Reckless in Love by Bella Andre
"Come with me." He wasn't thinking straight, but he didn't care as he led her to a shed by the back fence.
"Where are we going? We need to get back to the kids."
No one had been in or out of the shed all day. The door wasn't locked and he pulled her into the bare, clean space inside. The lone window was too high in the peak for anyone to see through.
"The drawers can wait." He pushed the latch shut on the shed door. "This can't."
*
Charlie had loved everything about today. There'd been no need for all the schmoozing required by the crowded, impersonal galas Sebastian loved. If she fell asleep exhausted tonight, it would be due to a hard day's work using her hands, not because she'd worn herself out with small talk. The Mavericks welcomed and accepted her. It didn't matter that they were all wealthier than Saudi princes. She fit with them, like Susan and Bob or Harper and Jeremy, or even Paige.
If only Sebastian hadn't asked her about her classes. But she'd started it by poking at his past, asking about why he had to make everything perfect. She shouldn't have brought that up, because it had only led to his questions. And now her insides were all twisted up. There were all the letters from the college in the drawer at the bungalow. She had to make a decision. After Labor Day, the kids would start signing up for classes, and hers would either be in the catalog or they wouldn't. She had to do something.
She knew what Sebastian wanted--he'd opened the doors to a bona fide art career and clearly thought she should step through, reaching for the success right at her fingertips. Charlie had never been foolish enough to think she could do everything. She understood you had to make choices about what you could and couldn't do, and that if you took on more than you could handle, you'd fail. Yet her heart wrenched at the thought of telling her dean she wasn't coming back. Lord knew she'd far rather give up all the parties, the endless schmoozing, being on, on, on all the time.
Any way she looked at it--and sometimes she felt that was all she did, examine the situation from every possible angle--she couldn't do that to Sebastian. Not when it would be ungrateful, and worse, it would seem as though she'd chosen teaching over him.
Something had to give--either teaching or the parties. But there was one thing she absolutely would not give up. Not for anything in the world.
Sebastian.
She wanted him with a need that scared her sometimes. Her fear abated when he touched her, looked at her, when he loved her late at night in his big bed until she was boneless with pleasure. And she knew he was in as deep as she was.
But then a new day dawned, and alone in her workshop all those bigger, heavier storm clouds still gathered above her. If she couldn't figure out how to survive in his world of important parties and even more important people, did she stand to lose everything? She honestly wasn't sure how long she could keep on being that perfect celebrity. One day--and she could feel it coming soon--she'd slip up. She'd snarl instead of smile. She'd snap instead of laugh. She might even scream.
"You want to talk yet?"
Despite the heat in his eyes, he was giving her another chance to open up to him. But she was so knotted inside. Too twisted up to talk anything through right now.
"Not yet." His arms were open and she stepped right into them. "But I need this. I need you."
Thankfully, less than a heartbeat later his mouth crushed hers and he hauled her up to wrap her legs around his waist. Backing her up to the counter, he set her down, so thick and hard between her legs that she whimpered.
He yanked her tank top up, then pushed aside her bra and closed his lips over her nipple.
She writhed against him, holding him tightly in the vee of her thighs. "Sebastian." There was such need in her voice, such desperation.
"You make me nuts." He kissed her lips, her neck, the hollow of her throat, while his fingers worked the button and zipper on her jeans. Faster than should have been possible, her pants and boots hit the floor, then her panties. He trailed his lips down her body, licking, tasting, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you." He nipped her thigh, kissed her belly, circling ever closer. "I need to feel you come apart and hear you cry out my name."
He covered her with his lips and there was no more talking. There was just his mouth on her, his fingers inside her. Charlie curled her hand in his hair, holding him close as he took her. There was such sweetness in letting him take over, and the moan in her throat becoming a cry of pure pleasure.
His touch eased all the knots in her stomach, made her forget everything she was supposed to think about. She could only make little sounds, leaning back on her hands, opening herself to him. He was gorgeous, sensual, always needing to please as much as to take his own pleasure.
He held her hips in his hands, forcing her to take everything he had to give. Sensation spiraled up inside her, deep, into her core. Her stomach muscles clenched as the first swell of her climax hit. She panted, then lost it all, falling back on the counter, writhing wildly, crying out his name in broken syllables through wave after wave of ecstasy.
She'd barely come down before he'd rolled on protection and entered her, so deep, so fast, so exquisitely, that she lost what was left of her breath. Holding her tightly, melding their bodies, he forced her higher, pushed her limits. Then he catapulted them over the edge together and she flung her arms around him, kissing him so deeply she tasted pleasure. She tasted reckless abandon.
And, most of all, she tasted love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"Isn't the garden lovely?" Francine sighed blissfully a couple of days later.
Sebastian was seated with her at a cafe table, having just finished a lap around the Magnolia Gardens walkways. "There's some nice shade under this tree."
"Yes, and the breeze truly makes it an idyllic spot."
Francine was radiant. Despite her infirmities, she always looked to the brighter side of things, even if it was just the weather. Sebastian had learned a long time ago that there were two ways to consider life--choosing to see the negative or the positive. Your choice was what defined you, and Francine was a happy person.
