His Final Seduction

by Lori Wilde

  “You taught me well.”

  “Is your lady ready for her lesson?” Uberto asked.

  “Oh, I’m not his lady.” Jorgie shook her head.

  Uberto laughed and said something to Quint in Italian.

  Jorgie frowned. “What did he say?”

  “He says you can’t fool him. He sees the way your eyes light up when you look at me.”

  Jorgie punched him lightly on the forearm. “He did not.”

  “Can’t pull one over on you, Ms. Gerard. Come on. You’re going to make a vase.”

  “Um…” She cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure about this.

  “You can’t chicken out now,” Quint said.

  She took a deep breath. She didn’t know what unnerved her more—glassblowing or Quint.

  “I’ll help you.”

  That’s exactly what she was afraid of.

  “First, let’s get you a Kevlar glove.”

  “You didn’t use a glove.”

  “You’re a beginner. Trust me, you’ll want one.”

  Uberto appeared with the fire retardant glove and Jorgie slipped it onto her right hand.

  “Pick a cold blowpipe,” Quint instructed.

  Jorgie did as he suggested, picking up a long narrow iron tube about an inch and a half in diameter.

  “Now,” he said, stepping across the room, “we go to the gathering tank.”

  She circled the tank, feeling radiating waves of intense heat wash over her.

  “Here.” He came up behind her. “Let me show you how to hold it.”

  His breath was warm against the nape of her neck as he repositioned her fingers on the cool metal rod. He wrapped his hands around hers and directed her forward with his leg. “Step up to the tank and set the pipe on the edge. Roll it against the side until you can see the reflection of the pipe on the surface of the molten glass. Be sure not to dip the blowpipe into the liquid glass. Just roll it over the surface.”

  Nervously, she inched forward with a death grip on the blowpipe. Sweat popped out on her forehead and she nibbled her bottom lip, paying close attention to everything he said, but acutely aware of the feel of his chest pressing against her back.

  Inside the tank, the liquid glass glowed yellow; the heat fell over her face like a blanket. She saw the pipe’s reflection in the glass as he’d said she would. His hand, still on hers, helped her slowly rotate the rod.

  “Two complete revolutions,” he said huskily.

  She did as he asked. It was like turning apples in caramel.

  “Now, carefully withdraw it.”

  She removed the blowpipe from the gathering tank. The viscous glass glowed bright amber as if she’d just gathered fiery honey. “I did it,” she murmured joyfully. “Molten glass.”

  “Good job,” he said. “But we’re only getting started. Now over to the marver.”

  She carried the blowpipe to the marver. When she reached it, Quint’s arms went around Jorgie’s again as he helped her roll the glass into an even, oncenter cylinder.

  “Okay.” His voice was low, steady. “Blow into the end of the pipe and cover the hole with your thumb to trap the air inside.”

  She put her lips to the now warm metal and blew softly, then obstructed the end with her thumb. Slowly, a bubble of glass began to inflate on the other end of the rod.

  “Back to the gathering tank for more glass.”

  She collected more glass to the bubble and repeated the steps until Quint told her she had enough glass for the vase.

  “Time for the optic mold.” He picked up a heavy, vase-shaped cylinder and set it on the ground. Uberto brought over a step stool and placed it next to the cylinder. “You’re going to be using the mold because it’s most forgiving for beginners,” Quint said. “Otherwise you’d use wood blocks or marvers or wet newspapers or a combination of all three to shape the form as you inflate it.” He pointed to the two workmen who were doing just that.

  Quint helped her insert the bubble of glass into the ribbed optic mold. “Now step up on the stool and blow an evenly spaced pattern into the glass.”

  Jorgie stepped up on the stool, her stomach quivering with excitement. This was so much fun. To think she’d gathered hot molten glass on a thin rod and now she was going to blow into the tube and inflate the glass into a vase. A miracle. She put her lips to the pipe.

  “Blow, blow, hard,” Quint coached.

