His fingers curled into her hair as he devoured her as though she were a delicacy he’d never tried before and couldn’t get enough of. His groan made her crazy for more—his whole body on hers, his hands all over her. He made her want to be reckless, made her want to give him her body, her heart. Her very soul, if he wanted it. Right here. Right now. Made her want to throw her worries and her wariness to the wind. Made her want to pretend she’d never been hurt before. Made her want to believe that he would never hurt her.

She wanted to taste and touch every part of him, but the way he was loving her mouth was addictive. Overwhelming. Tantalizing.

So damned good that she would have been completely lost if he hadn’t drawn back, his heart pounding as swiftly as hers, his eyes the deep, intoxicating color of whiskey.

“Wow,” she said, more an exhalation than a word.

“Wow is exactly right.” He trailed a finger across her lips. “The perfect first kiss.” But instead of diving back in to see if the second would be even better, he said, “Do you believe it yet?”

“Do I believe what yet?” she asked, even though she was pretty sure another of his kisses could make her believe anything.

“That I want your chariot and respect your talent as much as I desire you?”

Two days ago, when they’d been standing in the atrium of his new building, he’d asked her the same question. And though his kiss had made her feel reckless and borderline desperate for more, it hadn’t made her a liar.

“No.” She hadn’t even begun to build the chariot, and though it had taken shape in her mind, he couldn’t possibly see it as clearly as she did—at least, not clearly enough for it to be anywhere near worth the check he’d written. “Not yet.”

“You will.” He licked out against her lips, and it was almost enough to send recklessness to the forefront again. “Soon.”

She smiled through the desperate ache to kiss him again. “I hope so.” Because until that moment came, the ache would only keep growing.

He stood, held out his hand. “I’ll walk you home.”

She put her fingers in his. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s a few more minutes with you.”

Oh God. He was to die for.

Wrapping her beneath his arm, he kept her close on the walk down the hill. The wind came up, whipping away their voices, but talk wasn’t necessary. There was just the sweet feel of his body against her side and his protective arm around her.

At the bungalow door, he turned her in his arms and took her face in his hands. As his gaze roamed her cheeks and her lips, she almost felt as though his mouth were on her. After a long pause in which she found herself holding her breath, he finally lowered his lips to her forehead for a soft, sweet kiss.

Then he said good night and walked away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Charlie was so damned sweet, her skin so soft, her body so supple and strong, yet so giving. Leaving her with nothing more than that peck on the forehead was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He had always been a fairly patient man, at least compared to the other Mavericks, but with Charlie his patience was being sorely tested.

But he could tell she wasn’t ready yet. And if he was honest, he wasn’t ready either—not when there was so much about her he still needed to uncover. Which was precisely why he headed straight for his workroom upstairs—it was little more than a walk-in closet off his bedroom—and flipped on the light. Other than the stars shining through the window, the room was unadorned but for supply cupboards, a bureau full of sketchbooks, a comfortable chair, the side table, and a standing lamp.

After all these days of dying to sketch her, he finally chose a pencil and a drawing pad. The medium he used didn’t matter. No one but Susan, Bob, and the Mavericks knew he drew.

Growing up poor and hungry with parents who were rarely around made it hard to have big dreams. And the ones you had, you learned to keep to yourself. After all, by the age of twelve so many of his dreams of a happy family and normal life had died that he knew to steal this dream away for himself. Drawing was what he did alone in his bedroom when his parents were partying with their “friends,” as though sketching could somehow drown them all out, make them go away, and make everything better, at least for a little while.

Until the day his father found one of his sketchbooks during a bender. Sebastian knew it was his own fault—he’d been careless and had forgotten to shove it beneath his mattress with the others. Even all these years later, he could still hear his father’s voice. Slurred, like it so often was, but clear all the same. You drew this crap? All these pictures of me looking like shit? Like a goddamned drunk?

As far back as Sebastian could remember, probably to age five or six, it wasn’t just creative urges that made him draw everything and everyone around him. It was also his need to understand people. He’d drawn the kids at school, his teachers, the bus driver, and of course, his parents. Because if he could figure them out, then maybe he could fix them.

The sketchbook his father had torn through had been filled with sketches of his dad during—and after—his last bender. Sebastian had simply wanted to know why his father was so attracted to the high that he refused to give it up, even when their lives were falling completely apart because of it. Maybe if Sebastian knew why, then he could finally figure out how to make the drinking stop. And if his father stopped getting wasted all the time, Sebastian had been sure his mother would follow.

But those dreams were slashed the night his father had laughed in such a cruel, devastating way as he ripped out Sebastian’s sketches in big fistfuls of paper, his wasted friends laughing right along with him. My stupid, worthless kid thinks he’s an artist. But he’s nothing, his father had declared. I’ll show you where your pictures belong, you little shit. He’d thrown Sebastian’s drawings into the fireplace, and when they’d lit and flamed, his father had toasted his friends with another bottle, another shot, another pack of cigarettes.

All the while, Sebastian’s mother was passed out on the couch in the corner. Sebastian never knew if his father told her what had happened, or, honestly, if his father even remembered what he’d done. But it didn’t matter.

The damage had been done. Sebastian now knew just how worthless his dreams really were. How crazy. His father was right—he’d been kidding himself to think he could actually be an artist.

Sebastian didn’t draw for years after that, not until the itch in his fingers got so strong that he couldn’t stop himself from doodling in class. He still remembered the first time he drew again, the way his hand shook, knowing what crap he was at being an artist. And yet, at the same time, it was such a huge relief to let out the urges again.

The first time Susan had seen one of his doodles, she’d marveled at it, the opposite reaction to his father’s. Sebastian knew it wasn’t because he was actually talented, but simply that she had the eye of a mother, not an art critic. Eventually, though, he decided it would be okay to draw if he was simply using it as a way to work through his thoughts and feelings, to figure people out. But never again art for art’s sake. Never with any dreams attached. And that was fine, since his dreams had completely changed once he’d finally grown up.

Ever since the moment he’d set eyes on Charlie, he’d wanted to try to capture her unique beauty and her irrepressible spark, even if he didn’t have a prayer of actually doing her justice. Of course, he’d make sure she never found his drawings.

He flipped past a dozen sketches of his parents in the sketchbook before he found a fresh page. It still grated on him that he’d never been able to shine a light on their addictions. Though they were no longer alive, he was still drawing them, still trying to understand why they’d lived their lives as they had—why they’d chosen booze and parties over a life with him.