An Experienced Mistress

by Bryn Donovan

  “Truly?”

  “Oh, my darling.” He pulled her closer to his chest. To his heart. “You’re a beautiful, fascinating, talented woman,” he said, stroking her bright hair. “Haven’t I told you that?”

  Maybe it was wrong, but he warmed to know that she did feel an attachment to him. He would have considered himself a fool, having an infatuation with a mistress who viewed him only as a paying customer.

  “Oh, Will,” she said, hugging him harder. Her warm breath touched his naked shoulder.

  As he kissed her again, his hands caressed down the sides of her body, and he discovered at once that she hadn’t bothered with a corset today. Through the white cotton frock he felt the exquisite softness of her breasts. Her breath quickened, the rib cage rising and falling beneath his hands. Her mouth yielded sweetly to his more demanding kiss.

  The smooth folds of the fabric of her dress brushed against his naked, heated skin, across the sensitive head of his cock. A delicate, teasing sensation that made him groan, lusting for a firmer touch. Her hands clasped the back of his neck, as if holding on for dear life under the onslaught of his kisses. He drew back and reached up to cover each of her hands with one of his. “Touch me,” he commanded.

  Her eyes, slack with pleasure, fluttered open. “Wh-where?”

  “Anywhere.” Almost involuntarily, he kissed her again, as if his mouth couldn’t bear to be apart from hers for long. “Everywhere.”

  His eyes closed when she stroked her small, warm hands against his tightened belly. “I hope I’ve gotten all the paint off me,” she said softly.

  “I don’t care.” He felt her skim her hands up his chest, brushing across his nipples, and circling around to caress his back.

  He drifted into almost a hypnotic state as he focused on nothing but the touch of her fingers, reaching down to tentatively graze over his buttocks. He let himself forget everything else, the gnawing memories of the past couple of years, the dull thoughts of the inevitable dull future. For now, there was nothing else except her healing, tantalizing touch, stroking his body all over as though she polished a precious object.

  “You like that,” she whispered.

  “You have no idea,” he rasped. He tugged up the hem of her skirt, pulled her against him so that he could kiss her lips, the tops of her breasts. Her inviting moist warmth tingled against the hard length of his desire, with only a layer or two of thin cotton between them. Her heat reminded him of her taste, and he wanted to taste her again.

  He dragged up her dress in fistfuls as he knelt in front of her, baring the sweet curling thatch of her womanhood. She made a surprised noise and took a step backward, as if losing her balance.

  Will wrapped his hands, still grasping onto handfuls of her dress, around the small of her back to steady her and pressed his check against her delicate damp fur. She whimpered, and he knew that she felt his hot breath, his coarse whiskers against her soft skin.

  “Ah, sweetheart,” he murmured. He wasn’t even sure she could hear him. “Let me love you, just for now.”

  He flicked his tongue against her hot primordial heat.

  Her hands trembled on his shoulders as he gave himself over to the pleasure of arousing her with his mouth and his hands. It was bliss to do it. He could no longer distinguish between her gratification and his own.

  “Will,” she gasped. “My love...ah, please don’t stop...”

  Stop? Not bloody likely. Delighted in her escalating whimpers and cries, he continued his ministrations. He reached one hand forward to push two fingers into her honeyed quim as he continued to lick and nibble.

  When his teeth grazed against tender flesh, she jumped a little, pulling back.

  “Shh.” He wrapped his arm tighter around the creamy backs of her thighs, giving her no escape. His hand thrust deeper into her, even as his tongue graced over her most sensitive place. She screamed his name as she shuddered, milking his hand.

  She swayed and he got to his feet, holding her up. She looked at once pale and flushed, panting. Although her eyes were closed, the after-tremors of her climax still played across her beautifully expressive face.

  Reaching down, he scooped her up in his arms.

  “Come to bed,” he said, as though he weren’t carrying her in that direction. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sensation of being suspended in Will’s arms, still overcome by the heights of pleasure to which he’d brought her, made Genevieve feel unsteady and almost dizzy. She clung to his shoulders as he carried her across the hall to her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

  Genevieve was hardly a delicate woman, but he seemed to carry her without any difficulty, laying her down on the bed as easily as a doll. Good Lord, he was strong. But she already knew that. After all, she’d spent the last hour trying to convey in brushstrokes of paint the elegant, powerful lines of his body.

  He turned away and found the matches on the night table and lifted the candlestick there to light it. The sputtering flame cast shadows across the smooth contours of his chest, across his angled face with its mysterious expression.

  In the light, she realized that her dress was hiked up almost to her waist, and even in the dimness of her bedroom, it embarrassed her. Before she could reach down to cover herself, Will pulled her into a sitting position long enough to drag the dress over her head and off, then eased her down onto the mattress again.

  He stared down at her arrayed before him as though she were a sumptuous feast laid out for his enjoyment. No misreading the look in his eyes—he meant to devour her.

  There was no going back now.

  And even if there were, God help her, she wouldn’t have wanted to.

  He knelt between her thighs, and when he bent down to kiss her mouth she felt his hot, hard erection against her sex and belly.

  “You are trembling,” he whispered.