  As she blew as hard as she could, Jorgie saw the piece expanding to fit the mold. A thrill chased up her spine.

  “Now, gently suck in to free the glass from the mold,” he murmured, his hand on her arm. “Easy.”

  She sucked in and the glass popped free. The glass, ribbed from the mold, glowed yellow on the end of the blowpipe.

  “Let’s move it over here.” He guided her to two narrow metal vertical racks with a wooden bench seat in between them, and helped her settle the blowpipe on it with the hot glass dangling free off one rack. “Crouch down on the other side of the rack and blow gently into the pipe while I help form the glass.”

  She squatted and blew, moving along with the rod as Quint rolled it to and fro while he took up a jack to form a constriction in the glass, creating a neck line.

  Together, they turned the rod. She blew while he pulled and stretched the glass with the jack. It was as if they were performing a perfect ballet.

  “Looking good.” He nodded. “Next step is to finish the shape and flatten the bottom. To do that we’re going to transfer the piece onto a punty for finishing the top part.”

  “Punty?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “It’s another metal rod, shorter than a blowpipe.”

  “Punty, jack, glory hole. This profession is full of sexual innuendo.”

  “They don’t call it the romance of Venice for nothing.” Quint winked.

  Umberto handed him a punty and Quint showed her how to transfer it from the blowpipe. Using smaller jacks, he dropped water onto the neck line of the vase and lightly tapped the blowpipe to disconnect the glass. Then he heated the lip and flared it open. Once he was finished, he knocked the piece off the punty and put it in the annealer for slow cooling.

  “You did it,” he said. “You made a vase.”

  Jorgie clapped; her hand made a muffled sound against the Kevlar glove. “This is fantastic.”

  “I’m so proud of you.” He held her at the waist and pulled her close for a kiss. It was only then Jorgie realized her face was dewed with perspiration from the hot room.

  Quint didn’t seem to mind. His kiss was long and slow and sultry, and Jorgie just enjoyed.

  10

  Sweep her off her feet

  —Make Love Like Casanova

  QUINT BROKE THE KISS and looked into her face, felt his breath catch in his lungs. Jorgie’s eyes were wide, her lips wet from his. Her cheeks were burnished a high pink.

  He didn’t have to look around to know the room was empty, there was only silence, except for the sound of his blood pounding through his ears. He’d promised Uberto a handsome bribe if he’d clear out the glass shop once Jorgie had finished her projects. Apparently, Uberto had successfully convinced the glassmakers to take an early lunch and leave them alone.It was a total Casanova move and he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of himself. Along with the picnic basket he’d ordered ahead of time and had delivered to the shop. He turned and spied the white wicker basket with the blue-and-white checked cloth positioned beside the door, where Umberto must have left it for him.

  “Where did everyone go?” Jorgie asked.

  Quint smiled at her. “I’ve arranged for us to have a private lunch.”

  “What makes you think I’d be comfortable with that?”

  He tilted his head. “Are you uncomfortable, Jorgie?”

  “You’re a smooth operator, you know that, Quint Mason.”

  “Smooth as that vase you just made, Jorgie Gerard.”

  She returned his smile, a little reluctantly, a little hesitantly, but she did return it. She mi
ght not be a stunning beauty, but she was pretty and when she smiled, it made his heart light up in a dozen different places.

  “Wanna have lunch?” He inclined his head in the direction of the picnic basket.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “You’re trying really hard to sweep me off my feet.”

  “Is it working?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “Come on,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She allowed him to take her hand. On the way to the exit, he picked up the picnic basket and guided her through the door into a narrow corridor and up a flight of crooked stairs. At the head of the stairs was another door. He opened it and they stepped out onto the roof of the glass shop. The balmy breeze was a refreshing caress after the heat of the glass shop.

  The roof was slightly sloped on the back side and when he spread out the blue-and-white checked cloth for them to sit on they couldn’t see or be seen from the street below. In front of them stretched the lagoon. They saw water taxis scurrying back and forth in the distance.

