Cheryl nodded, and when Ian reached around Marisol, she took his hand as well, then led them both out to the foyer before bidding them good night.

Ian and Marisol stood at the driveway while the valet retrieved Ian’s car, their fingers tangled together, Marisol’s thoughts focused on the rest of the evening. She was past playing coy games. When they got back to the gallery, she’d take him inside, tear his clothes off and force him to make love to her. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t imagine that he’d refuse.

When the valet pulled up in front of them, Ian walked around to the passenger side of the convertible and helped her in. They drove out the driveway and through Newport in silence, the warm night air soft on her skin. Marisol glanced his way every so often, trying to discern his thoughts. A tiny smile was the only hint he gave and she nervously toyed with her evening bag, snapping the clasp open and shut.

If everything followed as it had begun, he would stay with her tonight-and it would be wonderful, their naked bodies lying together, hands and mouths exploring until they both reached the point of no return and then the wild rush of pleasure as he moved inside of her.

Marisol took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She’d drunk too much champagne, but her head felt perfectly clear, every sense piqued, every nerve on edge.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

Marisol turned to find him looking at her. “No. Not at all.”

“So, you need to work tonight?”

“No,” she murmured. “I was just saying that because I wanted to leave.”

His smile widened and he fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Marisol didn’t even notice when they reached Bonnett Harbor or when he turned down Bay Street to the gallery. When the car stopped, she waited for Ian to come around and open her door.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the car, then held out his hand. “Keys,” he said. But he didn’t wait for them. Instead, he pulled her into the shadows of the doorway and kissed her. “Keys,” he repeated.

Marisol drew back to search through her purse, then remembered. “No keys,” she said. “I gave them to Sascha.” She moaned. “And she likes to be the last one at the party. We’ll have to go back and get them.”

“No time,” Ian said, his voice low and seductive. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going? We can’t go to your place. You have your reputation to protect.”

“I know a place.”

They got back in the car and Ian drove toward the water. When they reached the bottom of Harbor Street, he turned left and drove along the docks, then turned again in front of a sign that advertised Quinn’s Boatworks. “My father’s business,” he said, nodding at the sign. When he reached a chain-link gate, he hopped out of the car and unlocked it, then drove the car through.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Wait,” he murmured as he locked the gate behind them.

They pulled over a small rise and Ian turned off the lights and the ignition, then coasted to a stop. She stared out across the waters of Narragansett Bay. In the distance, the lights of Newport twinkled. Just above the horizon, the moon shone brightly.

“We’re alone,” Ian murmured as he jumped out of the car. “This is the boat landing for my dad’s boatyard. The only way down here is through that gate. It’s completely private.”

He helped her out. “It’s beautiful,” Marisol said.

They walked around to the front of the car and Ian lifted her up to sit on the hood. He stepped between her legs and took her face in his hands. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her gently. “And you’re making me crazy, Marisol,” he continued, his breath hot on her neck. “All I do is think about you…about this. All day long, I can feel you on my hands and taste you in my mouth.”

“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, arching back, her hands braced behind her.

“Don’t be.” He yanked her closer, then ran his hand from her collarbone to her belly and back again. “I can’t stop touching you. I don’t want to.”

She closed her eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe it’s too soon.” But her words weren’t a warning, simply a test to see just how far he was willing to go for pleasure. She reached for his belt and began to work at the buckle.

“I’m the one who shouldn’t do this,” he said, brushing the straps of her dress aside. “I made a deal with my brothers.”

She yanked the belt out of his pants and tossed it over her shoulder into the car. “You made a deal?”

“No sex, no women for three months. My idiot brother thought it would be a good idea.” He pressed her back on the hood and kissed her neck, trailing kisses across her shoulder. “He thought it might help us understand women.”

“And has it worked?”

“No.” Ian reached down for the hem of her dress and drew it up, then groaned softly. “Do you ever wear underwear?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” she said. She furrowed her fingers through his hair and pulled him into another kiss, her head spinning. Every nerve in her body was on fire and his touch was the only thing that could soothe the burn.

He found the spot between her legs and she groaned, watching him in the moonlight. “You don’t need to stop having sex to understand women,” she said. “I think you understand woman just fine.”

“Do I?” He slipped his finger inside of her, once and then twice, and then began a tantalizing rhythm, teasing at her clitoris with each stroke.

“You know what I want, don’t you?” she said in a ragged voice.

“I do,” he replied. “I’m just not sure when.”

“Now would be good,” she said. She slid off the hood of the car and stood in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Marisol smoothed her hands over his chest, a light dusting of hair slipping between her fingers. “I came prepared,” she said. She walked around the car and fetched her purse, then pulled out a condom.

Chuckling, Ian reached for his wallet and retrieved a plastic packet. “So did I.”

She snapped her purse shut and tossed it back into the car, then grabbed the condom from him. Holding it between her teeth, she finished undoing his trousers, desperate to feel him inside of her. Marisol didn’t want to bother with foreplay, not now. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down.

When he was exposed to the night air, she tore the condom open and then deftly sheathed him, his penis hot and hard. He closed his eyes and held his breath, as if he were already close to the edge. Then, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, Marisol pushed him down on the hood of the car and straddled him.