  She nodded, not sure if she could speak. His forearms were braced on either side of her head, and the whole length of his body lay over hers. Genevieve marveled at the sensation of so much bare skin on skin. His was hot to the touch.

  Will kissed her as though life depended on it, deep, drugging kisses that made her feel like she melted into the bed. She sensed the effort of restraint in his body above her. The warm, heavy ache between her legs grew too much to bear.

  “Will,” she begged when she caught a breath. “Now.” Her hand reached down to urge his hips into place.

  “Wait one moment.”

  To her shock, he pulled away. Propping herself up on her elbows, she saw him reaching for his coat. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

  He laughed softly at her tone as he slipped what looked like a small pillbox out of one of the pockets. Tossing the coat aside, he opened the box and took out some sort of sheath, which he fitted over his fierce veined erection.

  “It’s so you won’t conceive,” he murmured as he returned to her arms.

  “Ohh,” she marveled. “That’s good.” The anxiety in the back of her mind was put to rest. Trust Will to be considerate enough to think of such a thing.

  Her only concern was that it wouldn’t be as enjoyable for him this way. But in the next moment, all thoughts went out of her head as he stretched over her again, his heated shaft poised to enter her body.

  She wanted him inside her as though she’d never wanted anything else.

  She felt his breath shudder in his chest as he gave himself to her with exquisite slowness. Wanting to experience him with every one of her senses, she kept her eyes open and looked at his face. His own eyes were closed, his expression rapt. “Oh, Gen,” he whispered like a prayer. She felt awed by his passion.

  He filled her completely, burying himself to the hilt, and the sensation almost overwhelmed her. He was huge inside her; it felt for a moment as though there wasn’t room to draw breath into her lungs.

  She didn’t make a sound or move a muscle in protest, but he must have been attuned to every nuance of her
body, because he stopped and opened his eyes to meet hers. “All right?” he whispered, breathless.

  She nodded. Already she felt herself relaxing again. “Just—go slow.”

  He nodded in solemn assurance. His head bent down over her. He withdrew almost all the way and entered her again with infinite care, inch by pulsating inch. He kissed her temple, her hair, the ridge of her collarbone as he continued the languorous strokes. New pleasure flowed through her, as sweet as a pour of honey.

  “Good?” he whispered after a few minutes, his lips tickling her ear.

  She nodded furiously.

  “Good.” He filled her deeper still, though she hadn’t known that was possible. “I want to please you, Gen.”

  Oh, Lord. Didn’t he know? Everything he did pleased her. He pulled back and reached a hand between them, his thumb just brushing her over-sensitive core.

  She moaned. Her body shook all over now. The ache inside her had gone from sweet to sharp, making her desperate. “Will,” she begged, bucking her hips up shamelessly to meet him.

  His hand clenched in her hair, almost painfully, and she realized that he was as close to being undone as she was. He kept himself under severe control, serving her body with long true strokes as though his life or even honor depended upon it. Each thrust made her shudder. With each one, a fresh cry tore from her lips—she could do nothing to prevent it.

  And then she drowned in gorgeous, white-hot waves of pleasure. Her whole body was a heartbeat, radiating love with every outward pulse.

  Will’s warm back flexed under Genevieve’s hands. His head and back arched backward, and he gave a low cry. His strong body quivered above her and against her and then went lax, as if he’d surrendered his very soul into her keeping.

  He withdrew, and she was aware of him discarding the sheath that protected them before he bowed his sweating brow to her shoulder.

  Genevieve’s hand went up to shakily pet his hair and stroke his temple. Her breath seemed to shake, too. In the next moment she realized that a hot tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

  Will must have sensed something, because he jerked his head up. As soon as he saw it, he reached a hand out to wipe the tear away. “Gen, what is it?” he whispered. “Tell me I didn’t hurt you...”

  “No!” she reassured him at once, almost laughing, but it came out like a sob. Good Lord, she was losing control of herself. “You know you did not.”

  Could she tell him how amazing he’d been? Yes. She couldn’t do otherwise. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  Will looked startled, then gave a soft, bemused laugh. “God knows I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  This pleased Genevieve in turn. He disengaged from her and curled up next to her, laying his head on her shoulder.

  “You are so good,” he murmured sleepily after a few moments.

  Genevieve understood that he wasn’t only referring to her qualities in the bedroom. Not that she didn’t appreciate a compliment there, too.

  She loved the feeling of his hair against her shoulder, his beard against her chest. If only he could stay with her all night, lying with her like this. For a moment, she indulged in imaginings of what it would be like to wake up next to this kind, beautiful man, the rays of the morning sun shining in through the windows on them both...

  With closed eyes, she luxuriated in the fantasy for a while. But when she felt Will’s breathing deepen, and she realized he was falling asleep, she roused herself to sensible thinking again.

  “Will, you need to get up,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “Your coachman is waiting.”

  “Don’t want to,” he mumbled, nuzzling in closer against her neck.

  “I don’t want you to, either,” she admitted. “But it cannot be helped.”

  “Ah, Gen.” He lifted his head up and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. It almost made her want to cry again.

