Page 98 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

She smiled, an unreadable expression in her gaze. “It’s perfect.”

They began walking silently. Dylan knew why. He was a gutless wonder who didn’t want to finally admit that what he longed for with all his soul couldn’t be, regardless of Monet flying halfway around the world to see him. It didn’t matter how much they ached for each other, their lives were too damn different. They’d shared something amazing in New York, but the reality of life was insurmountable. Now the best he could do was show Monet where he belonged.

It wasn’t until Mutt raced ahead a while later, barking in that special way that told Dylan he was ready for some fun, that Dylan realized where they’d walked to.

He stopped, looking at the small billabong almost hidden by an outcrop of eucalyptus trees some eight hundred meters from the homestead. Not the main billabong he and Hunter swam in all the time, but the one he sometimes came to when he wanted to get away from the madness of working a cattle station. It was a small body of clear water no bigger than a suburban backyard pool. Very few people came to enjoy its inviting depths, except for the kangaroos that used it as a drinking hole.

“Wow.” Monet stopped beside him, her gaze moving over the ancient gum trees shading the water, the lush green grass surrounding it, the craggy old rocks that jutted out of the ground on one side, making the most perfect ledge to take a plunge.

A plunge, Dylan noticed, Mutt had already taken, given that his dog was happily paddling around in the water.

“This is beautiful.”

He turned to face Monet. “It is. But not as beautiful as you.”

“Dylan,” she said, “I know you think you know what’s best for?—”

He didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. Try as hard as he might, he couldn’t fight the need to kiss her anymore.

Her mouth opened to his straight away, their tongues mating with a fierce hunger he understood all too well. He feasted on her lips, devoured them. He’d never been so starved for anything like he was Monet’s mouth. He buried his hands in her hair, his hat tumbling from her head as he did so. He didn’t care. Neither, it seemed, did she. They stood beside the billabong, the scorching Australian sun beating down on them, and mocked its heat with the blazing ferocity of their kiss.

Tongues battled, teeth nipped. They kissed each other as if it was their only hope of survival, and perhaps it was. Perhaps, Dylan thought, it was the only way they could face the rest of their tomorrows apart. This one kiss.

“Jesus bloody Christ, Monet,” he groaned against her mouth. He was on fire. Aching. “I love you. I wish I didn’t, but I do. How the fuck am I going to exist without you?”

She pulled away from him, and every fiber in his body screamed out in denial, wanting to feel her against his body again. “You’re a moron, Dylan Sullivan,” she said, her voice a choppy breath.

He frowned, his chest tight, his balls heavy. “A moron? For loving you?”

She shook her head. “You still haven’t asked me why I’m here.”

“Why are you here, Monet?”

She reached down behind her, snared his fallen hat from the ground and placed it on her head again. “I showed you New York for six days. I think it’s only fair you show me Farpoint.”

Dylan’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He swallowed, refusing to let his brain take him where it wanted to go. “For six days?”

Monet shrugged. “I’m getting the feeling Farpoint Creek is too big to see in six days. I mean, I could spend six days just drawing this…this…” She waved a hand at the small body of water. “What do I call this? A pond?”

Dylan couldn’t stop his grin. Just as he couldn’t stop his pulse from pounding like an insane elephant in his throat, nor his cock from flooding with eager, impatient need. “Billabong,” he answered.

She grinned back at him. “I think I’ll need to spend at least six days sketching this billabong. At least six. Maybe more.”

Dylan closed the distance between them with a single step, smoothing his hands around her waist. “How many more?”

She gazed up at him, his hat ridiculously big on her head, her wholly kissable lips pulling into a wide, seductive smile. “You know us Americans. We never do anything half measure. I’m thinking as many days as truly necessary. Maybe a month?” She gave him another elegant shrug, a second before her hands slid up his chest and flipped open the top button of his shirt. “Maybe more.”

Dylan’s cock jerked in his jeans and he pushed his hips forward, letting Monet know exactly what he thought of that idea. “Maybe more, ’eh?”

She nodded. “And when I finish drawing the billabong, I’m going to need to spend at least another month making sketches of all the Australian stockmen around here. You know, for my next exhibition.”

“Allthe stockmen?”

She popped open the second button. “Well, maybe notallthe stockmen. Maybe just the Down Under Wonder. Have you heard of him? He’s all I can think about of late. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he flew into New York, made me fall head over heels in love with him and then took off before I came to the realization an artist can live wherever she damn well pleases. In any country she damn well wants.”

Dylan’s throat grew thick. Almost as thick as his cock. “She can?”

Monet traced the tip of her tongue over her top lip. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain Australia has quite a few art galleries, yes?”

---