Page 35 of Painted in Love

Beneath her, he laughed, and she felt it purr through her.

“We can do it all night long,” he agreed. “But we need sustenance first.”

When she sat up on him, the night air cooled the perspiration on her skin, and she ran her hand over his chest, feeling that same delicious sweat. There was a part of her that didn’t want to let him go.

But she couldn’t admit that. “There’s all that leftover Japanese food.” Climbing off the bed, she strolled naked out of his bedroom, feeling his eyes on her the entire way.

In the living area, she grabbed his shirt off the floor and tugged it on. There was still one button left. Then she pulled everything out of the refrigerator. She already had the microwave whirring when he came in, wearing a pair of sweats.

Standing behind her, he blanketed her back with his bare chest as he enfolded her in his arms. When the microwave beeped, they ate while standing at the counter, feeding each other, stealing kisses between bites and sips of beer.

He made love to her twice more in the night.

In the morning, she would call it good sex. But for now, she’d never known lovemaking like this in her life.

Saskia lay sleeping in his bed, the morning rays bathing her body in jewel tones. Clay jogged out for croissants from the corner bakery, returning to hear the shower running. More than anything—certainly more than was good for him—he wanted to step under the spray with her and make love to her again, with his hands, his tongue, his lips, his body.

But maybe she needed a rest. He brewed coffee, using perfectly roasted beans imported from Kenya by Will Franconi, Maverick importer extraordinaire.

He smelled her then, scented with his manly shampoo.

It wasn’t the rich coffee aroma or the croissants that made him salivate. It was her.

He turned to find her dressed in the same outfit she’d worn yesterday, though he wished she were still wearing his shirt, as if she’d claimed it and him. With a quick glance at the sofa, he saw his clothes were now neatly folded.

“Thank you,” she said with an exaggerated groan. “Coffee. Just what I need.”

He poured her a mug, pushing it toward her along with the cream.

She poured liberally while he took his black.

She didn’t meet his eyes, which was unusual for her. When discussing her boss and his artwork, even when talking to all the artists downstairs, she’d watched with rapt attention, listening to every word.

“I don’t normally do this,” she said. “Keep jumping into the bed of a man I barely know.” Just as he thought, she felt a little awkward with him. “Not even once, let alone twice.” Her lips curved with the slightest hint of the beautiful smile that always did him in.

She gestured to the coffee and breakfast before them. “But you do, don’t you?”

Busted. He was the furthest thing from a monk. Although he didn’t jump into every bed. Nor did he flit from woman to woman, one right after the other. That would be just plain rude.

He didn’t want to lie. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’ve done this a few times. But?—”

She held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain. Straight-up sex without emotional ties is clearly working for us.” She fluttered a hand between them. “So far, at least.” A beat of silence fell before she said, “What if we agree that when one of us wants out of whatever it is we’re doing, we just say so and it’s done? We won’t let it affect our working relationship.”

Last night, she’d said two or three times. His heart bloomed with the idea that she was offering more. Except that he didn’t want straight-up, unemotional sex. Not with her. It was insta-lust, of course, because they’d known each other only two days.

But his gut, maybe even his heart, was telling him it could be so much more.

If only she gave it a chance.

Even after all her emotions of last night, when morning came, Saskia knew it had to be just sex and nothing else. It was the only way she could work. Yet a tiny part of her heart lurched. Especially since she was lying to him about who she was.

The thought wrapped her insides up in a neat, guilty bow. How could she keep on lying to him? But how could she tell him the truth? She’d just offered him a casual relationship. It was that word. Relationship. It didn’t imply straight-up sex with no emotional entanglements.

The worst was that she actually liked him.

A part of her—tiny but growing—felt she needed to tell him the truth.

But the bigger part shouted that the only way to keep a secret was by telling no one. If she even hinted to Clay that she was San Holo, she’d have to explain why she worked this way. She’d have to tell him about her parents, about the intervening years, about Hugo and how much trust she’d put in a man who hadn’t deserved it.

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