And nights. Seven more nights.
Unless they were all like tonight. She had thought Bridge would choose to linger with her, to nest awhile in front of the fire. To share thoughts and feelings.
She laughed at herself. Men didn’t share; they took what they wanted. If a woman got something in return, it was of little consequence to them.
Except Bridge gave. He’d been totally invested in her pleasure, possibly more so than his own.
Art, she reminded herself. Art was the most important thing.
The portrait, she would always have.
The man would never be hers.
Bridge heard the studio door open, saw Fallon’s slender form silhouetted in the doorway, and ducked behind a bush as she walked to the house. He needed time alone. Time to think. Time to try to assess what exactly had happened back there with Fallon. What had suddenly changed so that he could have lain there forever, cocooned with her in a tangle of blankets and love?
He gave his head a shake as he walked back to the studio. Perhaps he’d drunk too much wine. Not that he hadn’t a hundred other times without the same result. Perhaps he was getting older. Maturing in his old age. His mother and his sisters would have quite the laugh about that. They had despaired of his ever being naught but the bratty younger brother, the one who was destined never to take life seriously. Until the day he had picked up a gun and gone off to fight.
He’d given up trying to gauge why he had been spared when other good men, men a damn sight better than he’d ever be, had fallen like flies. It was too much to understand.
He opened the studio door. Fallon’s presence lingered in every corner; her scent wafted in the air. She’d gotten to him. He, who never allowed anything or anyone to affect him. He had to figure out a way to distance himself from her; he was there only long enough for her to paint him and to fuck him. Beyond that, nothing.
“You’re rather cheerful this morning, madam,” remarked Mrs. Buttle, the plump, middle-aged housekeeper who’d been seeing to her comforts ever since Fallon’s marriage to Captain Gilchrist. Indeed, they had mourned together and comforted each other through the loss from which Fallon had once thought she might never recover. Over time the sharp pain had subsided to a dull memory, ever present but no longer debilitating.
“I suspect it’s the weather. More than a hint of summer, finally.”
“A promise, to be sure.”
“My houseguest, a young friend of Mrs. Tremblay, will be staying in the studio a few days more. I will be working long hours, so please see that meals are delivered there on a regular basis.” She paused, then added, “Quite sumptuous meals, for the food helps inspire me.”
“Like last night?”
Last night’s meal or last night’s inspiration?
“Exactly like last night. As I don’t wish unnecessary disturbances, have the trays left outside the door. Foods that won’t spoil if they’re not immediately eaten.”
“Yes, madam. Anything else?”
“Champagne. Lots of champagne. Strawberries. Buy them fresh at the market. Ghiradelli Chocolate. Fine cheeses.”
Mrs. Buttle raised one brow but was too well trained to offer comment, for which Fallon was immeasurably relieved.
The dew lay heavily on the barely opened rosebuds and on the grass beneath her feet as she made her way at a deliberately slow pace from the house to the studio. Her skirt brushed against a laden peony bush and she felt the morning moisture on her hem, brushing against her ankles. The sensation naturally reminded her of Bridge. His mouth on her feet and ankles, before moving to possess her in a way no other man ever had. She embraced the memory, the feelings it evoked.
Was it only her perception, or did the sun shine a tad more brightly than days previous? Was the sky a more intense shade of blue, the scudding clouds a cleaner white in contrast? The air was positively redolent, heavy with the fragrance from the lush greens of her grounds. No wonder she’d been unable to paint. Her senses had been dulled, but were now gloriously brought back to life, thanks to Bridge. An artist of people, as he branded himself.
She prayed her skills proved enough to do his likeness justice, that she could capture his true depth.
She pushed open the door and he turned, a little-boy petulance upon his face. “Tell your cook I detest oatmeal in the morning.”
Fallon smiled. “Mrs. Buttle is Scots. She believes in the benefits of hearty rolled oats that stick to one’s ribs and get one’s day off to a proper start. What would you prefer?”
“Steak and eggs.”
