“Does that hurt?” She thought his expression was more pain than pleasure.
“God, no. Push your breasts together tightly for me.”
She did as he bade her, taking over the pressure of his hands cupped around her breasts, leaving him free to touch her everywhere. Wet hair, soft cheeks, swanlike neck, and smooth shoulders all clamored for his attention as he continued to pump away at her tits, loving the way she took him in, her darting pink tongue no longer shy about teasing and licking his cock every chance she got. He could feel himself nearing the end of his control. Reaching back between her legs, he probed the slick folds of her womanhood. She was so hot and so wet, and so ready to come again, that he barely grazed her labia lips, hardly even teased her clitoris, to feel her sudden gush of pleasure. His body responded with release so intense that he reared up, and watched his semen spurt forever across her, mixing with the raindrops and the scent of their lust. She held him tightly within the glove of her breasts, rubbing him in a gentle, loving way, as she milked every last droplet of his juices. Bridge leaned forward and pushed the damp tangle of hair back from her face, enjoying the look of intense rapture he saw there. He adored pleasuring women, yet never before had a woman taken so much and given so much in return.
“Let’s get you inside and dried off.” He tugged the folds of her gown together, mopping at the sticky residue of their love, before he helped her to her feet.
I’m not certain I can stand,” Fallon said in a shaky voice. Bridge scooped her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold of the studio. The outbuilding he had at first considered his prison had suddenly become a haven, a place where the outside world could never intrude. He slammed the door behind him and resisted the urge to lock it in an attempt to keep the rest of the world at bay, even as he knew a week spent exploring each other meant that their worlds would never be the same afterward.
He set her on her feet before the fire. “Can you stand now?”
She nodded shakily and pulled the folds of her dress across herself, trying ineffectually to smooth the grass-stained wrinkles of her skirt.
Bridge ripped impatiently at the bedclothes he’d dropped off the settee earlier, draping one blanket around himself and carrying a second one to Fallon.
“You’ve got to get out of this wet gown.”
She gazed up at him, the firelight reflecting confusion in her eyes. “Bridge, what just happened?”
“What do you mean?” With one corner of the blanket he mopped at his damp hair, slicking it straight back from the broad planes of his forehead. “We fucked in the rain. Which served to heighten the sensations, finding oneself one with nature and all that. Primitive, basic rutting. You must admit, it was mighty fine.”
“Mighty fine,” Fallon echoed, her voice quivering with uncertainty.
Bridge busied himself fetching another piece of firewood to add to the fire. Fine fucking aside, it would never do for her to realize that he was every bit as awed by the sheer power and magic of their coupling as she was.
While he stoked the fire, Fallon made her way to the window. The sky was lightening, the rain had nearly let up. As she watched, a bright swath of color arched across the sky.
The brightest, most intense rainbow she had ever seen shimmered, then doubled, cocky with its power and ability to reflect and admire its own splendor. It reminded her of Bridge. For he, too, was cocky with his power and abilities.
“A double rainbow,” Bridge murmured directly in her ear. “Considered by some to be good luck. Double the pots of gold and such.”
Fallon hadn’t heard him come up directly behind her, and she half turned, close enough to touch, to burrow against him. To smell his distinctive masculine scent, damp earth and raw sex.
Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped into the circle of his arms, kissed his naked chest, and nuzzled his neck, as his arms opened and enfolded her. Pulling her tight, he held her secure, safe from the outside world and unwanted intrusions.
“Why am I always the one who is naked, while you continue to be clad in entirely too many clothes?” Bridge asked.
“I own you,” Fallon said. “It’s the slave-master role.”
“What do you think would happen,” Bridge asked, serious for once, “if I were to own you?”
Fallon glanced away, afraid her face might mirror her feelings. Afraid that, in one way, he already did own her.
She touched his breastbone with her index finger. “You, good sir, would be a most formidable master. Relentless. Demanding. Uncompromising. I fear for the poor maiden who is unlucky enough to find herself enslaved to you.”
“And would you be my willing subject?”
“Never!” Fallon smiled.
Always, she thought. She was so enamored of Bridge, she was likely to do anything he bade. Witness how many times she’d had him and even now, temporarily sated, her traitorous body clamored for more. God help her, yes—she would do almost anything to have him again.
“I think,” Bridge said with a sly smile, “if there was an auction, I should bid on you.”
Fallon couldn’t help but lick her lips at the prospect. Couldn’t put paid to her insatiable curiosity. “And then?”
“Ah.” Bridge’s fingers probed the soft, vulnerable curves of her shoulders and neck. She moved against him like a cat begging to be petted. “What would I have my lady Fallon do? Pose for me hours on end, stiff and cold? Unlikely. I believe I would have you trained as my own personal geisha. Trained to do nothing but serve and pleasure me.”
“Serve you how?” Fallon asked.
“Prepare my bath. Bring my meals. Pour my wine. See to my every creature comfort.”
“A housemaid,” Fallon said. “How very unoriginal. I believe I’ll go and change into something dry, and see if dinner is on its way.”
“Are you aware of the way you resort to flight whenever something makes you uncomfortable?”
