Reckless In Love (The Maverick Billionaires #2)(68)

“You are.” She paused for a moment before adding, “The drawings of your parents are beautiful too. I feel as though I’ve met them now. Does drawing them help you remember them?”

He shook his head, fast, almost violently. “No, I’d remember everything, even without the sketches.” Especially all his failures with them. “I guess I’ve never given up trying to figure out what I could have done for them.”

An even deeper understanding lit her eyes. Then she pressed against him, rising on her toes to whisper, “Have all your drawings helped you figure me out?” She curled her arms around his neck.

“Not yet.” His answer was muffled in her hair. “But I’m working on it.”

“Maybe you just need to put a few more hours in, only this time instead of using pencil and paper, you could draw on my skin with your fingers.”

His hands were already on her, burrowing beneath the shirt she’d borrowed, shoving it off her shoulders. “I can draw with my tongue as well.”

“Draw with everything, Sebastian. Absolutely everything.”

He picked her up, her body as light as a down pillow in his arms. He needed her love to banish the darkness of his thoughts and the things he’d so stupidly said to her. After laying her carefully on his bed, he stripped off the sweats he’d pulled on.

“Now, let’s see,” he murmured like a painter studying his canvas. “A line here.” His tongue marked a streak from one beautiful, rose-tipped nipple to the other. “Geometric designs, I think.”

She laughed, then shivered as he drew tongue circles around her nipple.

“We need more than one paintbrush.” And his fingers joined the play. He traced her supple skin, her flesh quivering beneath his strokes.

“You make beautiful art—” She gasped as his touch painted a line straight down between her legs. “—but your work is also highly stimulating.”

“It will take hours to cover every inch.” Hours of bliss, hours of begging her forgiveness for his lapse into the anger and fear of the past, hours of loving her.

Her body was his sketchbook and he filled every inch until her body shuddered under his tongue, around his fingers. She tangled his hair, arched into him, and as she wrapped herself all around him, he prayed she felt his love for her in every kiss, every caress, every breath.

* * *

Charlie had long since fallen into an exhausted sleep in his arms and the sun was peeking over the horizon. Yet Sebastian still couldn’t sleep.

She’d told him how beautiful his drawings were, how talented he was, that his sketches shouldn’t be shoved in the back of a drawer like a dirty little secret. But if he truly had talent, then by now he should know how to help her fully realize her potential. He should have figured out how to convince her to step into the light and accept everything the world could give her.

He’d sensed her hesitation at the gala as people all but threw commissions at her, begging her to create sculptures for them. It was the same hesitation he’d felt with her more than a dozen times since then. It was almost as if she didn’t want to be a huge success.

Sebastian frowned. Could he be reading her wrong? Was it possible she could be the one artist on earth who wasn’t looking for acclaim or accolades? Or were all his screwups with her coloring everything else? First he’d blown it big time by offering to pay for her mother’s care right after the first time they made love. Then tonight he’d lashed out at her for discovering a secret he shouldn’t have kept from her in the first place. The fact that she hadn’t walked out on him was a true miracle...and more than he deserved.

He tightened his arms around her, renewing his vow to get things right with her from now on—and to make sure he gave her absolutely everything she deserved. No matter what.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Sebastian had made Charlie’s body his work of art into the small hours of the morning, bringing her to ecstasy so many times she’d lost count. But even if she’d never had the pleasure of making love with him, she would still think he was a true artist in every sense of the word.

She had to find a way to make him believe that. And she knew where it had to start—with getting him to realize he didn’t have to be Mr. Perfect. Was da Vinci perfect? Michelangelo? Of course not. And neither was she, with her dinosaurs built out of bullet-riddled road signs. That didn’t mean she wasn’t an artist. It didn’t mean he wasn’t either.

It was obvious his need to be perfect all came down to his parents. He was still broken up over not being able to save them. The drawings of his father, though, revealed so much. The lines on his face exposed not only weakness, but cruelty too. Sebastian had never mentioned a mean streak, but Charlie suspected there was more to the story than he’d admitted on stage—or to her. More, maybe, than Sebastian even wanted to admit to himself.

It was easy to spend all her time thinking about Sebastian. Wanting to give back as much as he’d already given to her. Just plain wanting him. But she needed to hustle on building the horses if she ever hoped to start the dinosaur for Noah.

Pulling down her face shield, she sparked up. The horses’ legs needed to appear like fine machinery, pumping, working, galloping headlong. They didn’t care that their master had been thrown to the ground in a heap or that the chariot was a broken shell they dragged behind them. They simply needed to fly. Just like Sebastian.