“I’m not much of a compromiser.”
“Oh.” Megan shrugged uncertainly.
“It’s happened to you, hasn’t it?”
Megan hesitated before she answered. Were they talking about the same thing? Megan doubted that she’d ever fully plumbed the depths of her own creativity or passion in the way that Christian had. Although she didn’t know him that well, she intuitively understood that he was the type of man that had lived life fully and without restraint. Maybe the only thing that they had in common as artists, and as human beings, was that they both felt like a change was in the offing, threatening terrible uncertainty, promising untold riches…
“Probably not. I’m speaking more from a teacher’s point of view than from someone who has actually traveled the tortuous pathway of the artist,” she admitted with a shaky laugh. “But I know what it’s like to care deeply for those around you, to hold dear the organizations, the routines, the established relationships that have taken years or lifetimes to build…and at the same time…to want to shatter those structures, too, so that you can make a whole new mold for yourself.”
“Spoken like a true sculptor.”
She returned his smile.
He brought his knee up onto the couch and turned toward her. He took her hand. Megan glanced over at him in surprise. His movements had been minimal, but suddenly the couch seemed smaller and the space between them had shrunk. The rough pad of his thumb stroked her inner wrist gently.
“What would your new mold be like?”
Her body sprung to life at the rumbling, intimate quality of is voice. She laughed to cover her uncertainty.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d be a little freer, less doubtful about myself, less unsure.” When Christian didn’t immediately reply, she added. “I know that’s not very original. Most people would probably say the same thing.”
“I don’t know. I think I understand the gist of your meaning, not just from your words, from what I’ve learned about you so far. You know I’m not very convinced that you see everything from the cold, passionless position of the teacher’s podium.”
“No?” she murmured, her stare fixed on his chest. A languorous spell seemed to be falling over her at the sound of his deep, resonant voice. Her head fell back to rest on the back of the couch. She felt relaxed and excited at once, a paradox that she’d never had in her life and yet continually experienced with Christian. She wasn’t alarmed or anxious when he shifted his weight even closer to her or when his other hand came up to span the side of her neck, lightly massaging the appreciative muscles there.
He shook his head. “You read Walt Whitman religiously, which means you’re a closet sensualist. Most people wouldn’t guess that you and old crusty, lusty Walt were soul mates, but against all logic, it makes sense. I can see the passion in your art, too, although it’s nascent.”
His thumb came over and pressed lightly into her full lower lip. He watched his finger rub the firm flesh with slow, hypnotic circles. When her lips parted and a small sigh drifted across his knuckle, his eyes met hers.
“I see passion in your eyes when I touch you,” he murmured huskily.
He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. His mouth was insistent, but patient and unhurried.
Megan sighed with satisfaction and let her fingers sink into his soft hair, then beneath it, glorying in the sensation of corded neck muscles and warm skin. Liking the feel of him so much, she sent her fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, lightly touching the bare skin of his back and shoulders.
Christian groaned and deepened the kiss. Even while his tongue sought out the mysteries of her mouth, he resituated their bodies on the couch, encouraging her to recline, bringing her beneath him. The kiss went on, at times lazy, exploratory, at others bold, relentless…reckless.
Megan was lost, but she had never cared so little about finding her way home.
Her lips turned blindly to caress Christian’s cheek and ear when he buried his face in her neck. His mouth there felt hot and hungry on her sensitive skin. His head and tousled hair felt wonderful pressed against her cradling hand…surprisingly dear. She felt the increasingly familiar pleasurable pull at her breasts. When he covered her lower body with his own, she welcomed his weight, sighing at the way the pressure both gratified the ache at her core and increased it.
She experienced a strong desire for more of his weight, a need to create more friction with their bodies, a mandate to absorb even more of this man onto her, into her.
He settled into the juncture of her thighs with a groan of satisfaction. She opened her thighs to accommodate him; he pressed into her softness. All thought flew from her brain as sensation took center stage.
Despite being caught in the web of passion that he weaved around her, Megan’s eyes opened in amazement when she felt him place his cheek and mouth beneath the lower swell of her left breast and nuzzle upward. Her hands rose to tangle in his thick, silky hair. She pressed his head closer despite the sluggish doubts that started seeping into her awareness.
“Christian.”
“Hmmm?” he asked absently, fully absorbed in his task. His hands were placed innocuously enough—one of them on the couch, bracing him up so that he could reach her while the other delved into her hair. But the motions of his mouth were far from innocent. He continued to nuzzle the weight of her breast with his mouth and nose. He made small, hungry kisses, first on the underside of her breast, then around to the fullness at the top. Megan gasped as heat flashed through her and pooled between her thighs.
“Christian…I don’t think that—”
Her half-hearted protest was cut off mid-sentence when Christian placed his mouth directly over her nipple and suckled gently but insistently.
Even through the fabric of her sweater and bra, Megan felt that hot, sweet tug all the way to her womb. She arched her back, her bod
y granting him access even when her brain was stingier with its consent.