Fight or flight, Fallon thought. She could never fight him. “Don’t be silly. I’m hungry, is all.”
“You definitely have succeeded in stimulating my appetite,” Bridge said, his hands resting with heavy possessiveness on her shoulders in such a way that his body heat seared through her damp frock. “Yet I fear it will not be satisfied by mere food and drink.”
Fallon shuddered at the raw carnality. Everything about Bridge, from his stance to the intensity of his gaze, promised sex and more sex. And lord help her, she wanted all he had to offer, even as she knew she would only be left wanting more.
She turned away. What she desired from him was not something he had to give. She must content herself with capturing him on canvas, holding on to some small part of him forever, along with the memories of this time. She draped her wrap across her shoulders.
“Don’t be long,” Bridge said.
“I thought you were mine to command, not give the orders.”
He shrugged carelessly. “I don’t manage subservience terribly well. Besides, I miss you when we’re parted.”
There was a wistfulness in his words and his tone that almost convinced Fallon of his sincerity as she ran quickly back to the manor house. Was there a chance he meant what he said? That he longed for her company as she longed for his?
The man was a master manipulator, she reminded herself. No doubt every woman who found herself on the receiving end of his amour believed herself more special, more important, than any who had gone before. She was brought smartly back to earth by Mrs. Buttle’s goggle-eyed viewing of her bedraggled appearance.
“You’ve nigh gone and destroyed a perfectly good gown, madam.”
“Too true, Mrs. Buttle. I slipped on the mud in the wet grass. Mind you watch your own step if you venture out. Or better yet, stay indoors while it storms.”
“Yes, madam. I be having no reason to leave the house.”
Fallon stiffened. Was that censure in the woman’s tone? Or was she being overly sensitive? “It’s been a long time since we’ve had guests,” she said
smoothly.
“Certainly, madam. The meal trays are ready. Would you have me send them over?” Her housekeeper continued to avoid her eye.
She can’t know what I’ve been doing with Bridge, Fallon thought guiltily. Why is she acting so odd?
“Yes, please. I shall change into something dry and be along straight away.”
“Will you be needing a hand getting changed, then?”
“Mrs. Buttle. Never before have I required a hand to get changed. Why would you suddenly think things to be different?”
“Seems changes going on, is all.”
“I’m painting again. And very happy about it. Which is the only change you need concern yourself with.”
Upstairs in her room, Fallon peeled away her ruined clothing and perused herself critically in the cheval looking glass. Small wonder Mrs. Buttle seemed disapproving. She was more than just a little rumpled. Her cheeks were pink, and although she could attribute their high color to the warmth inside after the coolness of the rain, she knew it was much more than that. She looked happy. Well kissed and thoroughly loved, with her hair spilled in tumbled disarray about her shoulders.
She cupped her breasts in her hands and pushed them together. Memory of the way Bridge had slid his hot, hard cock between them and taken his pleasure, while still giving her hers, sent a fresh hot wave of longing thundering through her loins. What on earth was happening? When had she become so wanton? If he was here right now, she could quite happily tumble him again. But when would his portrait get painted if they spent all their time in carnal pursuits?
Surely, she thought as she selected a clean and pressed frock, one of a rosy hue that matched the color-in her cheeks and enhanced the brightness of her eyes, surely they could find time to do both. Time for detached physical pleasure and enjoyment of each other’s company.
She was not allowed to get attached to Bridge, she told herself with new firmness. For hadn’t she learned to get through life by allowing herself to care in only the most shallow of fashions? Aurora was the one exception, the one person who had pushed aside her reticence. Who understood her fears and where they came from. Caring too much ultimately hurt too much.
It had begun with her parents’ death, leaving her to be raised by a strict, unemotional aunt and uncle. Then there was her tiny infant, whose loss she still felt when she allowed herself the memory. Most recently, the Captain had been taken from her side. She pulled on her clean frock and tidied her hair. At least with Bridge, she knew from the outset that he would disappear from her life shortly. She could be prepared.
Fallon sensed something different the moment she entered the studio. Bridge had set their meal out on the table as he had the day before, but he was fully dressed, including his jacket and cravat. His white shirt appeared crisply immaculate. His boots gleamed. His trousers sheathed his splendid legs in such a way as to be almost indecent. Just the sight of those powerful limbs was enough to melt her insides. How well she knew those strong, capable hands and the wonders of their touch.
“I didn’t know we were to dine formally,” she said, her hands fluttering near her throat. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do or where to look. The sight of Bridge, clothes or no, sparked a dangerous hunger.
“I’ve decided to call off our arrangement,” he said with the utmost casualness.
Fallon felt as if her stomach hit her knees with a hollow thud of disappointment.
“I mean to return to Boston immediately.”
“It’s too late to renege,” she said with unusual force. “Aurora paid for your services for one full week.”
“A wrong I intend to put right.”
Her gaze followed his to the table, where a significant pile of bills lay. “I don’t want your money. And neither does Aurora.”
“Consider it my bequest to a worthy cause, in the manner you first suggested. A far more noble gesture than my week-long offer of services.”