For a long moment, she waited, knowing that if she wanted to stop now, she could. But that was as far as her control went, just a casual thought and nothing more. His erection brushed against her damp entrance and Marisol’s need overwhelmed her. Slowly, she lowered herself, burying him inch by delicious inch, deep inside of her, in one long, sensuous movement.

There was just enough light to watch his face, to see the odd mixture of pain and pleasure etched across it. This was what she had wanted from the moment she’d set eyes on Ian Quinn, but now that she had it-had him-Marisol was afraid to move, afraid that the reality wouldn’t live up to her fantasies.

Ian grabbed her hips and silently begged her to keep still. But she rocked forward to kiss him and he slipped out of her. Marisol sighed as she sank down on top of him again, acutely aware of every sound, his breathing, the low moans he made as she moved, the crickets chirping and the waves against the concrete apron of the boat landing.

“Wait,” he murmured, holding her back again. “Slower.”

She sat up, then tipped her face into the moonlight. He filled her so completely, so perfectly that with every stroke, he brought her closer to the edge. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up over her head, the warm breeze caressing her naked skin.

Ian let out a long slow breath and stared at her, his expression cast in dark shadows and soft light. He reached between them and touched her and Marisol moved again, this time more carefully, so they could both enjoy the pleasure they were giving each other.

As she drove him deep inside her, Marisol let go of conscious thought and focused on the desire building. Instinct took over and she moved toward it with a single-minded urgency, pulling Ian along with her. And then, in a split second, she was there on the edge. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, only to find his gaze fixed on her face.

Like a wave washing over her, knocking her off her feet, the pleasure was nearly unbearable. A spasm rocked her body and she arched against him and Ian joined her, holding her still as he came. It had taken so little time, yet Marisol had never experienced such a powerful reaction with a man.

Their orgasms seemed to last forever, Ian shuddering beneath her until he was completely spent. He threw his arms over his head and groaned softly as she continued to move. Then Marisol collapsed on his chest, her fingers and toes tingling and her mind hazy.

Ian raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face so he could kiss her forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked, his heart thudding wildly beneath her ear.

“Mmm,” Marisol murmured. “I’m perfect.”

He stared up at the sky, slowly stroking her back. “You are,” he whispered. “Perfect for me.”

Marisol pushed up on her elbow and dropped a gentle kiss on his lips. “If I ask you something, will you promise to say yes?”

“Yes,” Ian said. “Now tell me what I’ve agreed to.”

“I want you to pose for me. I want to sculpt you. Will you do that?”

“Will I have to take my clothes off?”

“Of course,” Marisol said.

“All right. But only if you agree to take your clothes off, too.”

“I’m not sure we’d get a lot done if we were both naked.”

Ian chuckled and ran his finger along her bottom lip. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. We seem to do our best work with our clothes off.”

MARISOL STOOD in front of the easel, staring at the canvas, a stream of sunlight spilling into the gallery from the windows along the back wall. She’d been working on the painting since Ian had left her in the early-morning hours before dawn. She’d expected to be exhausted by the passion they’d enjoyed with each other, but the moment he drove off, Marisol felt exhilarated, as if all her energy had been recharged.

Funny what a few really good orgasms could do for a girl, she mused, unable to keep from smiling. And they had been good, deep, powerful and mindless, shaking her to her very core. Even now, thinking of what they’d shared, Marisol’s blood warmed and her pulse quickened. She could live like this forever, without sleeping, needing only her work and sex with Ian Quinn to sustain her.

She thought back to the kiss he’d given her at the door, knowing it would have to last her at least another twelve hours. Now every minute away from him seemed empty and unexciting.

Their affair had begun as a playful little game between two consenting adults, simple and easy sex, nothing serious. But after last night, Marisol had been forced to reevaluate. She’d never been with a man who’d made her feel the way Ian did. And it wasn’t just the orgasms. It was the way he looked at her and touched her, as if she were the perfect woman for him, the only woman who could bring him to complete satisfaction.

So many of the men in her life had tried to change her, to make her into someone who played by the rules. Even David hadn’t been satisfied, constantly harping on her crazy work schedule and chaotic approach to her art and her distaste for self-promotion. In all truth, he’d never wanted to be with a working artist, he’d wanted an interesting woman on his arm, someone who could talk the talk that he enjoyed so much.

It was nice not to have to discuss her work with Ian. He saw it, he admired it, and that was all. She dabbed a bit more blue on her brush and added a touch to the eyes. It wasn’t a realistic representation of a man, but an abstract figure that mirrored her emotional reaction to their passion.

She’d painted him as she’d seen him last night, standing before her in the moonlight, naked and unfazed, his gaze downcast, his head tilted slightly. Marisol was amazed at how easy it had been to meld color with form, the memory of him burned into her brain like a sharply focused photograph.

In real life, he looked like a modern-day Greek god, all muscle and sinew, hard angles and strong curves. On the canvas, he was brilliant color and vibrant slashes of paint, seductive strength and devastating power.

As she stared at the painting, she couldn’t help but think of the man and wonder what he was doing at that moment. Was he thinking about her? Did her taste still linger in his mouth? Could he still feel the imprint of her hands on his body? Had thoughts of their night together plagued his day as they had hers?