and he stood up straight. Grabbed
her by the waist and brought her down upon his cock, the base of
him nudging against her swollen little clit.

“Oh God, that feels so. Good,” she moaned,
grinding down on him. He knew he couldn’t last much longer. Not
with her hot pussy grasping him in its deliciously tight grip.
Certainly not with the way she looked, the things she said, her
naked body propped upon the kitchen counter for God’s sake.

It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
And her complete surrender to him made it all the better.

Blake came first, the little whimpers
sounding in her throat getting deeper, more urgent as her inner
walls milked his cock, sending him straight into orgasm.

Straight into bliss.

Seconds or minutes later, he wasn’t sure, he
finally moved away from her. Smiled when she stood on wobbly legs,
her naked skin flushed from their lovemaking. The scent of sex
lingered in the air and his dick roused halfheartedly.

Unbelievable.

“Let’s go take that shower,” he suggested
once he’d fully recovered and found his voice once again.

“Mmm.” She hauled him close, her lips
meeting his in a most delectable kiss. “Let’s.”

Chapter Nine

He moved into her bedroom.

Blake wanted to do a little dance of joy but
kept herself in check. He usually woke up first and headed to his
temporary headquarters. Getting right to work and on the phone, so
he could make his daily calls to DC.

This morning though, had been different.
He’d lingered in her bed, trailing his fingers along her bare arm,
gooseflesh following in his wake. She’d batted his hand away, which
only seemed to make him want to touch her more, not that she
protested.

After a thorough kiss that left her
breathless, he’d made the suggestion casually. Like it was no big
deal.

“I should just sleep here every night.”

She’d responded just as casually, not
wanting to make more out of it. Mason did not like big deals. He
was quiet, subtle. An absolute devil in the bed, with those wicked
hands and that wicked tongue.

He’d made love to her after they’d agreed he
should move into her bedroom. And make love was what he’d done. It
was no quick and frenzied sexual encounter like they usually
experienced. As if they had no control and couldn’t get enough of
each other.

No, this time he’d kissed her everywhere,
stroked her with a methodical plan to devastate her senses,
building up her anticipation until she positively ached with it.
And when he’d finally entered her, he’d taken her so slow she’d
ended up crying her relief when the sweeping orgasm had finally
taken over her body.

Too intense, what they shared. She’d known
it would be like this between them. He was still the one who
insisted it was just sex but it wasn’t. She sensed, though, that
what they shared was affecting him as strongly as it affected
her.

So when he’d finally pried himself away from
her and made his way over to the small cabin, she’d locked herself
in her studio. Full of inspiration and more than ready to seize the
day.

Decadent lovemaking with Mason must’ve been
the kick start her creative process needed. She’d started a new
painting of the bay at sunset. A moment she’d caught sight of last
week as she’d walked by. She’d stopped, mesmerized by the beauty
before her and she knew she had to try and capture that moment so
she’d snapped a quick pic with her phone. The colors had been
dazzling, a mix of pinks, oranges and blues. She could only hope
she’d do the actual moment justice.

After painting for a while and pleased with
her progress, she decided to stretch and take a break. Mason wasn’t
in the house and she’d snooped around a little bit, but found
nothing unusual. Noted that he hadn’t moved any of his belongings
from the cabin into her bedroom, not that she had the room for any
of his stuff.

It was going to work out just fine, what
they shared between them. She had to believe that.

Dread suddenly filled her at the thought of
them leaving the island. Would everything return to normal when
they went back to DC? Would he once again be Agent Russell and she
Ms. Hewitt?

God, she hoped not. Despite what he’d said
before they’d started this little affair, she wanted this to be
more than just sex. The sex, granted, was amazing, but there was so
much more. They talked, they teased, they laughed, they had the
same taste in movies.

He cooked for her and she thought it was the
sexiest thing imaginable. Watching macho, stoic Mason move with
ease around the kitchen while he chopped vegetables and knew how to
use a wok. He’d made stir fry with the most delicious marinated
chicken she’d ever tasted. And he’d done it shirtless, wearing only
a pair of jeans.

Of course, the hot oil had popped from the
intense heat of the pan, landing on his bare chest and he’d yowled
in pain. She’d laughed but when she saw the look in his eyes, she
promised to kiss it better.

Which she then proceeded to do, and nearly
caused him to burn the pan up with all that oil cooking inside
after he became distracted by her kissing him—all over his
body.

She shivered at the memory, shook herself
from her reverie and tried to focus on the painting before her. It
was turning out better than she thought, and she was working faster
than normal too.

Must be her extra good mood, she mused,
leaning away from the canvas so she could study it. She clutched
the palette in her left hand, the paintbrush in her right, and she
nibbled on the wooden tip of it, a habit when she was thinking.

She wanted to concentrate on what to do next
with the painting, but her thoughts, of course, turned to Mason.
What was he doing right now, at this very moment? She knew he was
in the cabin, of course, but what was he doing?

Thinking of her maybe? She knew she thought
of him. Always. His handsome face, his fleeting, rare smile, the
way he moved, the way he said her name, the way he touched her,
gentle yet fierce.

Hmm.
Her skin warmed and her belly
fluttered. She really should go and find out his exact
location.

