Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
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Copyright ©2008 by L.E. Bryce
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Published by Phaze Books This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children. www.Phaze.com
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V an anthology of erotic tales by VICTORIA BLISSE L.E. BRYCE KATE BURNS EMMA WILDES
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V copyright 2007, 2008 by Victoria Blisse, L.E. Bryce, Kate Burns, Emma Wildes All rights reserved under the International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. A Phaze Production Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC. To order additional copies of this book, contact:
[email protected] www.Phaze.com 5
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Cover art © 2007, Debi Lewis Edited by Michelle Dowdey eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-933-2 eBook ISBN-10: 1-59426-933-5 First Edition—February, 2008 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Reluctant Muse Victoria Blisse
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Also by Victoria Blisse Proving Santa Exists Getting Physical Masquerading Hearts Naughty Rendezvous Phaze in Verse
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
"Did you get all that?" Mr. Singleton asks, tapping a foot impatiently. "Yes, I think so." Carrie stutters, not looking up from her feet. "Right. Well, I'll leave you in Jamie's capable hands now. He'll look after you, make sure you learn all the ropes. I'll see you at the end of the week for your assessment." "Thank you, Mr. Singleton." Carrie briefly looks into his eyes then lets her gaze drop again. "You're welcome. Work hard and behave well and you'll have a permanent position here at Betta Burga. See you." The suited Singleton walks out of the front door and it is as if the staff all let out their breath at the same time. "Thank fuck for that." The dark haired, Goth-eyed server grins. "I can't stand that suited son of a..." "Now, Fiona, do you think you could pretend to be the nice, sweet Betta Burga server that the company thinks you are for just a little longer whilst I get the new girl settled in?" "Well I suppose so, Jamie, but it'll cost you an extra five minutes on my lunch." "Done. Now get the sign out and the door open, it's party time folks." "Right, Carrie is it?" The tall, blond Jamie looks down on the scared newbie and she nods. "Okay, so you're starting out on the grill as it's the easiest thing to do. We'll move you up as you get more confidence." "Okay." Carrie feels the guy's arm across her shoulders and holds her breath. He smells nice, clean with a citrus hint 9
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
but she doesn't like being touched by strangers, even nice smelling ones and shrugs out of his grip as soon as she is able. "Well, it's as simple as this. Fiona or I will shout over a number like, 'Five, please.' And you then just have to flip five burgers on to the hotplate. Be careful, it is really hot." He flips one burger onto the grill. The spitting and hissing of grease is instantaneous. "So, you time it using the clock up there, two minutes on the first side, one minute thirty on the other then you move it over from the grill to the warmer where Graham takes over with the buns and the cheese and the other accompaniments. That's it, okay?" "Yeah, got it." Carrie smiles. It's not exactly challenging is it? "Great." Jamie flips the burger off the hotplate and into the bin. "It starts off a bit slow, but it will get busier. If you need any help don't hesitate to ask." "I think I'll manage." She rolls her eyes as he walks away from her. "Oh, I'm sure you will. Just have to cover all the bases. Catch you later." Jamie moves through the other members of the staff, confidently chatting and laughing as he checks everything is ready to go. "She's a bit, you know..." Fiona comments as they serve two hungry students, "...timid. I don't think she's going to last long."