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s beautiful up here.”

  “The perfect place for a picnic.”

  “Did Gia bring you up here?” she asked.

  “She did,” he admitted.

  “Did you make love up here?”

  “We didn’t.” He grinned. “But I like the way you think.”

  Jorgie ducked her head, reached for the basket. “Whatcha got to eat?”

  “I don’t know. I left it up to Uberto. We’ll find out together.”

  They dug through the basket like kids on a scavenger hunt, unearthing salami, a jar of olives, sun-dried tomatoes, a crusty loaf of bread and a thick chunk of cheese. They made quick work of the feast, washing it down with red wine Uberto had tucked inside the basket. He’d forgotten to include glasses, so they ended up passing the bottle back and forth between them.

  “Um, are there any napkins?” she asked. “Instead of licking my fingers.”

  “Hmm, I wouldn’t mind licking them for you.”

  She rolled her eyes at that.

  “Ah, here they are at the bottom,” he said, and handed her the napkins with a flourish. “Saved from having your fingers licked.”

  She dabbed her fingers dry and dropped the napkin back into the basket. Then she paused and slanted him a look. “The view is amazing from up here, and I just realized something.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, the expression on her face sending his pulse jumping.

  “No one can see us up here. The shop sign hides us from behind. That old olive tree shields us from the west, the building next door blocks us from the east. The only place where anyone could see us on this roof is from the water, and they’d have to be very close. We’d see them coming long before they saw us.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Quint asked, hoping against hope Jorgie was thinking what he was thinking.

  “I’m thinking Casanova would take full advantage of an opportunity like this.”

  “Are you, now?” He slid closer to her. “Acrobatics might be a bit tricky on this roof. Could slip off, fall into the water.”

  “That’s what makes it so exciting,” she whispered.

  “Jorgie Gerard, you little minx.” Here she was issuing him a dare, a challenge, a call to adventure. Did the woman have any clue how much she aroused his interest and stirred his blood? His curiosity was provoked. His body prickled with keen urgency.

  He’d never expected anything so audacious from sweet, innocent Jorgie. She reached for the snap on his jeans.

  Spellbound, he stared, his jaw unhinged. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Testosterone flooded his cock.

  Quint realized then how little he really knew about her, and that thought served to send his desire spiraling even higher.

  Her wicked wink sent a bolt of exquisitely excruciating lust jolting to the very center of him. He looked into her eyes and she looked into him. A heartbeat passed.

  “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she whispered.

  His libido slammed into fifth gear.

  Then her lips, stained dark pink from the wine, parted and she slipped the tip of her tongue between pearly white teeth in a gesture so erotic, he almost came right then and there.

  “What do you think about that?” she asked.

  His gaze locked on the V between her thighs. He could not spy a panty line beneath her white shorts. Was she really going commando or just wearing a thong? Hell, did it matter? Just the suggestion lit him up hotter than a glory hole. His mouth was dry, his stomach clenched, his brain a bundle of erotic images, all starring Jorgie.

  He’d never experienced any sensation like this, and Quint had experienced a lot of sensations. Her fingers were still on the snap of his jeans, not undoing them, but not moving, either. His cock was granite. Who could have believed something this simple would feel so incredible? He could scarcely breathe, much less think.

  Their gazes were still locked.

  Her suddenly bold sexual confidence belied what he knew about her. She was sweet and a little shy. Or so he’d always thought. Then again, you had to watch out for the quiet ones. Still waters and all that. He had to admit she was a lot more complex than he realized and he yearned to find out just how complicated she really was.

  Hungry curiosity prodded at him. Time hung suspended between them. Her hand curled around his waistband, her gaze hung on his lips, the air hung rich with the heated smell of Murano, the tile roof smooth beneath his butt.

  He’d started this strange dance. He was the one who’d lured her away from the group, brought her to the Veneziani Glass Shop for a very private lesson and coaxed her up on this roof for a secluded picnic. But damn if she wasn’t the one finishing it.

