Page 11 of Painted in Love

She upped the ante. Maybe she wanted to shock him. Or maybe she just wanted him.

With a sensual smile that felt so right, she murmured, “My number three is going to bed with you.” The words sounded so nonchalant he might have taken them for a joke.

Except his eyes blazed like a raging fire. She knew exactly who he was. But she didn’t care right now. Because he was so damned hot. Because it had been such a horribly long dry spell. Five years. Her ex-boyfriend was such a creep, she hadn’t gone near a man since.

Not until Clay Harrington.

Just for one night. She’d never have to see him again. But more than anything she’d wanted in five long years, she wanted this one night with him.

So she asked, “You want to go upstairs?”

Chapter Four

His eyes going wide, Clay said, “You mean…?”

Saskia didn’t hesitate. She hadn’t eaten all day, and maybe she was tipsy, but she’d made up her mind. Nothing would stop her. “Yes, I mean…”

She leaned over, fisted one hand in his shirt, and pulled him close, until she could see each individual eyelash. Then she gave him his third wish, her mouth on his, teasing him as she ran her tongue along his lower lip.

He groaned, opening his mouth, and she slipped inside, tasted him, a delicious combination of yeasty beer and her sweet amaretto. Their tongues tangled in a few luscious strokes, and with his next groan, he thrust his hands in her hair, angled her head, and took control of her mouth. And control of the kiss.

She wasn’t a virgin. She’d had lovers. She’d had Hugo, who did actually know his way around a bed despite being an ass. But there’d been no one since, the scars he’d left too deep for her to want another man.

But there had never been anyone like Clay Harrington.

He kissed the breath out of her, stole a moan rising up from her throat. After that, she didn’t care who he was, didn’t care about his artists’ platform. She cared only about his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, and his hands in her hair.

Until finally he pulled back, his breathing fast. “Holy hell.”

Saskia stood then. She didn’t hold out her hand to him. She said only, “I’m just going to use the restroom. I’ll be back.”

She was, as promised, then she led him to the hotel stairs almost as if she’d grabbed his shirt again.

The hotel entry lay opposite the bar’s front door, up a narrow set of wooden stairs, reminding her of the stairs to a garret above a bar where Charles Dickens might have written Great Expectations. Reminding her of another garret too. But she wouldn’t think about that now.

Clay’s footsteps followed her up.

At the top, the lobby walls were filled with vintage posters from French circus acts. The reception desk could have come out of a French chateau, too, delicate and ornate, and the standing lamps resembled Tiffany. The lady at the desk looked vintage as well, somewhere in her seventies, in a matronly dress that reached well past her knees.

Though Clay was behind Saskia, the concierge glanced at him. “Can I help you, sir?”

Saskia answered, “We’d like a room with a king-sized bed. The one with the van Gogh prints.” She looked at Clay. “You’ll love the prints. They aren’t his famous stuff, but more like imagined works that would have been in the crates of paintings van Gogh’s mother supposedly tossed out after he died. Although that could be an urban legend.” She turned back to the gray-haired woman. “Is that room available?”

“Yes,” the concierge replied. But her gaze was still on Clay’s truly impressive physique.

A woman was never too old to appreciate a gorgeous man.

Reaching into the pocket of her tunic, Saskia pulled out her credit card. Those deep pockets carried everything she needed.

But Clay was already pulling out his wallet. “I’ll get it.”

Saskia stepped between him and the concierge. “I’m taking care of this,” she insisted, even as she felt Clay’s credit card poke her in the back.

She wanted him to know this was her decision. With her retaining control of the entire adventure. He hadn’t seduced her. In fact, she’d seduced him. And she loved that.

The woman returned her credit card along with two keys. Not cards like a regular hotel, but two ornate skeleton keys. Saskia handed one to Clay. The woman called out the number on the key tag and said, “Down the hall, to the left, the second door on the right.”

At the door, Saskia inserted the skeleton key, feeling him right behind her, so close she could smell his masculine cologne. Or maybe his pheromones. Maybe hers. Maybe both.

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