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"Oh, I don't know, she doesn't strike me as a quitter. Even you were quiet on your first day, Fiona, you soon found your tongue." "Well, I suppose you're right. I know how to use it now too." She slowly licks her lips, and Jamie blushes and looks away. Carrie, meanwhile, is already thoroughly sick of tossing burgers. The smell, the sight and the sound are all making her feel rather queasy. "You get used to it." Graham aims a weak, pale smile her way. "I mean the smell, anyway. Are you at the University?" "Yes." Carrie replies, smiling at the skinny, shy boy, "I'm doing English. You?" "Nah, we could never afford it. I just work here and when I'm not working here I work in the factory. Brings in the money I guess." "Have you been here long?" Carrie's natural shyness is overridden by her boredom. "Since it opened." Graham beams proudly, the livid red spots on his chin aligning into a curve like his smile. "I'm the longest serving member of staff here. Most people don't last more than a year or two." Carrie could understand why. What boring, monotonous work, but it would pay her bills and get her through university and then, well then maybe she could do something she loved and finally be happy with her life. ****
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Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
"Come on, fatty, keep up." Steve barks at Carrie as she tries desperately to flip ten burgers all at the same time. "We've got customers waiting." "Ignore him," Graham hisses once Steve moves back over to the tills. "He's a total wanker." Carrie smiles weakly at Graham, who she's struck up a low level friendship with over the last day or two. She slips the burgers on to the warmer and flips more raw meat onto her grill. Saturdays, apparently, are hard work and Steve is not making the job any easier, breezing around with his stubby nose in the air, barking commands and doing little to no work himself, making the rest of them work harder to compensate. It's quite simple for Carrie to slip into a little protective world of her own as Steve yells and shouts his way around the kitchen. Carrie is used to it. Being called fatty is nothing new and now it barely even hurts her any more. How can you be wounded by a name that fits you so well? It started out with her Dad, he called her fatty so much she all but forgot her real name after her mum died. The kids at school were just as cruel. Even though she wasn't being fed at home, she was still tall with curves that weren't expected for a teenager. However, at school it was only words, not so at home. She spent as such time as she could in school and that is what finally saved her from the loving grip of her father and put her into the relative safety of the home. The taunting continued but she knew how to deal with it. At sixteen she got her own flat and finally had a place to escape from the world. 12
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"Yoo hoo, oy, fatty, you've burnt the damn burgers, you fucking retard." Steve's clicking fingers bring her out of her daydream. She then hears the beeping alarm that tells her the burgers need flipping, so she flips them. "No, doofus, they're overdone. They need to go in the bin and you'll be docked the price from your damn pay packet and I'll tell my uncle how incompetent you are, fatty. So stupid you can't even flip a burger." The whole room is deadly silent, the customers pausing mid-burger bite, the servers ceasing their serving. "They look alright to me." Carrie says, pointing to the grilled burger, the bars of colour only slightly darker than they normally would be. "Oh, oh they do, do they?" Steve's sweaty, porcine face turns red and his eyes seem to bulge as he takes a step closer to Carrie, his body just a mere hair's breadth from touching her. "Well, I say they need to go into the fucking bin and I'm the fucking boss, do you hear me? You're the damn spaced out retard who wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. Fuck, you're stupid as well as fat." "Steve, you can't speak to Carrie like that." Jamie is standing just behind Steve, his hands on his hips, a stern look plastered over his usually smiling face. "Who says?" Steve spins his head to the side and glares. "Me." "And who the fuck do you think you are?" "I'm the senior manager here, mate, and I don't care who your damn uncle is, I'll fire your ass if you speak to one of my 13
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members of staff like that ever again. Do you hear me?" Jamie's eyes are burning with anger, his fist straining at the side of his body. The burger alarm pings and Carrie turns round to flip them off the grill and onto the warmer. Steve lets out a shuddering breath. "Fine, whatever. My shift is over now anyway but my uncle will be hearing about this incompetence." As he stalks off, he quite deliberately pushes Carrie in the back, sending her forward over the hot grill. She automatically puts her hand out to balance, and it comes down on the scalding hot metal before her. "Oops." Steve laughs as he walks out of the building, Jamie dashes forward and grabs Carrie by the wrist, he pulls her to the sink where he puts the cold tap on full and dunks her hand under it. "He's a bloody wanker." Jamie hisses under his breath, and then he shouts over his shoulder, "Back to work people, Carrie is going to be fine. Fiona, finish serving your customer then take over the grill, please." Carrie knows it hurts, she can feel the throbbing of the burn beneath the icy pain of the running water but Carrie learnt not to cry or to show fear or pain many years ago, when burns like this were a common place punishment for minor indiscretions. "Carrie, are you okay?" Jamie is stooping down slightly to look directly into her eyes, she nods, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall. 14
