Page 47

“Please,” I say, my gaze burning into his. “I need you now. I don’t want to wait.”

I grind against his mouth, sure I’m about to break, when he suddenly stops, lifts his head, and with a wry grin, says, “Tell me what you really want.”

My breath is coming so fast, I can hardly form words. “You,” I manage to huff. “I want all of you. Now.”

His head dips again, blessing me with one long, tormenting stroke of his tongue. Then he dips once more, sanctifying me with another.

“Do you know how much I’ve missed you—missed this?” His tongue relentlessly lashes me like a famished wanderer finally offered a feast.

But as much as I love this, as much as I crave every brush of his lips on my flesh, there’s something else I want even more.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask.

His gaze locks on mine and he rises onto his knees. Framed by a meadow of purple irises swaying and shivering at his back, Braxton is more magnificent than I’ve ever seen him.

“You know there’s no rush,” he says, tenderly cupping a palm to my heat. He begins teasing me with the tip of his finger, rubbing and pressing against just the right spot.

My head falls back against the pile of pillows, lost in this glorious sensation. And yet, my need for him is so immediate and raw, I won’t take the chance of Arthur interfering.

“I can’t wait.” My voice is a rasp, torn between wanting him to continue what he started and my insatiable craving for more, more, more. “I need to be with you—no more delays.”

Suddenly, his hand moves away, and I find myself aching for the warmth I just lost.

In one fluid move, he reaches for the nightstand, rips open the small package he grabbed from the drawer, then expertly rolls a condom onto himself.

His gaze, deep as the ocean and just as vast, locks onto mine. Pulling back slightly, he centers his hips, rears back his head, and says, “This is just the beginning.”

My heart resonates with the truth of his words. Instinctively, I nod, understanding fully. We stand on the cusp of something new, something deeper—a transformation into who we were always destined to become.

Then, with a quick intake of breath, and a single hard thrust, he is settled inside me, and the world around us unfurls, blooming into a kaleidoscope of color and light. Van Gogh’s flowers no longer relegated to the background, they shimmer and multiply until we are seamlessly woven into the fabric of the artwork.

Braxton’s eyes spark and glow like stars, as brilliant, amethyst-colored irises trail down the length of my body.

“Tasha,” he gasps as I hook my legs tightly around him, my hands gripping the muscles of his back, pulling him closer, deeper than I ever thought he could be. And all the while our flesh swirls like clouds as our hips continue to grind and drag, desperate for all this and more.

Together we move, our bodies rocking, hips bucking, as Braxton slides and slams into me over and over and over again.

Beneath the veil of a whirling night sky and the soft, golden wheat field yielding beneath us, we soar, piercing through constellations, bursting through stars. The two of us fused, joined, we spiral as one, until lightning cleaves the heavens, and we break, plummeting back toward earth with a gasp, a shout, a strangled cry of each other’s name on our lips.

When it’s over, Braxton lies by my side, gently sweeping a stray lock of hair behind my ear, as I rest a hand on his chest, soothed by the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice brimming with reverence and adoration that mirrors the depth of his gaze.

“No,” I tell him, my mouth pulling into a theatrical frown.

At first, Braxton rears back in alarm. But then catching the playful glint in my eye, he visibly relaxes.

“I’m afraid you’ve altered me forever,” I say, my fingers skipping from his heart to his navel. “From this point forward, I’ll never be the same.” My fingers slink lower. “I’m going to need to repeat that experience at least once every day. But honestly, probably even more. At a minimum, twice.” My fingers slip lower still, delighted to discover he’s as ready for me as I am for him.

Braxton’s smile widens. “I think we can arrange that,” he says.

As he draws closer, his lips inching toward mine, instead of eyes that shine like stars and a face that glows with the warmth of Van Gogh’s sun, his features grotesquely transform into the haunting image of one of the artist’s lesser known, earlier works,Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette.

My breath catches.

My heart hammers hard against my chest.

As my fight-or-flight impulse kicks in, urging me to run as fast as I can.