The rays of winter sunlight created an ethereal halo around her head when Emma pushed through the door of the studio. The artist in him was instantly mesmerized by the way the light made her champagne strands glow, playing off the nearly translucent ivory of her skin.
Ivory. If it wasn’t illegal and unethical as hell, that was what he would sculpt her in. Pure ivory, melting hues of vanilla and pearl and cream.
“Nick.” Her voice cut through his musings, and he made a mental note to do some sketches of the sculpture later. Marble, maybe. Marble might work nearly as well as ivory. “Nick!”
“I’m glad you came.” Firmly pushing the art out of his head, he focused in on the woman standing in the chilly air of the studio. He grimaced slightly when he noted the annoyance radiating off her just like that halo of light he’d imagined.
“You might as well have peed on me.” She tapped her foot as he coughed out a laugh at the unexpected phrase. “It’s not funny. That’s what that kiss was. You were marking your territory, which you have no right to do after, what, a few kisses and some smoldering looks between the tortured artist and the simple southern girl?”
“I—” He had no argument to offer. That was exactly what he’d been doing. He hadn’t thought about it, he’d just acted when he saw the familiarity with which the other man spoke to Emma.
Just remembering that had jealousy kindling in his gut. He’d never felt it that strongly before, and he couldn’t say he cared for it.
“You know, some think that just because we southerners talk slow, that means we’re stupid.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she tapped her foot, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the studio. “I’m not. I know that whatever you’re looking for from me, it happens in the bedroom and nowhere else.”
That conjured the instant picture of Emma on his hunter-green sheets, all that pale hair spread out over his pillow. Jesus. He shifted uncomfortably as his jeans started to feel tight.
“Clearly the suit wasn’t very adventurous if you think it can only happen in a bedroom.” He let his lips curl in a wicked grin, the expression evaporating instantly when he saw the temper in her eyes. He instantly became chagrined. “I’m sorry. Look, I was…I was jealous, okay? I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“And what way was that?” He’d expected that temper to come out in her voice, but instead she sounded confused.
He had a reputation on the island. He knew that. He’d done his best to encourage it, in fact. But because of it, she didn’t think he was capable of having real feelings for a woman. It pissed him off, even though he understood.
“He looked at you like you were his.” He ground the words out of a clenched jaw. He was still jealous. And he still didn’t like it.
“I’m not his. I’m my own.” Slowly she unzipped her new down jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and setting it on one of the small tables that crowded the space. She wore a sweater underneath, nothing overtly seductive, but he still found his mouth going dry as she slowly closed the space between them. “I’m my own, and I know what I want.”
He barely swallowed a groan as she looked up at him, sparks of heat in those pale eyes. He fisted his hands to keep from grabbing her. It hurt, but after he’d—what had she called it? Marked his territory?—he owed it to her to let her make the next move.
Owed it to her to let her make the decision on her own. She’d heard what he was like, that he didn’t ever offer more than a night. That he wasn’t sure he could. He wouldn’t confuse her decision by telling her that somehow he knew she was different.
She was directly in front of him now, close enough for him to stroke his hand through the length of her pale hair. It nearly killed him, but he stayed frozen in place. The merest hint of nerves sizzled lightly over his skin, and intensity crackled like his welding torch. He focused on one of the dusty windows, the scarlet-red and glass-green of the Christmas lights outside casting their glow onto a pristine log of snow on the sill.
When her lips brushed against his, a tremor rocketed through him. Just the lightest touch, but he felt it solidly, a punch in the solar plexus.
Hands fisted at his side, he let her be the one to move. Pulling back an inch, she lifted a hand and traced curious fingers over the shape of his lips. Her breath misted over his chin as she removed her fingers and stood on tiptoe to kiss him again.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He had half-moon crescents in his palms from where his nails had dug in, and they seemed to pull in more sensation when he cupped her cheeks—tiny pinpricks of concentrated pleasure.
Her skin was hot silk against the calluses of his workingman’s hands. He cursed against her lips when he accidentally dragged a rough patch over her cheekbone, and when she arched into the touch, he lost hold of the last shred of his sanity.
Pressing the hard length of his body to hers, he poured everything he had into that kiss—his attraction to everything about her, the guilt that dogged him over the fact that he was kissing Mike’s daughter. The fear of letting anyone get close enough that it would hurt when they were gone, and the grief that had sent him to the island in the first place. She pulled it all out of him, somehow demanded with the gentle press of her fingers that he give her more than he’d ever intended to give.
Her fingers fisting in the front of his shirt brought him back to earth. Pulling back with one final, hard press of his mouth against hers, he swiped a hand over his brow and eyed her, his breath coming hard.
With any other woman, he would continue, right then and there. With any other woman, it wouldn’t be any more than that.
This time? Allowing himself to be led by the insistence of his body wasn’t right—it was too much, too fast. He needed a moment to breathe.
Another woman might have been pissed off, might have gone after him with sharp words and sharper nails. Emma just looked at him as though she already knew why.
She was the one who broke the silence—he had no words, stuck as they were in his throat.
“Will you show me your work?”