“Very well.” She studied him in the unforgiving morning light. Remarkable, the beauty of such raw masculine power. “I’ll see to it tomorrow. Now, we work.”
He rose, liquid grace in his movements as he came her way. He allowed his fingertips to flutter ever so lightly against her throat. She forced herself to stand still, but swallowed thickly, and knew he felt the effect he was having upon her.
“Work, or allow ourselves to be inspired first?” he said in husky tones that chased magic tingles down her backbone, as if she were the xylophone and he the musician orchestrating her pleasurable response.
She stepped back, relieved when he didn’t follow. “I long to paint you. I only hope I am able to do you justice.”
He flashed a grin, incorrigible in its boyish complexities. “Will seven days serve long enough?”
Never. But Fallon refrained from giving voice to the traitorous thought. “It shall have to do.”
“Same pose as yesterday?”
“If it pleases you.”.
“It would please me more to make you come. To see the sunlight play upon your skin. To taste the juices of your sex.”
“It will be your skin exposed to the daylight, and yours alone,” Fallon said in a tone she hoped brooked no argument. Could she even hope to resist, should he attempt to seduce her?
Her gaze fell to yesterday’s charcoal sketches. They were some of her best work, yet to her critical eye, she knew she could do so much better. She glanced at her subject. He had discarded his shirt, and his back was toward her as he stepped out of his trousers. The curve of his spine was positively intoxicating, as was the long, lean line of muscle from gluteus maximus to splendidly formed hamstring. The man truly was poetry in motion, his skin dusted with dark curls in all the right places. She knew firsthand the soft texture of that skin where no hair grew. Knew its contrast, beneath her fingertips, with the springy dark thatch that ran from his breastbone to ring his navel, and plunge lower into the thick nest housing his splendid cock.
She sighed and forced herself to gaze upon him dispassionately as he arranged himself upon the settee.
“Wait. I need to drape the fabric.”
Fallon reached around and above him, feeling the velvet slip through her fingers like water. She frowned. The velvet sucked up the light. She needed something different, a fabric to reflect the light. To reflect his splendor.
“It’s no good,” she said. “I need the satin.”
“I can smell you,” he said. “Your damp heat. I need to taste you. To bury my mouth against your clit, to lap at the special juices. Every woman tastes different. Did you know that?”
“How on earth would I have knowledge of such a thing?”
She located her bolt of satin, a blue so dark as to be nearly black. She tossed it atop the claret-colored velvet, appreciating the effect of one swathed atop the other. A study in contrasts, much as the man before her. His cock swelled and hardened beneath her gaze. His eyes remained on hers as he licked his lips, as if recalling her special flavor.
“Do you want to know how you taste?”
“Not particularly,” Fallon said. Though when she had tasted herself upon his fingers and his lips, she’d found it a positively heady potion. She positioned her easel before the settee and selected a blank, primed canvas from among her collection. At four feet in length and three feet in height, it was heavy, yet she was pleased when Bridge didn’t offer his assistance
. He’d settled himself atop the two swirled lengths of fabric. Sunlight spilled through the windows. Fallon selected her colors from the various tubes, squeezed them onto the palette, and began the painstaking task of mixing them to achieve exactly the right tone.
When she began to paint, her brush strokes were more sure than any she had ever before created. There was no hesitation, no faltering. She felt as if a special energy emanated from Bridge, through her, and onto the canvas. She trembled from the excitement of it, the sheer force of the energy.
Suddenly the unthinkable happened. She cast aside her brush in disgust. How unfair. Now, of all times.
Bridge raised one brow. “Are you finished with me so soon, then?”
“It’s the unpredictable June weather.” They both stared out the windows at the thick, gray blanket of cloud that obliterated the sun. “Just when things were going so well.”
Bridge rose and stretched. “Am I to be allowed a viewing?”
“Not yet,” Fallon said. “I’ve barely started.”
“When?”
“Not until it’s finished.”