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"You're not really, are you? No, well he's a prick. I'll be reporting him, he can't get away with behaviour like that. We'll keep this under the running water for a bit longer then we'll see how bad it is." Carrie nods again, a tear slipping down her cheek, not from the pain but from the sympathy shown by this virtual stranger. "We'll fix you up, don't worry." Jamie runs a hand up and down her arm and she flinches away, her mind still caught up in remembered abuse. "Sorry." He coughs, removing his hand as if he himself had just been burnt. "No, I'm sorry." Carrie smiles weakly. "I'm just, you know, worked up." Jamie smiles, running a hand through his hair. "I can only imagine." He grins. "How's the hand feeling?" "Numb," she replies, the cold water having now overcome the stinging pain of the burnt flesh beneath. Jamie turns off the tap and looks at her hand. "It looks like you're lucky. It's just red and swollen, but I'm going to take you to the hospital anyway." "Oh no, I'll just..." "Carrie, I'm taking you to the hospital and that is final. That is a major burn and it is my duty to see you get treated for it." "But it just needs..." "No buts, you're going." Carrie stops arguing but she knows the docs will just clean it and lightly cover it. She could do that at home but Jamie is 15
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the boss and it is his conscience that will be salved by a trip to the local infirmary. **** "I can't believe how brave you're being." Jamie says as they sit on orange plastic chairs waiting to be assessed by the triage nurse. "I'd be wailing like a baby by now if it was me." "I'm used to it." Carrie shrugs. "I've had worse." "Really?" Jamie shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, Carrie." "What for?" Carrie's brow crinkles up with confusion. "For this." He waves his hand at her hand. "It shouldn't have happened." "It's not your fault that Steve is a callous bastard." She shrugs. "You've done more than enough to help me. Thanks." "It's the least I can do. You're at the University, right?" "Yeah," Carrie nods, "doing English, I've got masses of work to do this week." She looks down at her hand, "I'm going to have to learn to type one handed." "Well, that is a useful skill..." Jamie grins cheekily and Carrie giggles. "Are you at Uni, too?" "Yeah, business studies, my last year." Carrie nods, "I just started in September." "Enjoying it?" Jamie asks. "Yes, I am." Carrie smiles. This had been her dream for years and even though it's hard juggling schoolwork and the burger place, she's happy to be doing it. "How about you?" "Not really." He shrugs. "It's not my thing, but Dad insists, you know." 16
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
Carrie nods, even though she doesn't really know, and just then her name is announced and she walks off to triage. **** "Are you sure you'll be okay?" Carrie nods and smiles. "I'll be fine, thank you." "Well, alright. I don't want to see you at work till Friday at the earliest, though." Jamie begins to wind up the car window. "But, I can't afford to..." The window stops half way up, "Don't worry, you'll get paid. It'll be a bit less than if you worked, but you'll get paid. I'll see to that." "Well, okay. Thanks, Jamie." "You're welcome, Carrie. Take care, okay? Rest that hand." "Okay." Carrie blushes and then waves with her good hand as Jamie starts up the engine and drives away. She knew her hand would be looked at, washed and dressed, and that was exactly what happened. She knows it will probably heal up slowly because of damage done by previous burns. However, she used to work with a burnt hand literally minutes after it happened, so it will be a luxury to rest it for a few days. Carrie finds herself thinking about Jamie's gentle touch as she opens the door to her little student flat. She remembers his concern and the way he jumped to her defense. Carrie sighs, slipping off her coat carefully and hanging it behind the door. 17
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She mustn't think like this. It will come to nothing. Jamie is handsome, though. His trendy, soft blond hair trailing just into his eyes so his hand is constantly flipping it out of the way. His lean body oh, yeah, especially his tight buttocks. The cheap polyester of his work trousers clings to his butt very nicely indeed. And then there's his eyes. You know those kind of piercing animal eyes you see on hawks and big cats and other predatory beasts? Well Jamie has predatory eyes, bright, blue and blazing with intelligence, cunning and charm. Carrie slips off her turquoise tabard. She unbuttons her blouse, shrugs out of her trousers, then picks all the clothes up from the floor and places them in the washing basket. She avoids looking down at her body as she takes off her bra. Taking away the support that holds her breasts in check, they drop and wobble to a standstill on her chest and she lets out another frustrated sigh as she slips off her knickers and her stomach greets her gaze. Fat, she thinks. No, she knows she is fat and she knows Jamie could never be interested in her, oh goodness no. No man will ever be interested in her. She pads over to her bed and lifts the long, cotton nightdress up off the pillow and places it over her head, letting its copious folds hide her body away. Snuggling down under the duvet, she remembers Andrew, the only man to ever touch her sexually. He'd been bumbling and hesitant, but eager. A wry smile crosses her lips as she remembers the way they pawed at each other in the back seat of his car, rushing to see as much as they could, to touch it all before the booze wore off and their shyness would return. 18