Sebastian tried his best to be happy too. Unfortunately, since working on the group home in San Jose, his frustration had been building. All right, it had been building longer than that, for weeks, since Francine had first brought up Charlie's fall classes. Yet Charlie still wouldn't talk to him. If he so much as hinted at her decision about teaching this fall, she completely shut down on him.
For the third time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to do. First with his parents. Then with Francine's health. And now with the woman he loved--and would do absolutely anything for. But she was too damned independent to let him.
Since their tryst in the shed behind the group home, he'd barely let her take a breath without having his mouth or his hands on her. Even if she still wasn't ready to talk to him, he would damn well make sure they didn't sever any of the threads that connected them. She clearly needed time to decide she could trust fully in him, and he was forcing himself to give her that time. He always wanted her, but now more than ever, making love to her until her limbs were jelly and she was hoarse from crying out his name seemed the only way to keep their connection strong.
He worked to shove away the frustration as Charlie returned with the china plates and mugs, one pastry split with her mother and a whole one for him. Francine truly looked as though she was in heaven as she took a delicate first bite.
"Oh my dear, I'll never tire of these." She closed her eyes in rapture. "Your father, God rest his soul, would have gotten fat, wouldn't he, honey?"
Charlie laughed. "He probably would have."
"So does that mean I'm going to get fat if I eat a whole one every time I come to see you?" Sebastian asked.
Charlie merely smiled at him and said, "You'll work off that bun in no time."
She was right. In fact, he'd already burned plenty of calories in the shower with her that morning...with more plans for tonight.
Her mother tsked. "You take after me, honey."
"That's why she's so gorgeous," Sebastian said.
"You're such a shameless flatterer," her mother said with a roll of her eyes and a sweet smile.
When the plates were empty, Charlie put her hand on his arm. "Sebastian, I've got a huge favor to ask."
Her tone was surprisingly serious for the mellow day they'd been having. "Anything for you." They weren't just empty words. It was a promise he planned to keep until the very end. He needed her to know that.
She stared at him for a long moment before rummaging in her enormous bag. Then she pulled out a sketchbook. He glanced from the pad to Charlie's face, his breath tight in his chest. Was she really blindsiding him?
Guilt flickered across her face. But right behind it was determination.
And love.
"It would be great if you'd sketch Mom." She held out the pad and one of his pencils, her hands the slightest bit shaky.
He stared at her offerings for several beats, a hint of anger swirling in his gut. No, not anger. Fear. The two emotions could so easily be mistaken for each other--but if he were totally honest with himself, he'd have to admit he wasn't angry at Charlie.
He was simply scared.
"Oh, Sebastian." Francine's voice was warm and comforting. "I didn't know you were an artist."
"His drawings are amazing, Mom."
They weren't. He'd known it since his father had pointed out every flaw, every mistake, and laughed at the crap his kid had drawn, throwing all his sketches into the fire. Knowing Charlie believed in him despite those flaws was the only thing that kept Sebastian in his chair.
Francine put a hand to her cheek, her fingers bent, her skin mottled with age spots. "You can't possibly want to draw an old woman like me. You should draw Charlie, instead."
"I want to see you through Sebastian's eyes, Mom." She touched his arm again, smiling hopefully. "He has very special eyes."
He couldn't possibly decline. There was no choice. Francine needed this drawing, if only to show her that she was worthy of being seen. And he was so damn tired of listening to his father's voice. He would not allow his fears to hurt this lovely woman. He would overcome them, if only for this moment.
And there was no question about it, Charlie was not only a brilliant diplomat--she was a master strategist. Especially when her actions came from pure love. However misguided she was about his talent, she'd never meant to hurt him.
He finally took the pad and pencil from her. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to hers, letting her know he wasn't angry with her.
He tasted the relief on her lips, and hoped she could taste his love for her on his. Even if he'd never drawn in front of anyone before, and was honestly scared shitless. He could stand on a stage in front of tens of thousands of people, absolutely calm and in his element. But in this moment...
It felt like he was trying to walk the mile Francine had just walked.
"Drink your coffee," he told them. "Have a chat. Don't mind me."
His voice sounded stronger, and more confident, than he actually felt. Then, with Charlie's warm smile on him, he began to draw. She chatted with her mother about the new friends Francine had already made, told her all about the group home, the Mavericks, Susan, Bob, Noah, the kids working on the tile. She repeated the word family and by the fourth time, he was so glad to realize she'd felt like part of his family. Finally, she understood that she was a Maverick.
As the women talked and his pencil flashed across the page, he felt pretty good. For a while. But then...
His tension started to rise, higher by the second. The drawing wasn't right. Wasn't perfect. He could show off Francine's bright eyes, her childlike delight, her enthusiasm, but something about her face didn't hit the mark. He wanted to capture the webbing of fine lines, contrasting it with her sweet smile and illustrating the woman who was strong enough to endure. That was the real Francine, but he couldn't do it. Couldn't master any part of the sketch. Couldn't do Francine justice.
