embarrassed.
“That what?” he prompted.
She met his amber gaze. He was so sincere. Rarely had she known a man who listened as well as he did. There was something about the way he looked at her, and spoke to her—as if he thought she was interesting and smart and he honestly cared about what she had to say.
It was more intoxicating than the Venetian wine.
“I’d like to write something that would have the ability to make people feel. It could be a book, or short stories, or maybe even poetry. What it is isn’t important. What is important is that what I write evokes feelings in those who read it.”
His gaze was hot and intense on hers as Justin leaned toward her, resting his hand on her knee. “I know exactly what you mean. That’s how I always felt about my art. I didn’t care if I was painting or sculpting or just sketching with plain charcoal. I wanted people to feel what I felt.”
“Why did you stop, Justin?” she asked softly.
“I don’t really know. . . .” His eyes dropped from hers. “One day I was a college freshman at the Art Institute—the next I’d washed out. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with me changing my major from art to beer and women.” His lips twisted in self-mockery. “A double major actually. I made stupid choices—a string of stupid choices—and then I was back in Mysteria working at the restaurant.”
She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t too late for him to go to college, that he could get a portfolio together and get back into the Art Institute, but she hesitated. Did he really need her to turn into a teacher and lecture him? She didn’t think so, and she also didn’t want to. She liked being his date and not his mentor. Candice put her hand on top of his.
“Sometimes it’s easy to get lost. You let your art get lost when you dropped out of college. I let good sense get lost when I committed serial matrimony. I suppose all either of us can do is to learn from our mistakes.”
“I’m glad you’re divorced.” He smiled and added, “Again.”
“Well, I’m with you on that one.”
“Do you mind if I ask why none of your marriages worked?”
“I don’t mind you asking, but I’m not sure I have an answer for you, even though I should because the ending of each of them felt the same—so you’d think I’d learn how to define the problem, if not fix it.” She sighed. “I stopped loving them. Each one. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that I stopped liking each of them first,
His brow wrinkled. “But most places aren’t like Mysteria. Outside of here lots of people don’t have magic and they manage to have happy marriages.”
“Nope. I don’t think so. I don’t think you have to live in totally bizarre Mysteria to have magic. See, I think the ability to have a successful, happy marriage is a special kind of magic, and that special magic exists all over the world. The problem with me is that I’m doomed because I have nonmagic, just like I have nonmarriages and nonrelationships.”
“Maybe”—he reached up and cupped the side of her cheek with his hand—“you just need to quit trying so hard.”
Then, amazingly, Justin leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, not accompanied by any intrusive thrustings of tongue and teeth. She’d worried about that when she’d allowed herself to think about kissing him. Would a twenty-something be a bully kisser? Would he blindly stick his mouth on hers and proceed to grind any and all available body parts against her? It’d been too damn long since she’d kissed a man this young—she couldn’t remember how they did it. But she needn’t have worried. The boy/man/wolf kissed like a dream . . . a deliciously erotic dream. His mouth was a warm caress against hers—not a demand, but a seductive question.
“You taste like lavender and wine,” he murmured, his lips lingering near hers.
“You taste like sex,” she whispered back before her better sense could stop the words. “Erotic and decadent, and very, very male.”
He chuckled and his lips moved to her neck. “That’s because I’m still using my superpowers on you.” His tongue flicked out to tease the gentle slope of smooth flesh where her neck met her shoulder. “But maybe you don’t believe me. Maybe you need more proof first.”
“If I say I do, does that mean you won’t stop?” she said breathlessly.
“I won’t stop unless you tell me to.”
“Then we may be here all night,” she moaned.
He pressed her down into the blanket and slid his hand under her T-shirt. “I’m good with all night.”
She let her hands travel up his arms to his chest. God, his body was hard! And more than just between his legs (although it was already decidedly obvious that he didn’t suffer from the same unfortunate and very flaccid problem her last ex-husband had). Utterly fascinated, she tugged at his shirt until he took his hands from her long enough to pull it over his head.
Dear sweet Lord—she’d died and, despite her numerous sins and bad language, gone straight to heaven. He looked better unclothed—and that was one hell of a compliment because he had looked scrumptious with his shirt on. He was truly a beautiful man.
Then his hands were tugging up her shirt. She started to help him . . . and remembered: 1) that she was wearing her least stretched out and frayed sports bra—“least” in no way meaning that it was attractive, and 2) she was forty. Suddenly he was, once again, ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin.
“Uh, wait. I’m—I’m not completely okay with this,” she said quickly, smoothing down her shirt while she avoided meeting his eyes.
Instantly, he stopped. But he didn’t pull away from her. Nor did he throw a fit because he had a hard-on and needed to have sex now. He just shifted his weight so that she was resting comfortably in his arms. Then he lifted her chin with his finger, gently making her meet his gaze.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“No. It’s not you.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled crookedly. “Is there someone else here I don’t know about?”
“Of course not.”
“Then is it that you don’t want me?”
“Of course not!”
“Candice, I’m going to be honest with you. For the past several years I haven’t been connected to much—not another person or a job or even a place. I’ve been playing at life and just letting time pass. But with you I feel a connection, and that’s something I’m not used to. I want to see where it takes us. If that means going slow physically, I will. But I have to tell you that the truth is I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my life.”
His amber eyes had darkened to the color of aged Scotch. She could feel the sexual tension in his body. She loved the intensity with which he looked at her, and the way his hands lingered on hers. And she knew if she didn’t make love to this beautiful young man that she would regret it forever.
Deliberately, she sat up and, keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulled off her shirt. Then she reached behind her and undid her sports bra, shrugging it off her shoulders. The late evening air was cool against the heat of her skin, and her nipples puckered. Justin’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her naked breasts. He reached forward and took her heavy breasts in his hands, lifting and caressing them.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said huskily. “Look at you! You’re not some plastic girl who hasn’t lived enough to know there are sexier things than fake boobs and lace bras that match their thongs that match the color they paint their toes.” He bent and kissed the swell of her breast, then let his tongue tease her already aroused nipple while she moaned and arched into him. “You’re an earth goddess, rich and ripe and desirable.”
He pressed her back into the blanket again, his lips and tongue teasing her breasts. His mouth moved slowly down her stomach, kissing the waist of her shorts. Before she could begin to get nervous about the fact that her