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
That was the sum total of her sex life, one fumbled fuck in the back of a battered up old Ford Fiesta with a fellow virgin. Well, least he was gentle and caring even if he was, well, fast. Andrew's fumbling is not what fuels Carrie's fantasies. No, she always dreams of raw, passionate, animalistic sex. She imagines a pretend him holding her down as he mounts her, slapping her arse before fucking her, face down in the sheets. She always feels a little ashamed after these fantasies, wondering what in her diseased, abused mind makes her crave a similar kind of abuse to get off. Vanilla sex just can't cut it though and in her fantasies she never feels scared or repulsed like she did when her father hurt her. No, in her fantasies she feels cared for, she feels powerful as her man loses all control over the sight of her curves and the feel of her cunt around his cock. She feels worshipped, not downtrodden. Although if she confessed such fantasies to a counselor, she knew they would condemn such foolish fantasies as some kind of mental sickness. Still, she finds comfort in them for a while, imagining herself attractive until orgasm, when the reality of her ugliness hits home and often makes her sob herself to sleep. Behind her closed eyelids Carrie attempts to sleep, her body is tired, her mind is exhausted but her cunt is alive. His touch is being played over and over again in her mind until it bends into a new fantasy. Jamie has her serving the customers, but it's late and no one is in. He walks past her and squeezes her bum, then repeats the action as he brushes 19
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
past again. She is staring into space when he pushes her forward, grinding his hardened cock into her clothed bum. She gasps out her protest as he rips down her trousers and knickers, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. "Shush," he commands, dipping his fingers between her globes, "My sweet, wet slut, shush. I need to fuck you now." The fingers of her left hand slip between her thighs as she fantasizes, trying to alleviate the throb there. Her fingers slip and slide and she whimpers in frustration as her weaker hand strains to satisfy her lust. "No," she protests. "Someone could come in." "Let them," he hisses. She hears his pants drop to the floor and she rises up in panic. "Oh no you don't." He growls, pushing her back down roughly, pinning her arms down to the counter as he mounts her. "Oh fuck, you're so wet and tight," he moans as he holds his hardness inside of her. She looks to the shop door, praying no one comes in as he begins to pump, thrusting her against the hard counter top. "Yes, you dirty slut," he hisses. "Drown my cock in your juices." She always gets off on the dirty talk. She loves her fantasy man calling her such names because he's so hot and so horny that he cannot help himself. He fucks her hard and fast and thoroughly. She wanks in time to her fantasy but her left fingers do not know her cunt as well as her right and she is finding it difficult to get the stimulation she needs to come. 20
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Eventually she lets her fantasy climax, him inside her, the bell on the door jingling just as he pours his jism inside of her, but her real cunt cannot achieve release. Her arm aches, her cunt drips and spasms but she cannot coax a climax from its depths with her weak hand. She sighs, shakes her head and closes her eyes, the thwarted orgasm still tingling between her thighs. **** "I have gone loopy this week." Carrie shakes her head as she talks to Graham, "All I've had to do is school work and do you know how hard it is to type one handed?" Graham looks flustered. "Well yes, I do. You end up with lots of typos, right?" "Right, I swear I'm going to have to do double the work on this dissertation now, going back and correcting it all." "When you were talking about typing one handed I thought you were discussing cyber sex." Jamie breezes past, grinning. "No." Carrie shakes her head, "You can't get a moment's privacy 'round here can you?" She tuts, flips her burgers, and continues her conversation. "So, I'm glad to be back if truth be known." "We're glad to have you back." Jamie squeezes her shoulder as he brushes past again, turning Carrie's knees to jelly. "Can you stay on until midnight tonight?" "Oh, erm, well, I have to get a bus back to hall—" "It's okay, I'll give you a lift. The late night guy just called in sick." 21
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"Well, alright then." Carrie smiles. "You've twisted my arm." "You're a star, Carrie dear." "Hey, you never call me a star." Fiona pouts. "You're giving her preferential treatment." "Fiona, you are a star." Jamie rolls his eyes. "Hot headed and full of gas." The burger place erupts with laughter, even some of the customers join in. Carrie finds herself feeling at home for one of the first times in her life. It makes her a little uncomfortable and a bit morose, but beneath those reactive emotions she feels content. She might feel upset about what she has missed in her life to date, but this place makes her happy, as sad as some people might think that is. The friendly banter continues as the day continues, everyone is in a good mood because it is Friday. Students are planning for their night out, corporate workers are looking forward to a weekend in the country and the football fans are excited about the matches to come. It gets quieter as the afternoon turns to evening and evening to night. Soon Jamie and Carrie are the only employees left. "I think it'll be pretty quiet now." Jamie nods, "We close before most of the clubs round here kick out so once the preclub rush is over, it's pretty boring in here." "You're a student too, right?" Carrie comments. "Yeah, that's right." Jamie replies, "Well how do you manage it, then? You seem to be in here at all hours." 22
