She breathed out his name and reached for him. “Do it.”

He took her mouth, his tongue gathering her taste, drowning in the sweet, spicy essence of her. He lowered her slowly to the hard floor, and she lay spread out for him, thighs parted, breasts and belly smeared with a gorgeous palette of colors like an artistic gift. He quickly stripped, dipping his fingers into powder blue, then knelt in between her legs.

He painted her with broad, brushing strokes, tracing intricate patterns over her legs and damp inner thighs, digging into her hips until she moaned, arching under each stroke like a cat begging for more. He worshipped every inch of her body and used colors that dazzled his vision—canary yellow, blush pink, deep violet—and then he spread her wide and dipped his mouth to taste her.

His name spilled from her lips in a chant. He licked and teased, sucking gently on her clit, savoring every dark, weeping secret of her pussy. He curled his fingers the way she liked it and thrust hard, his tongue flicking the throbbing nub, and she came against his lips, body writhing beneath his hands and mouth.

He moved up her body, dragging her hand over his front to gather the paint, then pressed her fingers against his chest. “Touch me,” he commanded, wanting her own mark on him. “Show me what you want.”

With a snarl, she was suddenly everywhere, squeezing his cock, sinking her nails into his shoulders, her teeth and tongue and lips covering him with her own brand, and when he was out of his mind, he grasped her knees, pushed them upward, and surged into her hot, tight channel with no barrier between them.

He pressed his forehead to hers. Breathing hard, he stared deep into her eyes and saw it all—the same expression that was on the woman’s face in the painting: the ultimate surrender. The words came up from his very soul, but he pushed them back at the last moment, swallowing them back into the locked trunk to stay, but the truth was in his body with every thrust, with every locked gaze, with every whisper of her name.

He loved her.

He felt her breaking apart and let himself go, his mouth covering hers and capturing every sweet cry. As they came down, he refused to leave her, his mind furiously committing to memory the soft, loving look on her face as she gazed at him, the swollen curve of her lips, the wet silky clench of her body still holding him tight inside, the gentle strokes of her hand on his back.

He blinked furiously, feeling the sting behind his eyes, and without a word, slid out of her.

He eased her upward and turned off the music. After guiding her to the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stepped in with her. He washed her with gentle motions, rinsing the paint from her skin and hair, lingering over the tender parts where his body had marked hers. When they were both clean, he took out a fluffy towel and dried her thoroughly. Then led her to bed, tucking her in like a child.

She said nothing, just lifted the covers to welcome him. He notched his body beside her in the perfect spoon position, then pressed a kiss to her damp hair.

He slept, knowing that tonight had changed everything for him, but the ending was still the same.

Taylor woke up slowly and then stretched. Memories of last night flickered past her, and she turned to see Pierce still sleeping. With careful motions, she untangled her body from his hard warmth and then slipped on soft flannel pants and a tank. She padded out to the kitchen and made the strongest coffee possible to help her with a hangover that had nothing to do with alcohol.

She saw herself spread out on the floor, her body covered in paint, Pierce rising above her like a conquering warrior. They’d lost control and had taken the sex to a new level. Uneasiness stirred. The scene had meant more than some good orgasms. They’d connected in a way she hadn’t thought possible—not with her boundaries. For so long, she’d just figured it was the way she was built—she was unable to give her all to anything or anybody but her painting. She’d made peace with it.

Now, she’d found the whole thing was a lie.

Because last night, she’d given her all to Pierce.

Biting her inner cheek, she analyzed how to handle him this morning. Would it be better to pretend it had been just a normal night of sex? What could she possibly say, anyway? That she’d cracked herself open like an egg and poured herself all over him in a messy, liquid spill? Better to move on and tuck the whole evening away in her mental vault. After all, she’d been deep in her work, and he’d been half-asleep. Things like this sometimes happened—they’d been in a vulnerable, open state and had taken advantage.

Satisfied with her analysis, she poured the two mugs, and on cue, he appeared before her.

God, he was sexy. And naked. Mussed dark hair spilled over his shoulders. Sleepy green eyes blinked in the morning light. A half-curved smile rested on his lips as if he, too, remembered the details of last night and was enjoying every single one. Lean muscles and toasty-brown skin on full display. Hips wide, stance powerful, comfortable in his nakedness in the middle of her kitchen.

A shiver shook through her, and his smile widened. Arrogant ass. She decided to take him down a notch. “Coffee’s ready. Hey, did you end up carrying me to bed last night? I don’t remember much.”

He gave a husky laugh and took the mug she offered. “Too bad. We’ll have to do it again, then.”

She gave a little humph and slid onto the stool, concentrating on the hot brew.

“Want some eggs?” he asked, opening her refrigerator and sorting through the items. “I can make us a cheese omelet.”

He knew she was a sucker for a hot breakfast someone else had made. She despised cooking and thought the entire production was a waste. Pierce wasn’t good at it, either, but he could pull off simple stuff.

“Can you put onions and peppers in it, too?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Sure.” He moved around the cabinets, grabbing the skillet and oil and then chopping up the veggies.

She drank her coffee and watched him, enjoying the view. “You know, you could make a lot of money being a naked chef. They hire them for parties.”

“I don’t have a cute apron,” he said, beating the eggs with a fork.

“I’ll get you one. Something frilly to show off your very fine ass.”

He winked. “Since half of Cape May already saw my ass, I doubt people will want to pay for a second showing. Did you move the salt and pepper?”

She pointed to the upper cupboard. “There. Bella said all my spices were expired and I needed to behave like a grown-up, so she bought me a new rack.”