Take the Heat

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “If this is the only time I get with you, I have to do this now.”

Do what now? I wasn’t sure, but I got the idea when he fondled my breasts. When he pulled the nipples until they were hard and red points. When he stroked himself roughly and quickly, then I knew.

He wanted to come on my breasts.

That was his fantasy, the one he had to do now, his only chance. It made me feel strange inside, part aroused and part proud, like I had done this to him. Like I’d meant something, even if it was only a tawdry sexual dream.

But oh, when he came, it didn’t feel tawdry at all. His face screwed up into a mask of agony and ecstasy. His fist jerked once, twice, pulling back to expose the shiny head of his cock. It jetted out creamy streams onto my breasts, my belly, hot and shocking.

He painted me that way, the way I painted a canvas—honest and vulnerable. And even though I should hate him for this, should probably feel low about what had just happened, I stroked his thigh, soothing, telling him without words that this part, at least, had been safe.

* * *

He got a warm washcloth and cleaned me up, but I could see sleep overtaking him. I could see the shadows under his eyes. From stress? Why wasn’t he sleeping? And why did I care? Then it didn’t matter anymore, because he climbed into the bed and pulled me close.

A few minutes later, the steady rhythm of his breath told me he was sleeping.

With his arms circling me and his leg flung over me and his face pressed into my hair, he was sleeping. It made my heart feel full, and I couldn’t deny what it meant anymore. I wasn’t falling for him; I was already at the lowest point. I’d fallen in love with him as a teenager, and no amount of denial or anger or wishing things different had changed that.

And it was useless. He had just, essentially, paid me to have sex with him. It had been a form of coercion, really, with the threat to my brother in the same room. That wasn’t the basis for a relationship. Even if he wanted one.

Even if I wanted one.

God, this was crazy. It made me shake and twist in my own skin, as if I couldn’t figure myself out. And it was too hot, far too hot in the embrace of his body. I had to pull away, to catch my breath.

But when I stood up, naked in the dark hotel room, I wasn’t sure where to go next. I could get dressed and leave. I wasn’t sure if the guards at the doors would stop me, but I could try a fire escape. But what if Liam got mad and thought I’d reneged on the deal? What if he went after Benny again?

Except…what had he said at the end? He’d said if this was the only time he had with me. As if we might not have sex again. And I didn’t understand how that would work when I owed him fifteen thousand dollars, when we’d made this deal to compensate him. How could one time be worth fifteen thousand dollars?

Maybe the sex was only interest, designed to delay the full payment. I really should have made him spell out the details when we’d made the deal. But I’d never been a good businessperson, which was why Benny had sold my paintings for me—even though that hadn’t turned out well either.

I found his dress shirt crumpled on the floor. When I pulled it on, the musky scent of him suffused me. I wandered into the living room again, running my fingertip along the wall.

Whatever illegal things had been done in this room since Liam had bought the place, they hadn’t changed the building itself. It still vibrated with a sort of charm and goodwill. It still made me feel safe.

Did he live up here, in the penthouse? He must, because although the room was clean, I saw a book propped like a tent on a side table and a half-empty coffee mug on the small dining table. That meant he also slept in the bed where we’d just had sex.

He’d sleep there again tonight. But would I?

I felt a little like a voyeur walking through his rooms. The wires in my brain had crossed. I was curious about the Magnolia Hotel; I was curious about Liam. I couldn’t separate them anymore. I loved the hotel…and I couldn’t pretend to hate Liam anymore. Not after what we’d just done.

The last room I came to was a study.

It had gorgeous walnut siding and a beautiful carved desk, but I couldn’t think about those. All I saw were the paintings on the walls. Four of them, one for each wall. And another one propped up against the wall as if waiting to be hung.

My paintings.

Vivid royal blues and a pale peachy pink. Damask fading into a rusted copper.

My breath came short and then not at all. I clutched my hands to my stomach as if it could hold me in, rein back what I felt, what I hoped. I’d always known that the hotel inspired me, both real and imagined. But what I hadn’t realized was that I’d been painting for the hotel. That these painting were designed to fit here and become part of the place I loved.

Liam had bought them. This was how he’d known for sure my brother was cheating me.

He had bought them for a lot of money too, and why would he do that if my family already owed him money? In fact, why would he make th

at deal with me, when I would have found a way to pay him the debt, when he could have had another woman for far less, for nothing at all?

A sound came from the door. He stood wearing only his slacks, leaning against the door frame but looking far from casual.