  In the glow from the noonday sun peeping over the branches of the olive tree, he trailed his gaze from her face to her bosom, which was rising and falling rapidly as she drew in air. The red-and-white polka-dot blouse she wore molded softly to her breasts. His gaze traveled lower to her waist and beyond. The white shorts she had on snugly hugged her hips and thighs.

  She undid the snap of his jeans.

  His erection burgeoned against her hand.

  She stroked him through the denim as she eased down his zipper. Quint felt his butt muscles contract.

  Then she leaned forward and nipped his chin with her teeth. Not hard, but not so soft, either.

  He swallowed back a groan.

  “Handling that blowpipe got me to thinking,” she said softly.

  He could smell her scent and it was driving him mad. “Yeah?”

  She straddled him. His pants were unsnapped, his zipper undone. She touched his shoulder with the palm of her hand and pushed him back against the roof. “I liked it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He couldn’t have formed a complete sentence if he wanted to. Damn, who was she?

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “I like the feel of the pipe against my mouth. Hot and firm.”

  He nodded, still completely incapable of speech at this point.

  Jorgie scooted down the roof until her bottom was resting on his knees. With one hand, she pushed the hem of his shirt upward, exposing a strip of his belly to the warm sun and the cool sea breeze. It was a tantalizing combo of sensations. He loved the game she was playing. The woman was amazing.

  Then she reached through the open zipper and…and…Quint’s eyes rolled back in his head with sheer pleasure as she freed his erection from his pants. “Jorgie.” He panted, hardly breathing. “Jorgie.”

  “You may call me Lady Evangeline.”

  Ah, was that what she was playing at? He grinned. Okay, fine. He reached up to touch her, to pull her head down for another kiss, but Lady Evangeline had other ideas.

  She had one hand wrapped around his stiff cock as she slowly lowered so that her tongue could touch his throbbing head. He was a gon
er. He was welded to the roof, unable to move. He was nothing but molten glass between her nimble lips.

  Around and around she swirled that wicked little instrument of pure torture. Up and down, a tantalizing, mind-blowing blend of expert maneuvers that put any courtesan to shame. What in the hell had they been teaching her in that class?

  “You are a nasty girl.”

  “That’s right, Casanova, talk dirty to me.”

  He told her then, in very graphic terms, exactly what he wanted to do to her. He wanted to strip off her clothes, roll her over onto the roof and pour himself into the hot glory of her. He wanted to plunge and plunge and plunge until he’d fused her to him like glass to a blowpipe.

  She increased the tempo of her strokes, nibbling and sucking, pulling him in and out of her succulent mouth, bringing him closer and closer to the edge of insanity. He lost all ability to think, to move from his spread-eagle position on that blue-and-white checked tablecloth on the roof of the glass shop. He felt the orgasm growing and growing and growing, hard and hot and unstoppable.

  “Jorgie,” he cried out. An invisible wall of water flooded over him. His body arched in an involuntary response. The sky above spun, clouds whizzed past him. It was a visual explosion of light, taste, scent and sound.

  His toes curled. His lips curled. Hell, even his hair probably curled.

  A split second later, his essence spurted into the warm moistness of her welcoming mouth and his entire body went slack.

  Jorgie angled him the most wicked Lady Evangeline smile he could imagine and delicately swallowed. Then she took the napkin from the picnic basket, dabbed at her mouth and cleaned him up. Zippered his pants. Snapped the snap.

  Breathlessly, Quint reached for her, intent on pulling her to his chest and telling her how much he appreciated what she’d just done for him, how he couldn’t wait to do the same thing for her.

  But Lady Evangeline slipped through his fingers. She got to her feet, picked up the picnic basket and headed for the door.

  “Wait, wait,” he gasped, propping himself up on his elbows.

  She stopped with her hand on the door, cocked her head back over her shoulder and winked at him before she disappeared down the stairs.

  SEXUAL EMPOWERMENT quickened Jorgie’s step.