Feeling overwhelmed, I study the stars above us as the wind off the water ruffles my hair. My gaze goes back to the view of the river and bridge. “It’s beautiful. Who would have thought a view like this existed in our city? I’m not sure which would be better. This or seeing the actual painting.” I imagine the strings he had to pull for this. “Thank you.”
His eyes are soft and liquid in the shadows of the rooftop. “You’re welcome. But having had both experiences, I’d say this is far better.”
My heart picks up speed as he stares at me. Feeling overwhelmed again, I turn back to the view. “Because?”
“You’re here.”
Geesh. Being with me is better than being in France? Desperate to lighten the mood, I say, “Where’s the cheesy romance music?”
He inches closer to me. “Tonight’s about art, about you.”
Afraid of what he might reply next and that leg humping will ensue, I stay silent.
We stand, taking in the lovely view for several minutes until he says lightly, “There’s another surprise over here.” He motions behind us.
On the curling tar of the roof lies a spread-out sleeping bag. He pulls me down and we sit with our backs against the rough chimney. The ledge is less than five feet from us, leaving nothing to separate us from the incredible view.
There’s also a duffel bag, which he is rummaging through. He sets a small battery-operated lantern on the blanket in the few inches between us. “Not especially romantic, but during the test run the wind blew the candles out.”
My fingers pull at the material of the slippery sleeping bag. “Test run?”
“Hey, I’m going for perfection.”
I watch him open a bottle of wine and don’t say aloud that his version of perfection has seduction written all over it. It’s also possible that he’s trying to take things deeper than simple seduction. I’m not sure which would be worse.
He hands me a plastic cup of wine, then lifts his own and knocks it with mine. “To van Gogh.”
“And starry nights,” I say, lifting my cup.
“I’m damn lucky that it’s a clear night and not raining or cold,” he says, looking at the sky. Then he holds the cup under his nose and takes a long whiff. “Tell me what you smell.”
I take a sniff. Then another. “Wine. Is it red?”
“You can do better than that.”
I take a longer sniff. “Berries?”
He nods.
Sniff. “Cherry?”
Another nod.
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. “Maybe a touch of something woodsy?”
“Ah, the only thing you missed is the hint of currant.”
“Currant? I have no idea what you’re talking about. And if this wasn’t in a plastic cup, I’d think you were a wine snob.”
His teeth gleam when he smirks. “Oh, I’m a wine snob. You can’t go to Europe for three summers and not become a wine snob. I’ll drink any crap beer but never crap wine.” He takes a sip. I watch the shadows along his throat as he swallows it. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”
Dragging my gaze from his throat, I take a sip. The liquid’s warm and rich and fruity. “It’s good. A little dry.”
“Good thing I went mild.”
“Mild?”
“If it were too sweet, it wouldn’t go well with these.” He opens a box and I’m staring at chocolates lying in silver little cups. He sets the box between us, then reaches for one. He lifts it to my mouth. “Take a bite.”
Seriously shy to be eating from his hand, I take a tiny nibble. It’s good. Dense. Creamy.
“Now take a sip of wine.”
I robotically follow his orders, but when the wine hits the chocolate, smooth and dry meet rich and creamy—then meld into intense. “Holy crap! It’s amazing.”
His laugh causes his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “Wait until you taste it with the dark chocolate.” He pops the bitten candy in his mouth, takes a drink of wine, and holds out another chocolate for me to bite. “Dark.”
With another shy bite, my lips touch his finger. A jolt from the contact has me sitting back and gulping wine.
A boat horn sounds somewhere echoing along the river.
“Good?” he asks in a husky voice.
“Very. Better than the last. So,” I say, still holding but setting the cup on my thigh, “I’m curious. How did you come up with this?” I gesture to the roof, then the view.
“It’s kind of embarrassing.” His eyebrows knit together as he takes a sip.
The wine and chocolate in my stomach turn as I wait for him to admit he’s had sex up here or something.
“Romeo, our guitarist, has been pushing the indie route lately. We’ve been searching for places to shoot a video. This roof is on the list.”
All thoughts of sexual escapades fly out of my head. “Why is that embarrassing?”
He shrugs and crosses his arms over a lifted knee. “I don’t know. I guess going live on YouTube seems over the top. I like to perform. Going national or international or whatever was never part of what I expected. We’re big around here. That’s always been enough.”
“No dreams of filling a stadium?”
“I…” He runs a hand through his messy hair. “Obviously I can’t speak from experience, but I imagine the connection I have with the crowd won’t be the same in a huge concert. And that connection is what keeps me going sometimes.”
Maybe because of his gorgeous exterior, his obvious wealth, and the harem that’s apparently available twenty-four seven, I’m always surprised when he deepens the conversation. Like when he talked about his connection to the audience at his shows in the tattoo shop. My cynicism and reservations about him fade into the background. “Except for the glimpse of temper at the coffee shop, I imagined your life carefree.”
He turns to me, resting his back against the brick of the chimney. “Everyone needs a bit of light to keep them from the dark, even when they live in a perfect world like me,” he says with a trace of sarcasm. “But I like hearing that I’m in your imagination.”
“Don’t get too excited. My imagination isn’t all that wild.” I’ve become good at keeping it in check. In fact, Justin is the only guy I’ve met since Trevor who breaks past the barriers to enter my imagination.
Setting his cup at the edge of the blanket, he leans closer and the breeze is full of his dark, earthy cologne. “Well, I can’t say the same thing.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Please don’t tell me I’m running naked through your head.”
“Sometimes,” he admits as his lids lower and his gaze rests on my lips. “Right now my imagination is tamer.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly and a little breathlessly as I pull a strand of windblown hair from my cheek. He watches me as if giving me time to grasp the purpose in his eyes. I could turn away from his sensual gaze, look at the view, and end the excitement lurching in my stomach, but I don’t want to.
“What I’m imagining right now is this,” he murmurs. He bends and his lips brush against mine. Our odd angle against the brick, with my cheek almost brushing the chimney and him shouldered against it, means he can’t kiss me fully. Still, his lips press against the side of my mouth with a slow burning heat. The rest of my body hums with anticipation, waits for him to drag me closer and deepen the kiss, but he keeps his hands still, touching me only with his mouth. The slow tantalizing caress of his lips is the drip of a powerful drug drawing me into a cocoon of lust.
Finally, he shifts and kisses me fully, yet still without any other contact. I taste the chocolate and wine on his tongue as he explores my mouth. The plastic cup in my hand cracks in my tight grip, and the sound echoes between us.
He pulls back a bit.
“Sorry,” I mutter in embarrassment.
With the shadow of a smile, he takes my cup and sets it next to his. Then he moves the lantern and chocolates from between us. He scoots closer and lifts me halfway into his lap. His fingers brush over the barbells in my eyebrow in a light caress. “This all right?”