  When they dressed and came down to the parlor, Flory stood near the front door, looking startled.

  “Flory,” Genevieve said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am.” The maid turned to Will. “Can I get you your coat, sir?”

  ****

  Will came by a couple of afternoons later to pose for the painting again, as he’d promised. Genevieve laughed when she heard this was the reason for his visit.

  “But it is nearly finished,” she told him.

  “Already? Are you always so fast?”

  “Actually, no.”

  She had completed the canvas in record time. The day before, she even had Flory bring tea and a cold lunch up to her so that she didn’t have to take a break. And she’d been up nearly the whole night, working by the light of every lamp and candle she could find in the house.

  Usually Genevieve did very little in the way of figure-painting without a model present. But with this picture, she had no trouble recalling every muscle and contour of his body. How strange it seemed to have new subject matter—a male nude—and yet feel absolutely sure of what she was doing.

  “I was just excited about this one. Do come see it.”

  “I don’t know if I want to,” Will said as he followed her up to the studio. “It will be strange seeing myself.”

  As Genevieve opened the studio door, she hoped he wasn’t going to regret posing nude for her. Not that the figure in the picture was entirely nude. She’d put in the fur loincloth, as she said she would, though only after much hesitation. The cloth was appropriate for her subject...and she could hardly leave it off...yet it seemed like a terrible shame.

  Will gave a low whistle as he walked over to the canvas. “Impressive.” He seemed to take in the superficial differences she promised to put in: long hair, a beardless face.

  Nonetheless, his even, intense gaze looked out from the painting. Her depiction showed his straight-backed, confident stance. Genevieve felt she’d captured him perfectly.

  Will didn’t seem struck by the resemblance. “I do not think anyone would know it was me, even if you did exhibit it. The hair’s so different.”

  “Yes, but I did put your initials in it.”

  “What?” Will bent his head to look closer in the bottom corner of the painting. “There are only your initials.”

  “Here. Look at those mountain peaks in the background.” She moved her finger along the diagonal lines that they made against the sky: down-up, down-up. “See the ‘W?’”

  “Ha!” Will looked both impressed and flattered. “Very clever. And is there a ‘C?’”

  “Find it.” In a few moments, Will did, spying the pattern the rocks and pebbles made on the ground beneath a hunting dog.

  “I see. So it is a secret.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said. “I have quite a few of those.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

  Part of her wanted him to know that she was not the experienced mistress she pretended to be. But why? It would only mean disaster. She reproached herself for not minding her tongue.

  “Nothing.” She laughed. “I’m glad you like the picture.”

  Will clasped her hand and squeezed it.

  The simple touch electrified her. The last night they’d shared still thrummed in Genevieve’s blood and resonated in her heart. What she had known with Will, the physical bliss matched with spiritual contentment, was probably an experience most women didn’t have in their entire lives.

  Or did they? Was this what newlyweds felt, when relatives teased them about having a certain glow? Genevieve had thought all of that false sentimentality.

  The idea of newlyweds made her wistful. She thought of that yellow-haired girl she’d met in the tea-shop the other day, the acquaintance of Will’s. He had said he didn’t have a tendre for her, and she believed him. She supposed she knew him well enough to see that he wasn’t attracted to the girl. But how long would it be until he married someone like her, and his trysts with Genevieve came to an end?

  This question was getting harder and
harder for Genevieve to avoid. Will stole a kiss from her, tempting her, confusing her. Her body and her heart wanted to make love to him again.

  Her mind told her she couldn’t keep doing this.

  For a while she’d had the idea of being a sort of free-spirited libertine, enjoying herself with a lover without thinking anything of it. This proved to be an illusion. Genevieve thought constantly of their relationship, and it hurt her heart.

  She pulled away.

  “What is it?” he said, half-teasingly, moving to kiss her again.

  “Will, no,” she said, putting up a hand to hold him at bay. “I...I need to be alone. I need to work.”

  She saw the disappointment in his eyes. “Quite right. Go ahead.” But his voice was kind. “I shall leave you to it.”

  After he departed, Genevieve spent a few more hours refining some of the background, then decided that the painting was finished. As she’d done a hundred times before, she stepped back from the canvas to scrutinize it. As long as she had this canvas, then no matter what, she held a little bit of Will Creighton with her forever.

  The Venus, on the other hand...she could bear to part with that. And she was almost sure she knew who would appreciate it, despite what happened in the past.

  She went to the little writing desk and drew out one of her good pieces of stationary. After unstopping the inkpot, she dipped her pen and wrote to Mr. Valerio, the Italian art collector.

  ****

  “We will make this short,” Mr. Valerio told her as soon as she’d taken a seat in his London house. “I was not going to meet with you at all, but Louise insisted.” His gaze wandered over to his young English mistress, who slouched in a gilt chair. “You see what control she has over me. But someone with her charms...”

  Genevieve grew a little disgusted. The man had to have been in his fifties: did he have to choose a companion who was hardly more than a child? But for Genevieve, their association was fortunate, because of the girl’s apparent interest in art.

  “Thank you,” Genevieve said, as much to the girl than to Mr. Valerio. “You will not regret it.”