He deepened his kiss, and she opened beneath him, taking and giving. Her hips tilted against his, and he slid inside, burying himself deep. He heard her moan softly and broke their kiss, lifting his head to watch her face. Her hand slipped from his neck to touch his face the way she had done the very first time.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Soldier and savior.

Both completed and both to be left behind on the morrow. The scaffolds had been taken apart and removed, the tables of paints and brushes and thinners tidied and packed. The clergy and the church directors had been brought through the studio yesterday for a final viewing, and Lisbon had relayed that they had been utterly astounded and captivated by the finished paintings.

As they should, Flynn thought with steady appraisal. This portrayal of an archangel rising up in furious defiance was Flynn’s finest work yet. And on the other side, another portrayal of that same archangel reaching out across the heavens, offering a soul a chance at redemption. On their own, each painting was extraordinary. Together, they were breathtaking.

Which described the last two months entirely. Months that had been unlike anything Flynn had ever experienced, and it was because of Charlotte. She had been his friend and his lover. His teacher and his student. The one person who managed to argue and encourage all at the same time. She had never asked him to be anything he wasn’t. Never allowed him to doubt himself. Believed in him wholeheartedly.

And though it was a bittersweet moment to leave these paintings behind, he knew that he would never, ever, be able to leave Charlotte Beaumont.

They had not spoken of love, and Flynn had cursed himself for his lack of courage. For all the emotion that he had poured out onto that panel for utter strangers to gaze upon, he had been unable to expose what lay in the very depths of his heart to the single person who mattered most. He would remedy that now, he vowed. She needed to know how he felt about her. How he had fallen completely, helplessly in love with her. Because he was not ready for them to be over. He didn’t think he ever would be.

A familiar knock sounded. “Come in, Mr. Lisbon,” he said over his shoulder.

Henry Lisbon let himself into the studio, his boots echoing as he hurriedly crossed the floor. “Admiring your work, Mr. Rutledge?”

“Yes,” Flynn said simply.

“As you should. I can’t wait to see these hung. You and Beaumont have outdone yourselves,” Lisbon said with satisfaction as he took his sleet-covered hat from his head.

Flynn only nodded.

“Is Beaumont here?” Lisbon asked, jerking his head toward the room that Charlotte hadn’t slept in for a long time.

“She is not. She has gone to post a letter.”