Fast & Loose Elizabeth Bevarly (bts book recommendations .txt) 📖

Art is subjective. But if you hate my stuff, will you promise to pretend you like it?”

“I love your stuff,” he said. “I already told you that.”

“I know, but I thought you were just pretending to like it.”

“No,” he assured her. “Like I said, I’m not the foremost authority on art, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how gifted you are.”

She smiled shyly at the praise. “Thanks.”

“In fact, I’d like to see more of it. Do you have a studio somewhere? I mean, I didn’t see anyplace at your house that looks like you work there.”

“No, I don’t work at home. I do actually have a studio. It’s not far from here.”

“When can I come by?”

Her smile fell. “Gee, I don’t know, Cole. I get kind of wiggy about having people in my studio. There’s a lot of work in progress there, and I don’t like sharing it with anyone until it’s done.”

“But seeing work in progress is so fascinating,” he objected. “Work in progress is so much more spontaneous and genuine than the finished product. It’s so much purer. In a lot of ways, the work in progress is more honest than the finished product.”

She arched her brows in surprise. “Wow. That’s really pithy. You sound like a real connoisseur.”

He laughed. “Actually, I was thinking about horses. About the whole process of going from foal to yearling to race status. That’s a different kind of work in progress, but you ask me, it’s still art.”

“I totally agree,” she said, brightening. “It’s performance art. Only in that case, it’s the horse’s body and its natural movements as an art form.”

He looked at the, ah, piece on the platform again. The four bodies were in a different position than they had been in before, but Cole had missed the actual motion. Did that mean he’d missed the art? Dang. Too bad.

“So can I come to your studio sometime?” he asked again.

She didn’t answer at first, but dropped her gaze to the glass of wine she’d been nursing since their arrival. Which, he supposed, was an answer itself.

So he added, “It’s just that you can learn a lot more about people when you see them in the environment they love most. The environment they’re most comfortable in.”

Finally, but still without looking up, she told him, “But that’s just the point, Cole. It’s not an easy thing you’re asking. Almost no one has ever visited my studio. I’m very protective of it. And of my art. They’re both like extensions of myself, you know? My art and my studio and my creative process…All of them are a big part of me, and I don’t share them that easily.”

“But you make your living selling your art, don’t you? You have to share it eventually.”

She nodded. “Yeah, but the only pieces that go out in the world are the ones I choose to put there. And only when I’m ready to share them with others. The only pieces I sell are the ones I know are perfect. Or as close to perfect as I can make them. It’s the flawed ones that I don’t want anyone to ever see. And my studio, Cole…” She rolled her eyes and shuddered for effect, an action he supposed was meant to be comical, but instead looked more fearful than she probably knew. “My studio is full of flawed pieces. My process is a messy process.” She dropped her gaze again as she continued, “A lot of times, I have no idea what I’m doing. A lot of times, I make huge mistakes.”

Cole curled a finger under her chin and gently nudged her head up so that she was looking at him. “But it’s the flaws, Lulu, that are the most interesting. And sometimes it’s the biggest mistakes that lead to the greatest discoveries.”

She said nothing in response to that, only met his gaze in silence. But her lips parted fractionally, as if she wanted to say something but was afraid to put voice to it. Thanks to the darkness of the gallery—and the even darker corner into which they had wandered—her pupils were wide and dark, yet somehow her eyes seemed brighter, too. Two faint spots of color bloomed on her cheeks as he studied her, and her breathing suddenly seemed to quicken, her breasts rising and falling noticeably above the scooped neck of her dress. Her spicy scent teased his senses, taunting him, tempting him, making him want things he really shouldn’t be wanting in a public place, even if it was a corner of that place that was dark. And secluded. And quiet.

He started to say something else, something about perfection being overrated, because once you achieved it, what was the point of going on? Instead, before he even realized what he intended, he was dipping his head to brush his lips over Lulu’s, once, twice, three times, four. Then he was cupping her face in both hands and slanting his mouth over hers to kiss her more deeply. She covered his hands with hers and kissed him back, firing a shot of something hot and needy right to his core.

It was damned near close to perfect. But not quite. So what else could he do but go on?

The second kiss was even better than the first, maybe because this time they each took a step closer and their bodies touched as well as their hands. Or maybe this time it was because they were both a little more confident. A little more daring. A little more passionate. This time, Cole dropped a hand to her bare shoulder, skimming his thumb along her collarbone…back and forth and back again…softly, leisurely, methodically. He dragged his fingertips to the base of her throat, then brushed his bent knuckles up over her tender flesh until he could curl his hand over her nape and kiss her more deeply.

She was so soft, so warm, so responsive. He gently nipped her lower lip, making her gasp, rolling his tongue