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"Truth be known," he sighs, leaning back against the serving counter, "I do the minimum when it comes to my school work. As long as I get some kind of pass my Dad will be happy." "Oh," Carrie replies, putting down her spatula and turning to face him. "What are you going to do with your English Degree once you have it, then?" he asks. "I'm not totally sure, to be honest." Carrie leans back against Graham's preparation area. "I sometimes fancy journalism. Other times I think about teaching or lecturing. I'm really not sure." "You know," Jamie, says, moving forward until he's standing in front of Carrie, "You look beautiful, even under these harsh lights." "Oh, please," Carrie snorts, her cheeks redden and her eyes drop to the floor. Her hands clench together in front of her. "I'm not beautiful." "What are you saying?" James runs a hand through his long, blond hair, flipping it out of his face. "You think you're ugly?" "Yes," Carrie replies, head slung low, her eyes focusing in on her shoes. "Nonsense!" James exclaims, standing up straight and reaching out a hand. Carrie feels his fingers tipping up her chin, and her cheeks burn under his bright, blue gaze. "You are beautiful." He almost whispers it reverently, as if praying in church. Carrie is mesmerized by his stare, and her 23
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lips begin to bend into a smile before she shakes her head and it droops to her chest again. "Carrie." He's closer now, and both his hands cup her cheeks and pull up her face. He's so close, touching her, making her whole body explode with feelings. "Oh Carrie, you are beautiful. So very beautiful, yet you hide it so well. You hide it away and if you did just one thing, the world would see how beautiful you really are." "One thing?" Carrie is confused and uncomfortable. No one had been this close to her since ... and the panic was rising. His touch is inflaming something, making her pulse pound. She wants to run, run far away but she can't. She's trapped. She pulls back and James lets his hands slip away from her face, feeling the counter digging into her lower back. "Yes. All you need to do is smile. When you smile your whole face glows. You're eyes shine with gorgeous natural beauty. Your skin comes alive with it." Carrie is shaking her head again, but a little spark is in her eye. "You've got to believe me Carrie. You're beautiful and even more so when you smile" Carrie smiles wryly and James grins, pointing into the stainless steel structure behind him. "Look, look at how beautiful you are." Carrie turns her head and looks. She looks at her reflection and sees nothing but fat, nothing but the ugly child her father told her she was, but in James' eyes she can see something new, not repulsion, not sympathy or pity. But what is it? She really isn't sure. 24
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns
"But I'm fat," she replies, crossing her arms across her chest. "No smile can change that." "Fat?" James shakes his head, coming forward again. "Never. You're beautiful." He repeats that word again as if it's a spell and Carrie feels the tug of it deep in the pit of her stomach. "May I touch you?" His words are like a soft breath, caressing her cheek and her head rocks forward of its own accord. She's wanted him to touch her for weeks. His hands squeeze her in at the waist, pulling in her blouse tight against her breasts. "Look at these curves." His hands move higher and cup her breasts. She gasps, feeling her nipples tighten, her heart beating faster. "Beautiful curves." His hands move down and rest on her hips, then dip behind her, grasping her generous buttocks, pulling in her baggy trousers. "What a peachy behind." His breath is coming in gasps from his lungs as his hands lift once again to her hips. She can't think. No one has made her feel like this before, this closeness scares her yet excites her. She wants to push him away as the old memories fight to surface, yet she wants to pull him closer, too. "But what about this curve?" She takes his hand in hers and presses it to her stomach. "I'm fat." His breath is shallow and she sees him bite his lip, holding something in. Repulsion. Repulsion. She tries to step back, away from him but she's trapped. "It's okay." James steps back, giving her space to breathe. She smiles weakly. "That curve is just as beautiful as the 25