You drew this crap? You drew all these pictures of me looking like shit? His father's voice rang through his head as if Ian Montgomery had risen from the dead and was standing right in front of him. My stupid, worthless kid thinks he's an artist. But he's nothing. I'll show you where your pictures belong, you little shit.
Sebastian erased the lines and started over. He would not let his father get the best of him. But when he tried once more, the voice he couldn't get out of his head was even louder now, and he had to erase again.
"May we see?"
Charlie's voice abruptly jolted him back to the present. To the garden at Francine's nursing home--and the sketch he was all but erasing holes in.
He took a breath, silently counting to four before replying. "Let's work on this drawing later." He made himself smile for them both, feeling it stretch too far across his face until it resembled a grimace. "I can sketch your face from memory, Francine."
But Francine was already holding out her hand. "Please, Sebastian," she said with a sweet, appreciative smile, "don't keep me in suspense."
He couldn't hurt Francine's feelings, would never forgive himself if he did. So he handed over the sketch, hiding his reluctance. It was ten brutally long seconds--he counted each and every one of them--before she looked at him again.
"You've made me beautiful."
"Of course I did. You're very beautiful, Francine."
"I'm old, Sebastian. Old people are usually completely invisible. But I'm not anymore. Not when I look at this wonderful picture you just drew. Look how marvelous this is, honey."
He swallowed hard as Francine handed Charlie the sketchbook.
Whereas Francine had taken only ten seconds, Charlie had barely looked down at it when a sheen of tears swelled in her eyes. Her smile trembled. "This is beautiful." She held the sketch to her chest, as if she needed it next to her heart. "The most beautiful drawing I've ever seen."
*
Charlie had begged her mother to let her keep the drawing--and Sebastian had promised to do another of her very soon. It lay on Charlie's lap as they drove back up Highway 880 to Sebastian's mansion on the hill. She smoothed the edges with her fingers. "I'm going to frame it and hang it on the wall."
"You're going to frame it?" Sebastian got that panicked look she only ever saw when he was talking about his art--or his parents. "You've got to let me try again. I'll make a better one."
They'd stayed late at Magnolia Gardens and now traffic was gridlocked. But for once, Charlie appreciated it, because it meant Sebastian was her captive audience. "You can draw my mother as many times as you want, but you're not getting this one back. It's mine now."
Sebastian was silent for a long moment. Long enough that she prayed he finally understood just how special his gift was.
"I wanted to convey her strength of character. But I couldn't get it right."
"You did get it right," she said, frustration seeping into her voice despite her attempts to hold it in. "This is my mother the way I remember her when I was a child. Before the pain. You've captured her heart as a young woman."
"That's great, but I still didn't draw what I wanted to draw."
Why was it so hard for him to believe in his own art? "You might not have meant to sketch her like this--" She stroked her mother's jubilant face. "--but it turned out to be magic. This drawing makes me remember cookies baking in the kitchen and the dolls she used to knit. Can't you see? That's what art is all about. How you make a person feel."
He kept his capable hands on the wheel, switching lanes, eyes on the road. "You love it because you love me."
She almost growled at him. She'd shamelessly tricked him into sketching her mother, but even though she and her mother had been moved to tears, it clearly hadn't proven anything to him.
Why could he see eve
CHAPTER THIRTY
Early Sunday morning, Charlie had to drag her butt down to the studio. Between working on the house in San Jose, a Saturday afternoon barbecue with the Mavericks, then heading straight to another event that Sebastian was absolutely convinced could be critical to her career--she hadn't even had the energy to make love last night. She was pretty sure he'd carried her in from the car, undressed her, pulled the covers over her, then given her the softest, sweetest kiss on the forehead before whispering, "We'll take tomorrow night off. I promise."
God, she prayed that wasn't a dream. Please, please, please, not again tonight.
Utterly exhausted, she dropped down to sit on the bare concrete floor and stared at her magnificent stallions. Once upon a time they'd been so alive to her. Now they were mere skeletons. She just didn't feel them anymore, and she was so tired that she couldn't get her brain to focus on the vision she used to have.
But Sebastian was trusting her to create something truly amazing for his building. And she'd had a powerful vision of the two of them working side by side, showing their art together--a vision she would give anything to see come true. With only three weeks to go before the grand opening of his headquarters, she would get through the rest of the work even if it killed her.
At this moment, it felt like it would. Even her teeth were tired. All she could manage was coffee, hot and extra sweet. Just the way she liked Sebastian, she thought, but smiling was beyond her.
"Have you eaten?"
Thinking about him must have been like a psychic telegraph message, because there he was. Big, beautiful, sexy. Perfectly silhouetted in the open barn doorway.
"No." She was starving. But not only was she too tired to make herself something, she was too tired to get up and walk into his arms.
Sebastian approached, a tray balanced on his hand. "Eggs Benedict." He sat down with her so they could eat right there on the floor, bending over the plates on the tray. She managed half of hers, plus a piece of toast and some freshly squeezed orange juice.
"You spoil me." The food helped. She was still tired, but now she might actually be able to get up off the floor at some point today and start her work.