He raised a quizzical brow and brought a bottle of water to his mouth, knocking back a gulp. I might have been sweaty, but he was, too. In fact, the way his well-worn grey T-shirt stuck to his torso was a little mesmerising.

“Why does that mean I can’t see it?”

“Because I want it to be a surprise.”

The look in his eye right then told me he thought I was being nutty, but he rolled with it. “Okay. Well, I suppose I should give you a gift, too, if you’re giving me one.”

I grinned at this. “Yes, you should. And it should be something you’ve made yourself, the same as my painting.”

He seemed stumped at this. “Like what?”

“That’s not for me to decide. You need to think of something.”

He went silent for a long moment. I stroked my paintbrush over the final patch of orange, and my heart filled. I was done. The painting was finished. I wanted it to dry first before I gave it to him, though. He was still watching me, and when he saw he had my attention, he crooked his finger at me.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, eyes fixed on the sweat dripping down my neck. I hadn’t checked the temperatures today, but I knew it felt a good deal hotter than usual. Why else would I be perspiring like mad? And since any kind of heat was such a big turn-on for Jack, I could practically sense his arousal like a physical thing.

Swallowing, I rose from my seat and walked to him. He caught my wrist in his hand and pulled me in close, then tilted my neck before capturing my mouth with his. I swear, I wanted to make a moulding of his tongue someday and set it on my mantel, because it was a thing of pure beauty. I loved how it licked at me, all silky and wet. I loved the taste of him. It was my favourite taste of all. His passion grew along with his breathing, and before I knew it, he was crowding me inside the camper, herding me like a predator intent on his prey.

He slammed the door shut. Then he twirled me around and pressed me chest first into the wall, his thick, hard cock grinding against my backside. His hands moved swiftly while his breaths filled my ears, and before I knew it, my skirt was shoved up, my knickers were down, and he was pulling himself out of his pants. Seconds later he was inside me, and I gasped in shock at how quickly and deeply he managed to fill me.

His mouth went to my neck, licking and sucking as his hips thrust in and out, hard and fast. I loved how rough he was, loved how he couldn’t even wait long enough to get me into his bed, he had to take me right here in the lounge, standing up against the wall. Anybody could have walked by and seen us, but right then neither of us cared. In that moment, all we knew were our bodies, all we felt was our mutual pleasure.

He fisted my hair, yanking down on it and twisting my neck so I’d turn to him. He captured my mouth again, giving me his tongue a second time, the motion a mirror to his fucking. I felt invaded, possessed, and as we both raced toward orgasm, I broke the kiss to gasp a fervent declaration.

“I love you, Jack McCabe. I love you so much.”

He smiled, and for a moment I was dazzled by his handsome expression, so full of affection, as he continued to hold my hair like a rein and move his hips in a steady rhythm. “I love you too, flower. Only you. Always.”

When I collapsed against the wall, shivering as I came, Jack followed, and I felt him fill me until he was spent. He picked me up in his arms and carried to his bedroom, our bedroom, where I discovered the fun was not over yet. And man, did Jack McCabe like to play.

Hours later, I was vaguely aware of him leaving the bed and going into the lounge, but I was too exhausted to wake up. I napped for another hour, and when I woke, it was dark outside. I pulled on some clothes and left the room to find Jack sitting watching television and eating a bowl of noodles. I stepped outside, the night air a balm to the sweltering heat of the day, and collected the finished painting that I’d all but abandoned earlier in order to fulfil the needs of my hussy libido.

Jack gave me an indulgent, sexy smile when I carried it in and set it in front of him on the sofa. “I wasn’t going to give this to you until tomorrow, but you outdid yourself and earned some bonus points,” I told him sassily. “So here’s your present.”

Finished eating, he set the bowl aside and lifted the painting onto his lap. His eyes soaked it in, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that he liked it. Several agonising moments passed before he met my gaze, and a smile grew wide across his face. It was the biggest smile I’d ever seen on him; it lit up his features, made him seem so much lighter than the man I met all those weeks ago. The one who never trusted and never let anybody in.

“It’s a masterpiece,” he said finally. “I love how you see me. It makes me feel like I can be the man in the painting.”

“You are the man in the painting, Jack.”

He stood and carried the canvas to the kitchen table, set it down, and then pulled me over to the couch. He wrapped his arms tight around me and rested his head on my shoulder.

“I’m only that man because you made me so,” he whispered, and I shivered. Emotion clutched at my throat, and I found it difficult to form words. He might have thought that I’d made him better, but it went both ways, because he’d made me better, too. He’d shown me that not everybody can be trusted, dulled some of the shine from my eyes, only to make my vision that much clearer. He’d also taught me that, though I can’t trust everyone, I can trust him, and so long as it was within his power, he would never, ever let me down.

“I made you a gift, too, while you slept,” he said, breaking me from my thoughts and surprising me. I hadn’t actually expected him to make me anything. Reaching over to the window ledge, he picked up a folded piece of paper and slid it into my hands. I stared down at it.

“What’s this?” I breathed, suddenly finding that my heart was beating double.

“It’s our story,” Jack answered. “I can’t paint or create much of anything, and really, I’ll never be a writer, but I love words, love learning all the ones I missed out on in the past. So I used my words and wrote you a story.” He paused and laughed self-deprecatingly. “I even used the dictionary to make sure I got all the spellings right.”

I wasn’t sure what it was about that last bit, but the fact he’d wanted to get the spellings right made me even more emotional. He was going to turn me into a sobbing mess before the night was through.

Slowly, I unfolded the paper and read the words, my lungs burning, my heart aching with their raw, simple, honest beauty. I could see our entire journey laid out before me, his words creating the images in my mind, and I knew without a doubt that I was going to paint his words in a mural, keep them forever so I’d never forget a single one.

The Story of Jack and Lille

 

Jack and Lille met on a hill

They crossed a sea of water

A king fell down who wore no crown

And Lille’s heart surely did falter

A tattoo Lille got but Jack did not

And Jack’s brother was in the paper

Under the sun Jack watched Lille paint

Under the stars they came together

Lille lost her way

An attack led them astray

In secret Lille stole Jack’s letter

With courage Jack threw his mask away forever

Julie showed Lille her true colours

A storm fell over the lovers

A picture lost was then found

A discovery made Lille’s heart pound

And two bleeding souls were reunited

Mystery came knocking once more

But the magician, alas, solved the riddle

Here lies the story of Jack and Lille

Two hearts so big yet so little.

Epilogue