Thunder cracked through the sky. The glass window panes were pelted with thick, fat raindrops that ran in wild rivulets. She sighed, feeling her pent-up frustrations match the storm’s mood.
“It won’t last,” Bridge said, as he strode about the studio, completely comfortable in his nudity.
Indeed, she was beginning to feel like the one who was incorrectly attired. Too many layers. The fire was ablaze, ensuring that Bridge didn’t feel chilled. She mopped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. Bridge caught the action. “Too warm?”
She knew he’d suggest she remove a few layers. Or offer to do it for her.
“Not at all,” she said in quick denial. Too quick, for he clearly wasn’t fooled.
His eyes took on a mischievous glint. “I know how to cool you off.”
He also knew how to get her totally overheated. On the heels of her thoughts Fallon found herself halfway out the door, her hand caught firmly in his, before she realized his intentions.
“You are mad,” she gasped as the summer rain hit her face. “You can’t dance around my garden naked. What if someone sees?”
Her protests fell upon deaf ears as he caught her against him and swung her around. His steps were as correct as if they danced in a ballroom among hundreds, not dodged raindrops in the privacy of her studio garden amid the rain-drenched foliage and blooms.
“There’s nothing like summer rain,” Bridge said. “It’s warm. Sensual.”
He looked like a pagan god. His skin was slick and wet, as was his hair. He pushed it back off his forehead and raised his face to the sky. Fallon could feel the coolness of the rain penetrating her frock to her skin. Her nipples hardened beneath the damp fabric. The skirt held more weight as it clung to her legs. She should have been cool; instead she was inflamed by the sheer lustful sensuality of dancing in the rain with a beautiful, unclothed man.
Her sensual wantonness must have simmered over to him, for he slowed his steps and reeled her close. She could feel his hardened muscles at every juncture they met, his warm skin heating her through the dampened tangle of her frock.
“Tell me, Fallon. Have you ever made love in the rain?”
She could only shake her head in bewilderment, no longer feeling responsible for her actions or responses.
“I guarantee you, it’s an experience like no other. One you will never forget.”
She was ready for his kiss, eagerly welcoming the heady invasion of his tongue, the rough yet knowing pressure of his lips upon hers. The backs of his knuckles grazed her nipples, the barrier of wet cloth between her skin and his an enticement rather than a deterrent.
Fallon caught her breath as his lips abandoned hers to lavish attention on her throat and neck, her cheeks and eye-lids. Raindrops fell upon her skin to mingle with the dampness of his kisses. He felt divine. Strong and sleek and slippery. She couldn’t get enough of the rugged contours of his shoulders and back, his lean hips, the tight globes of his buttocks.
His cock was rigid against her belly and she knew the sudden urge to taste him as he had tasted her. She dropped to her knees before him and tentatively touched her dampened lips to the velvety softness of his tip, tasting a single salty drop of his semen. She heard him moan, the sound thundering through her and further inflaming her senses. Knowledge of the pleasure she could bring him was a new and intoxicating feeling.
She gripped his backside in the palms of her hands and slowly eased the entire head of his penis into her mouth. Tentatively at first, she circled it with her tongue. He buried his hands in her hair and clutched her scalp tightly. He didn’t try to jam the entire length of his cock into her mouth the way her husband once had, making her gag and nearly vomit.
Instead he murmured his approval as she continued to engulf his hardness in the satin heat of her mouth, inch by inch, sliding back when it became too much. She quickly realized he liked that and changed her tactics, sliding her round, hungry mouth up and down the hot swollen length of the underside of his shaft, sucking slightly, rewarded by another droplet of his creamy juices. He thrust his pelvis in time to her movements, intensifying the in-out motion.
She increased her speed accordingly, sucking harder, pulling him in deeper, until abruptly he pulled himself free.
She gazed up at him wide-eyed. “Did I do something wrong?”
He dropped to his knees alongside her. “You did something far too right, my love. But I’m not yet ready to have my release.”