Fallon picked up the bills and thrust them into his uncooperative hand. They fluttered to the floor between them. “You entered into an agreement. Your portrait is only half done. Now, enjoy your meal and remove your clothing. I quite fancy the light at this moment.”
“Be careful, Fallon.”
“Careful of what?”
“Be careful that you know what you want. Along with exactly what you are getting.”
“I want to finish painting you,” Fallon said.
“So you maintain.” Bridge poured himself a glass of champagne from the open bottle and took a sip. “Very nice,” he said. “French.”
“Of course. My husband sailed the world. He had very good taste in wine.”
“And in women,” Bridge said, tilting his glass in her direction, toasting her beauty. He picked up a fresh strawberry from the bowl and took a bite.
“I didn’t really want to leave, you know. I’m quite enjoying myself here.”
“So why the charade?” Fallon picked up a toast round topped with foie gras.
“I wanted to ensure that you are as committed to the project as I am.”
“I told you, I have every intention of seeing the portrait completed.”
“I’m not talking about the portrait,” Bridge said.
“I fear we’re at cross-purposes. What else is there?”
“I refer to us, Fallon. The way in which we are getting to know each other inside out. The secrets we may have to give up. The baring of our souls, along with our bodies.”
“Really, Bridge, I . . .”
He watched the way her hands fluttered like a defenseless bird caught in a trap. “It’s quicksand, Fallon. And if I step into it, I take you with me. You have my word.”
“Ah. So you were trying to spare me, is that it?”
“No, my dear. I was trying to spare us both. But I fear it is far too late for that. Now I have new inspiration for your artist’s soul.”
He rose and went around behind her, where he began to unfasten the back of her dress.
“Bridge, I . . .”
He felt her tremble at his touch. Her nape looked delicious. He fastened his lips against it and felt her shuddering response. Her muscles softened like warm wax, her body pliant within his touch.
She was his.
She might think she owned him, that he was hers to command. In reality, the opposite was true. And they both knew it.
He peeled off her clothing, piece by piece. It was high time he remained clothed while her naked splendor was exposed to his admiring eye.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his hands reverently tracing her feminine curves and valleys as she reclined on the settee.
He plucked a large, ripe strawberry from the bowl, took a bite, then pressed it to her lips. She took a tiny nibble, her eyes on his, unsure what would follow.
How delightful she was. Such a heady mixture of virtue and seduction. The half-eaten berry trailed its juice across her chest as he traced the shape of her breasts, then colored her nipples the deep, dark red of the berries. He licked them clean, then started again.
“Oh, look,” he said happily. “Whipped cream. Dear Mrs.Buttle. A woman after my own heart.”
“I doubt this was what she intended,” Fallon said as he dipped his fingers in the bowl of thick cream and dotted them atop her red, cherry like nipples.
“I need more.” He scooped a handful of cream onto her breasts like snow-topped mountain peaks, then topped each one with a strawberry.
“So,” she said huskily. “How do I taste?”
“I’m about to find out.” He took another scoop of cream and spread it over her mons. She shifted, allowing him easier access.
“You’re so hot,” he said. “The cream is starting to melt.”
“You’re sure it’s not the fire?”
“I am very certain it’s you.”
He kept one hand on her pubes, teasing and torturing her inner lips while he nibbled at the strawberries and cream cresting her breasts, one at a time.
She was moving wi
th him, rolling her hips, begging for more, rubbing her tight hot little box against his hand like a wanton feline. He obliged with more pressure in just the right place, and at the same time he lightly nipped her with his teeth. He was careful not to bite, only to graze the sensitive area as he continued to lap at the remainders of his creamy feast.
He felt the catch in her breathing as her orgasm started to build. He fed it to her bit by bit, rubbing, slowing, rubbing harder, biting, licking, sucking. Then she came, with a deep, keening moan that reverberated into him, racing through his veins like hungry brush fire.
“God, Fallon. Do that again.”
He knelt before her, smeared her sex with more cream, and fell upon her like a parched desert traveler coming upon an oasis.
No gentleness, no teasing now. Just raw, primitive hunger and a thirst that only Fallon could quench. Her juices sweetened the richness of the cream, turned it into ambrosia. He could eat her forever; exist on nothing save Fallon. Exist in a world that contained only her. Their own Eden. For she was beauty and strength. She was him and he was her.
Quicksand, he had told her. He was going down without a struggle; he had no desire to fight his way free.
He became aware of her trying to push him away.
“No more,” she panted. “I can’t possibly . . .”
“Of course you can.”
And he proceeded to prove, over and over again, that she could.
Fallon dozed briefly, and woke ravenous. Bridge sat staring out the window, still fully dressed. She wondered if he was still considering leaving.
He must have heard her stir, for he turned. “I heated some water over the fire so you could wash.”
“That was thoughtful.”
She watched as he tipped water from the pot into a bowl, tested it for temperature, dipped a flannel into it. She reached for the cloth.
“Allow me,” he said. And with economical motions he removed all residue of the sticky creaminess, along with all residue of his possession. She wondered if his actions were in any way symbolic.
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