Beginning Again: Book 1 in the Second Chances series (Crimson Romance) by Peggy Bird
Authors: Peggy Bird
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he was sure she wasn’t ready for that. Not in the back seat of a car in her favorite black dress.
He pulled her up from the floor back onto his lap. “Wasn’t it good?” she asked. “Did I do it wrong?”
“Way too good, babe. But I want us both to be in this.”
She straddled him, on her knees again, as he lowered her onto him, entered her, knowing it wouldn’t take long to reach a conclusion. His mouth fastened on hers in a rough, punishing kiss, his fingers found her most sensitive spot and massaged it until he felt her muscles convulsing around him and she flew apart in his arms. She bit at his neck as he gripped her hips and surged into her, claiming her as his. Because she was. Now and always, his.
She nestled against him, but they realized quickly that the back seat of a car, even a limo, was not the place to cuddle in afterglow. Particularly not when the lights of I-5 were appearing outside and the ride — the one in the car — was almost over. They cleaned themselves up a bit, rearranged their clothes, panicked when they couldn’t find her panties until he located them inside the champagne bucket. By the time they were back in Northwest Portland, they were reasonably sure they had everything under control.
When they got into the apartment he followed her into the bedroom and they both looked in the mirror. Her lips were swollen from kissing, her face was blotchy with whisker burn, and her hair had lost the sleek, sophisticated look it had when they’d left the restaurant. He had a love bite on his neck and his curls looked like they’d been blown up in a chemistry experiment gone awry.
Liz grinned at his reflection. “All I can say is, I hope you tipped him well enough that he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
Chapter 9
The “soft opening” did what Liz hoped it would do. She found out where the lighting didn’t work and refocused a couple pin spots, and she moved one of the small temporary walls to make it easier to navigate through the gallery. By the next day, everything was set for the official opening on First Thursday, the monthly art event when galleries opened new shows and hosted evening receptions to introduce their artists.
Everything was set except Liz. She couldn’t eat breakfast, couldn’t even drink her coffee. She spent the morning changing her mind a half-dozen times about what to wear, how to position the wine and snack tables, and where to put the e-mail sign-up sheet. The gallery was due to open at noon and she still hadn’t made up her mind or eaten anything, so Collins called in backup.
Jamie arrived to staff the gallery while Collins took Liz to the café down the street for a big bowl of chowder and bread, a lot of bread. By the time she returned to The Fairchild — the art critic for the daily newspaper had shortened its name to that — her blood sugar had stabilized and she was able to focus on what needed to be done.
At five, when the first after-work visitors came through the door, Liz was in hostess mode. Dressed in a vibrant blue caftan, adorned with a necklace one of her artists had created and a pair of earrings Tinkerbell and her pals could have used as hula hoops, she greeted everyone who came in. Pouring wine and introducing her artists to visitors, she appeared to be presiding over the biggest party in the city instead of opening a new business in the middle of a recession.
The gallery enjoyed a steady stream of sales early in the evening — small pieces of her ceramic artist’s work, jewelry, a couple prints, notecards. Then Mason and Jamie arrived.
Jamie had raved so much about Collins’s work that Mason wanted to be the first to purchase a piece of it from the new gallery. It was a two-fer for him — he pleased the person he loved and helped the person he still cared for. While he and Jamie were deciding what to purchase, another couple began considering which piece they would buy. Liz could sense a competitiveness as they went from piece to
He pulled her up from the floor back onto his lap. “Wasn’t it good?” she asked. “Did I do it wrong?”
“Way too good, babe. But I want us both to be in this.”
She straddled him, on her knees again, as he lowered her onto him, entered her, knowing it wouldn’t take long to reach a conclusion. His mouth fastened on hers in a rough, punishing kiss, his fingers found her most sensitive spot and massaged it until he felt her muscles convulsing around him and she flew apart in his arms. She bit at his neck as he gripped her hips and surged into her, claiming her as his. Because she was. Now and always, his.
She nestled against him, but they realized quickly that the back seat of a car, even a limo, was not the place to cuddle in afterglow. Particularly not when the lights of I-5 were appearing outside and the ride — the one in the car — was almost over. They cleaned themselves up a bit, rearranged their clothes, panicked when they couldn’t find her panties until he located them inside the champagne bucket. By the time they were back in Northwest Portland, they were reasonably sure they had everything under control.
When they got into the apartment he followed her into the bedroom and they both looked in the mirror. Her lips were swollen from kissing, her face was blotchy with whisker burn, and her hair had lost the sleek, sophisticated look it had when they’d left the restaurant. He had a love bite on his neck and his curls looked like they’d been blown up in a chemistry experiment gone awry.
Liz grinned at his reflection. “All I can say is, I hope you tipped him well enough that he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
Chapter 9
The “soft opening” did what Liz hoped it would do. She found out where the lighting didn’t work and refocused a couple pin spots, and she moved one of the small temporary walls to make it easier to navigate through the gallery. By the next day, everything was set for the official opening on First Thursday, the monthly art event when galleries opened new shows and hosted evening receptions to introduce their artists.
Everything was set except Liz. She couldn’t eat breakfast, couldn’t even drink her coffee. She spent the morning changing her mind a half-dozen times about what to wear, how to position the wine and snack tables, and where to put the e-mail sign-up sheet. The gallery was due to open at noon and she still hadn’t made up her mind or eaten anything, so Collins called in backup.
Jamie arrived to staff the gallery while Collins took Liz to the café down the street for a big bowl of chowder and bread, a lot of bread. By the time she returned to The Fairchild — the art critic for the daily newspaper had shortened its name to that — her blood sugar had stabilized and she was able to focus on what needed to be done.
At five, when the first after-work visitors came through the door, Liz was in hostess mode. Dressed in a vibrant blue caftan, adorned with a necklace one of her artists had created and a pair of earrings Tinkerbell and her pals could have used as hula hoops, she greeted everyone who came in. Pouring wine and introducing her artists to visitors, she appeared to be presiding over the biggest party in the city instead of opening a new business in the middle of a recession.
The gallery enjoyed a steady stream of sales early in the evening — small pieces of her ceramic artist’s work, jewelry, a couple prints, notecards. Then Mason and Jamie arrived.
Jamie had raved so much about Collins’s work that Mason wanted to be the first to purchase a piece of it from the new gallery. It was a two-fer for him — he pleased the person he loved and helped the person he still cared for. While he and Jamie were deciding what to purchase, another couple began considering which piece they would buy. Liz could sense a competitiveness as they went from piece to
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