He ripped her underthings aside and pulled her, still kneeling, on top of him. The thick grass was tickly soft beneath her knees. He positioned himself so that he was able to lick the soft insides of her thighs. A rush of heat shot through her, a tremble of impatience that she knew he felt, for he laughed against her skin as he nibbled and tasted and licked near her mons.
When she shifted slightly to provide him better access, he shifted as well, holding her hips firmly in place. She stiffened slightly, feeling the new and slightly strange sensation of him licking her bottom. She heard his murmurs of approval as he gorged himself on first one cheek, then the other. Fallon closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation. A new erogenous zone. A different trembling need. He spread the cheeks, accessing the deep crevice between, his hungry tongue loving and laving every inch of her. Desire built to unprecedented heights. She reached down and touched herself, only to feel him shift again, his lips replacing her tentative fingers.
He separated the folds of her lips and flicked his tongue against her clitoris, coaxing it from hiding.
Fallon caught her breath at the delicious ripples of pleasure flooding through her, a prelude of more to come.
“Touch your breasts,” Bridge ordered. “Pinch your nipples through the dampness of your gown. Tell me how good it feels.”
“Oh, yes.” Fallon did as she was told, rewarded by that instant connection between her breasts and her womb, the heavy fullness intensifying and flooding her with fresh desire.
“Open the front of your dress.”
Fallon’s fingers trembled with impatience against the buttons but at last she succeeded, pulling her breasts free from the confines of her chemise, allowing their unbound splendor to drink up the softly falling rain.
“Beautiful,” Bridge said. “Beautiful tits. A beautiful pussy.”
He continued to feast hungrily between her legs while Fallon fondled her breasts and rubbed the wet, hard nubs of her nipples. He was tonguing her slit, in and out, his tongue working like a tiny darting penis. He teased her inner lips, dampening his fingers, then found the tiny tight bud of her anus. Slowly he rubbed, and Fallon felt it unfolding beneath the pressure, opening to the questing pressure of his little finger. With his finger working her rear and his tongue inside her honey pot, Fallon abruptly experienced the most intense orgasm yet, hot, fast wave after wave of wonderment such as she had never known. His clever fingers replaced h
is tongue on her clit, with just enough pressure to coax out every last throbbing ripple of pleasure. Then he simply cupped her womanhood tightly while the sensations subsided.
Chapter 5
“Oh.” Fallon could barely speak, let alone move. Hugging her tightly against him, Bridge shifted them both to new positions. Now she reclined upon the bed of soft grass and he knelt above her, his form sheltering her from the gentle mist-like rain that enshrouded them and lent an air of surrealism to their encounter.
The sexy scent of Fallon was enhanced by the rich, pungent odor of damp earth and rain-kissed fauna. The only sound beyond their breathing was the steady light rain landing upon wide-leafed foliage and waterlogged flower heads.
From his new vantage point Bridge gazed down at Fallon. Her frock had burst open to display her voluptuous milk-white breasts. He cupped them, noting how rugged his hands looked against her creamy skin, glistening with a rain-kissed sheen.
He ducked his head and tongued her nipples lightly at first, before pulling them deep inside the cavern of his mouth. He felt the hard, cold buds respond to the heat of his mouth as a flower responds to the sun.
Dampening the divide between her breasts with his tongue, he pushed their scrumptious softness together, cupped them in his palms, and eased his aching cock into the snug sheath. She was moist and warm and slippery and he nearly lost it, hearing her tiny gasp of surprise.
“Has no one fucked you in the tits before?”
His thumbs teased her nipples, enjoying their response. The areolas, the color of softly drying red rose petals, pulled tight and hard as he rolled the pads of his thumbs across each bud.
“Never.” She raised her head to answer and his cock grazed the pink softness of her lips. He didn’t know where she got the idea from, but suddenly Fallon stuck out her tongue and tickled the tip of his cock as he thrust forward between her breasts, hot and hard and so ready to explode he had to grit his teeth.
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