A knock sounded at the door. “Just a
minute,” she called, grabbing a rag so she could wipe her hands
before she answered the door. But the knob turned, the door opened
and there stood Mason in the doorway. Looking delicious as always,
wearing jeans and a navy blue crewneck sweater. Even in her
distracted and slightly worried state, she gobbled up his
handsomeness with her gaze, enjoying the casual, windblown look of
him. A look she still wasn’t used to, considering she’d seen him in
nothing but impeccable suits for the last three months.

When she noticed his curious gaze trained
just behind her, she gave a little yelp and stood in front of the
canvas, angling her body so he couldn’t make out what she hid. Why
hadn’t she locked the door?

“What are you doing?” He nodded toward her,
though his eyes were busy scanning the room.

A room she never really allowed him in. He’d
glanced inside the first day they’d arrived, when he searched the
entire house. She’d told him it was her arts and crafts room. Where
she liked to make things, make a mess. A private area, she
explained, a place where she could find solace and peace and just
create.

He’d left it alone because he knew she
wished him to. At least he respected her boundaries and besides,
there was nothing unusual lurking in this room. Unless he counted
turpentine as a dangerous substance, which it actually was.

Her biggest worry? She didn’t want him
poking around, like the very thorough agent that he was. Then he’d
figure out her secret.

“Nothing.” She smiled, drawing her hands
behind her. The canvas was so wide, no way could she completely
hide it.

Slowly he walked into the studio, his gaze
searching the walls, the low cabinets she kept filled with
supplies. His footsteps rang loud against the hardwood floor,
echoing throughout the sparsely filled room and the sound made her
nervous.

His being in the room made her nervous too.
His larger than life presence seemed to eat up all the air in the
room and finally, after a thorough sweep, his gaze landed on her,
curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“What exactly do you do all day in here,
Blake?”

She shrugged, trying for nonchalant. “I fool
around. Make messes.”

“Uh, huh.” Now he stood right next to her,
was actually staring at the canvas and she wanted to die of
mortification. Wanted to cover it up with her body and reassure him
there was nothing to see.

No one,
no one
had ever seen her work
before. It had been for her eyes only and she liked it that way. It
was easier. Then she wouldn’t have to hear the criticizing or the
disappointment. Hear her father ask why she wasted her time doing
this or hear her mother say she wasn’t that talented.

Because they both would say something like
that. Her parents had always been brutally honest and sometimes she
appreciated it, but most of the time it just hurt.

And the both of them were extremely good at
hurting her.

Blake closed her eyes and silently counted
to ten, waiting for the negativity that was sure to come from
Mason. His tone would be skeptical, his eyes doubtful and she
didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to hear it.

“Did you paint this?” He sounded incredulous
and she turned away, unable to bear his reaction.

“I did. I painted it,” she admitted, nerves
making her ears ring, her stomach cramp. God, she didn’t know what
to do, how to explain it. “It’s terrible, I’m sure. Isn’t it? I
just like to...I like to paint. It’s a stress reliever for me. Just
something I dabble in. Something to keep me busy when I’m
bored.”

And speaking of dabbling, well, she was
babbling. Sounded like a fool, too.

“It’s not terrible,” he said slowly and she
turned her head, staring at him in disbelief as he continued to
study her half-finished painting. “It’s the pier down by the bay,
isn’t it?”

Blake nodded, surprised he recognized it.
Maybe she was on the right track after all. “It is.”

He stared, quiet, and all of that quiet was
making her antsy. And queasy. What did he think? Did he hate it,
did he like it? Did he believe she was a no-talent hack wasting her
time?

“It’s...amazing.” His gaze met hers, the
sincerity there unmistakable.

“Amazingly bad?” She joked, anything to keep
the moment light, to delay finding out what he really thought.

She so wanted to know. And she so didn’t
want to know
ever.

“No.” He shook his head, his expression
incredulous. “Amazingly good. You’re talented, Blake.”

She stiffened, feeling defensive. “You sound
surprised.”

“I am surprised, only because you’ve kept
this hidden. How long have you been painting?”

“I don’t know. A couple of years?” She
shrugged, trying for casual.

No way could she show how much his words
meant to her. Not yet. And she knew exactly how long she’d been
painting seriously.

Since college, when she snuck art classes in
unbeknownst to her parents. She’d work on her political studies and
all that other crap her father forced her to take, but the art
classes had been just for her. Art history, art theory, a ceramics
class, all of it had been wonderful. Life-changing.

And so, here she was. The closet artist.

“It’s beautiful and the colors are so
life-like.” He nodded toward the painting. “I don’t know much about
art or composition or all the stuff that goes with it, but I know
when I like something. I like this.”

Her heart sang at his compliment and the
smile that broke out was so big it felt as if it were stretching
her cheeks. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

She tackled him, the loud ‘oomph’ that he
gave showing his surprise and she wrapped her arms around him,
raining little kisses all over his jaw and chin.

“What’s that for?” He held her away from
him, his hands curling around her shoulders, gently stroking and
she beamed up at him.

Blake laughed, feeling foolish and she
pulled away from him, did a silly little dance. “No one has ever
said that about my art before.”

His lips parted. “You’re kidding me.”

“Well, I’ve never actually showed any of it
before. To anyone.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced away, a little
uncomfortable. “I was afraid of what they might say.”