The Mighty Quinns: Ian. Kate Hoffmann
pulse point.
As it had been the night before, all sense of reality and propriety seemed to vanish. He forgot the citation, her refusal to follow his request, the reason for his visit in the first place. Every thought was focused on her body, on her reaction to his touch. He became consumed with the need to possess her, whether it be with a kiss or a caress or something much more intimate. Ian really didn’t care. He wanted Marisol Arantes and whatever the consequences, he’d deal with them later.
Ian reached up and switched off his radio, then grabbed her waist and gently pulled her along to the worktable near the rear of the gallery. Without interrupting their kiss, he lifted her up on the table until she sat in front him. He drew back, then slowly pulled her T-shirt up and over her head.
The sight of her naked body took his breath away. He knew it would be perfect, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer beauty that she possessed. He reached for her breasts, cupping one in each hand and teasing at her nipples with his thumbs.
She watched him, her lips damp and slightly parted, her eyes half-closed. He ran his hands down her torso and over her hips, then reached behind her and shoved aside the papers and the tubes of paint scattered over the surface of the table. Gently, he pushed her back until she was lying in front of him.
He stepped between her legs, taking his time to explore her body with his hands and his lips. Marisol closed her eyes and surrendered to his touch, a smile curving the corners of her mouth. Ian wanted to strip off his own clothes and sink into her body. But he fought the temptation and instead, focused on pleasing Marisol.
He pressed a kiss to her belly, then moved lower, to the sweet spot between her legs. A tiny moan slipped from her throat as he ran his tongue along the soft folds of her labia. He parted her with his fingers then found her clitoris, gently caressing it with the tip of his tongue.
She arched against him, furrowing her fingers through his hair. He glanced up at her and saw the effect he was having, the flush of desire on her face, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Ian had always been generous to his partners in bed, but this was something different.
He wanted her complete surrender, to know that at any moment he could possess her and she could do nothing to stop herself. Marisol’s breath came in quick gasps, but Ian brought her along slowly, determined to prolong her pleasure.
And then, before he knew it, she was there, crying out as her body shuddered, grabbing the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands. Ian kissed the inside of each thigh, then took her hands and pulled her up. Gently, he smoothed the hair out of her eyes, tracing his fingers over the delicate arch of her eyebrow.
“Take me to bed,” she murmured.
“Where do you sleep?” he asked.
She pointed up. “I have an apartment above the gallery.”
Ian grabbed her T-shirt and tugged it over her head, then wrapped her legs around his waist and picked her up. He found the stairs behind the small kitchen. The apartment was sparsely furnished and filled with unpacked boxes. A rumpled bed stood in a corner below a bay window. He set Marisol on the mattress, then drew the covers up over her.
“Take your clothes off,” she said.
“I can’t,” Ian replied. He bent over and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’m on duty.”
Marisol groaned. “No, no. Call your boss and tell him you won’t be in.”
Ian chuckled. “I am the boss. I have to set the example. But I’ll be back. Later.”
Marisol rolled to her side and pushed up on her elbow, giving him a seductive smile. “We have some unfinished business.”
He nodded, then bent over her and kissed her. “Pay that ticket, Miss Arantes, or the next time I see you, I’ll have to slap the cuffs on you and drag you down to the station.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” she teased.
Ian walked to the door, then looked back once before leaving. Marisol had already curled herself beneath the covers, her eyes closed. He shook his head. This was a helluva way to start his day.
A PERSISTENT RINGING woke her up from a delicious dream. Marisol rolled over in bed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She stared at the clock for a long moment, then flopped back down into the pillow. Four o’clock. By the light shining through the windows, she could assume it was p.m., not a.m., and she hadn’t missed the Templetons’ party.
She hadn’t slept so well in ages and there was no question about what had relaxed her. She smiled as she reached for the phone, hoping that it might be Ian. Perhaps she could convince him to return and finish what he’d begun. Marisol put the phone to her ear, expecting to hear his deep voice. “Hello?”
“This is National Express. We have a delivery for Marisol Arantes.”
“That’s me,” she said, stifling a yawn. “From who?”
“It’s a rather large crate, ma’am and we need your signature. We’re out front.”
Frowning, Marisol sat up. “I’ll be right down.” She wasn’t expecting anything. All her paintings and sculptures had been shipped from New York last week and had arrived the day after she had. She grabbed a pair of paint-stained capris and tugged them on beneath the T-shirt.
When she opened the front door of the gallery, Marisol found a man waiting, dressed in the navy uniform of the delivery service. He handed her a clipboard and she signed her name, then he helped her slide the crate inside the door. As she dragged the crate across the floor, Marisol noticed that the sculptures she’d placed in the windows were now sitting in a tidy row along the wall.
She chuckled softly as she ripped open the packing slip. Mr. Law-and-Order had obviously decided to do the job himself before he left that morning. She set the crate aside, then grabbed the sculptures and placed them back into the window. If she couldn’t win the battle between Ian and her body, then she wasn’t about to give up on this fight.
When she returned to the crate, she noticed her father’s name on the packing slip and smiled. Perhaps he’d changed his mind about showing his work in her gallery after all. Marisol ran her hand over the edge of the four-foot-square crate, then decided to open it later.
She was due at her very first Newport social event by 5:00 p.m., a cocktail reception at the estate of George and Cheryl Templeton. They’d been important clients of David’s, and when they’d heard that Marisol was moving to the area, they’d insisted on setting up a small reception for her.
Marisol detested the business side of the art world, content to close herself up with her work and let it speak for itself. But unfortunately, most of the major collectors insisted on trotting out “their” artists and promoting careers that, in turn, would increase the value of the art they held.
George and Cheryl had been kind to offer their patronage and Sascha Duroy, Marisol’s best friend, had promised to attend, so the evening wouldn’t be all business and boredom. Sascha had a way of making even the most stuffy events amusing with her colorful stories and ribald sense of humor. Still, given the choice, Marisol would have preferred to stay home in the hopes that Ian might wander by and finish what he’d started earlier that morning.
She scolded herself silently. All her good intentions, all the promises she’d made to herself had suddenly evaporated in the presence of this man. But Marisol didn’t need to fall in love with him to have a good time. And there was no doubt that Ian would be a very good time.
She glanced at the clock on the wall in the back of the gallery. The party began at four, but as the guest of honor, she wouldn’t be expected to arrive before five. That meant she could stretch it to six.
The doorbell buzzed again and Marisol hurried back to the front of the gallery, wondering what the deliveryman had forgotten. Annoyance turned to anticipation as she realized Ian could be waiting, his workday over. But when she opened it, she found Sascha standing on the sidewalk,