Kate Hoffmann - Ian

There had been a time, before she’d met Ian, when Sascha’s revelation would have thrilled her. But now, Marisol felt nothing but mild annoyance. How could she possibly care what David said or thought when she had Ian to occupy her fantasies? “When you see him again, tell him I’m not interested.”

Sascha frowned. “You said it yourself, Mari. This Quinn is a temporary thing, so why close the door on David? You two were so good together.”

“Looking back on it, I don’t think we were,” Marisol said. In truth, she and Ian were much better together and they barely knew each other.

“You’re just saying that because you’re all caught up in this new man. Everything is very exciting. But this passion will fade, you know it will.”

Marisol nodded, but she couldn’t completely agree with Sascha’s statement. There was something about the way Ian touched her, the way he made her feel, that seemed to hold so much promise. Their attraction was a mystery and no matter how she looked at it, it didn’t make much sense. He wasn’t the type of man she usually found herself falling for.

But then, maybe that was the answer. She wasn’t falling for him. She was simply infatuated, as Sascha had said, swept away by the growing intimacy between them and by the fantasies yet to be explored.

“Have I stayed here long enough?” Marisol asked.

“Have you talked to everyone, introduced yourself and told them about the opening?”

She nodded, then reached into her purse and found her car keys, handing them to Sascha. “Can you make it back on your own?”

“And how are you getting home?”

Marisol nodded to Ian. “Park the car in front of the gallery and put the keys behind the potted tree to the left of the door.”

Sascha leaned closer and gave Marisol a peck on both cheeks. “Be careful. You don’t know much about this man. Don’t trust him so easily, all right? After that mess with David, you didn’t work for three months. I can’t afford you falling into a funk-and neither can you.”

Marisol walked away from Sascha, her attention now fixed firmly on Ian. He looked so different in the jacket and pressed shirt. Though it wasn’t as sexy as the uniform, it made him look less imposing, more approachable. He’d combed his hair, but the evening breeze had messed it up, the dark waves falling over his forehead. As she joined him, she fought the urge to reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes.

“Has everyone here been introduced to Marisol?” he asked, resting his hand on the small of her back. He made a few introductions and she listened distractedly, her attention focused on his hand. The simple yet possessive gesture sent a rush of warmth through her body and she held her breath as he let his palm drift slightly lower.

As they listened to the conversation, she imagined his thoughts were on seduction and not on the subject of the discussion, the current state of the stock market. Ian’s hand drifted up and down her back as he smoothed his palm against the silk dress, the sensations driving her mad with the need to touch him in return.

“Will you excuse us?” she suddenly said, taking Ian’s arm. They hurried back toward the house, Marisol pulling him along behind her.

“Are we going to the bathroom again?” Ian asked, offering slight resistance.

“We’re getting out of here,” she replied. “I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I can’t talk about myself any longer. These people bore me to death.” She turned to him. “And I have this overwhelming need to get naked with you. You don’t bore me.”

It was so easy with Ian, she mused. She didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly what she wanted. Maybe it was because he wanted the same thing. But it wasn’t just sex and the act of pleasuring each other that she enjoyed. It was the intimacy, the feeling that at the very moment he surrendered, she knew him better than any woman on the planet.

When they reached the privacy of the house, Marisol wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her tongue offering a taste of temptation, her body molding to his. “It was nice of you to come,” she said as his hand skimmed along her spine to cup her backside. “But I think we should leave now.”

“Are you sure?” Ian asked. He kissed her again and again, short, sweet kisses all around her mouth, his breath coming in little gasps, his eyes shadowed with desire. They stumbled back into a dark corner, laughing softly as Marisol’s hand brushed the front of his linen trousers.

“Positive.”

“We’d better get out of here before we get caught,” he murmured as spun her around. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”

“And I don’t?” Marisol teased.

“You make sculptures of naked men. And you don’t wear underwear. I think people expect you to be a little wild.”

“There’s only one thing to do then,” she said, turning away from him. “I must find a way to ruin your reputation.”

“There you are!” Ian and Marisol jumped apart as Cheryl Templeton hurried into the room, flushed from too much champagne. She grabbed them both. “You’re not leaving? It’s early.”

Ian cleared his throat, then moved Marisol in front him, obviously embarrassed by the erection that pressed against his trousers. “Marisol has a lot of work to do before her opening,” he explained. “And I have to get back.”

“Oh, pooh,” Cheryl said. “Well, before you leave, I have to show you our new acquisition. Come, it’s in the library.”

She hurried ahead of them and Ian took Marisol’s hand, weaving his fingers through hers. They walked past the bathroom beneath the stairs and Ian made to pull her inside, but Marisol sent him a warning glare and dragged him back into the hallway.

“George hates it, but I love it,” Cheryl said, staring at the abstract oil. “Emory Colter’s work has grown so much in popularity over the past ten years that we paid far more for it than we intended. But I don’t care.”

She stood in front of Marisol and Ian and chattered on and on about the painting, about their art collection, about the artists she’d entertained. He bent close and dropped a kiss on Marisol’s bare shoulder, his lips warm and damp. She pulled away, but Ian moved behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, smoothing his palms along her hips, then around to her belly and lower.

The silk provided no protection from his touch, the heat of his hands burning into skin. Marisol closed her eyes and leaned back against him as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. She didn’t care that there was another person in the room, yet she was aware that any moment Mrs. Templeton would turn around and see what was happening.

Why was she so defenseless against his touch? When he put his hands on her body, she lost the ability to think for herself. He took control and she was happy to surrender. Through half-hooded eyes, she watched their hostess, waiting for her to move and recognize what was going on behind her.

Ian’s thumbs brushed across her nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. Marisol reached back and ran her hands along his hips, rubbing against his erection, the silk transmitting the warmth and feel of him.

Suddenly, she regretted her decision not to duck into the bathroom. Any show of resistance was silly at this point. The attraction between them had become wildly overwhelming and she loved the way it made her feel-alive with excitement, as if every breath she took was filled with a hunger that begged to be sated.

When he touched her, or simply looked at her, she could think of nothing but tearing his clothes off and enjoying the pleasure of his body. And there were many pleasures to enjoy-his wide shoulders and narrow waist, his flat belly with the tiny trail of dark hair that led to temptations below. He had a small birthmark above his right hip and a scar on his left shoulder, just a few details she remembered from their time in the bathroom. But Marisol wanted more that just a map of his body. She wanted the key to his passion.