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others. Feminine, womanly. It's a hill that leads deep into a valley of sheer ecstasy." His eyes never left hers, and the panic, still uppermost in her mind is frozen by the suggestions in those eyes. She can see his hand in her mind's eye, moving over her stomach, into her pants and... She gulps air. It's too much, all too much. "I'm not beautiful." She shakes her head, her hands shuddering uncontrollably. "Okay, well I think you are. So much so I'm talking like a poet and I want to paint you." "You're an artist? I thought you were studying business." "Yes, I am studying business and I am an artist. My dad wouldn't pay for University if I did a, and I quote, 'artsy fartsy' course. So I took business and I do the art in my spare time." "That's why you're always doodling then. You know, on napkins and stuff." Carrie feels a bit safer now that the topic is off her body and onto something far less personal. "Yeah, I love to draw and sketch. I'm not so good with paint and stuff, but I have a little talent with a pencil." His cheeks flush and Carrie enjoys seeing him flustered. "Cool. I don't have an artistic bone in my body." She shrugs. "Really? I'd think you were really creative. Anyway, shift's pretty much over. Wanna come and see my sketches?" His cheeky wink makes Carrie giggle. 26
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"I am sure they warned me about this at school. 'Never go with a stranger who wants to show you his etchings," they said. "But you know me, and you're going back to the halls anyway." He flutters his eyelashes at her. "Pleeeasse?" Carrie sighs dramatically, a smile plastered over her face. "Okay then." Jamie claps then kisses her cheek. "Good. Let's get closed up." **** "Hey, I just thought," Carrie asked as they slid down the shutters for the night, "if your dad's paying for you to be here, why're you working? And working here of all places?" "Oh, Dad's only paying for tuition. I've got to pay my rent and food and stuff myself." "Oh. That makes sense." "Yeah, Dad said it'd make me appreciate money doing this. And, though I hate to admit it, I think he was right." "You certainly can appreciate the value of a pound when you flip around twenty burgers to earn it." "Exactly." Carrie is very quiet in the car, her brain working over time. For one, she can't believe Jamie thinks she is beautiful. She's trying to work out what the joke is because surely he can't really want to paint her? She's nervous, really nervous, and part of her wants to escape but another part of her hopes that he won't let her go. "Jamie, it is kind of late..." she stammers. 27
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"You're not tired, are you?" "Well, no," she says, cursing her inability to lie. "Well then, we're not in to work until late tomorrow and I always do my best work at night." Jamie pulls up outside the stark modern exterior of the most expensive halls of residence at the university. "I'm on the top floor. We'll take the lift." Carrie was not the only one feeling a little nervous, Jamie has never shown his pictures to a girl before and he certainly hasn't tried to paint a woman in the flesh before. His mind is filled with gorgeous images of Carrie naked, bathed only in moonlight. It's such a shame she thinks she is so ugly because she is clearly beautiful. Jamie has known many girls but none of them have made his heart flutter the way Carrie does. It's arousal. Oh yes, he feels lust when he looks at her, her curves are just made to be squeezed, but he can't get her out of his mind, her smile makes him gooey inside. The lift pings and the doors open. "This way." Jamie smiles, sweeping his hand out in front of him. "Oh, wow." Carrie exclaims as she walks into the dark room. "That's why I went for this one, right on the top floor—you get great light from up there." They stand together, necks craned back as they look up and out of the skylight onto the star sprinkled sky above. "Erm, Jamie?" Carrie asks, looking his way. "How are we going to see your sketches in the dark?" 28
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"It's okay, Carrie. I know this is just a student flat but it does have electricity." Jamie walks over to the wall and the room becomes illuminated. Carrie blinks, then smiles over at Jamie. "Nice light fittings," she laughs. "Is that one of yours?" She points at a large canvas on the wall. "Yes, it's the first ever painting I did. I know it's pretty rubbish but it's there to encourage me on to do better." "Rubbish?" Carrie shakes her head, "Nonsense. It is beautiful. You've captured so much life in her eyes. Who is it?" Carrie continues to take in the picture of the giggling babe as Jamie explains it is a relative of his, painted at Christmas time. "Almost a year ago now, wow. She's a proper little toddler these days. Into everything, so my brother says, anyway. I have some more over here if you want to have look. I'll go and do us a drink. Coffee okay?" "Yeah, sure." Carrie replies, absorbed in the drawings before her. There are plants and flowers and animals that seem so real she could stroke them, but his obvious area of expertise is in drawing people. A wizened old man looks forlorn. His face has given up the battle and is flowing down into his body like a melted candle. He is followed by the fresh faced niece seen in the painting, smaller still, her tiny feet the focus of the drawing. Carrie's heart skips when she flicks the page. A tall, thin lady, naked as the day she was born, stands severely, her 29
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hands by her side as if she were a soldier. What a smile, though, and long flowing hair. "Who's this?" Carrie asks as he walks back into the room, two mugs in hand. "Oh, that's my biology teacher." Carries eyes widen, "And she let you paint her like this?" "Oh, hell, no. That's all just my fevered imaginings. I didn't do very well in biology. I spent all my time sketching the teacher." "I bet that went down well with her." "Well, she wasn't impressed when she found one of my nudes, but thankfully she didn't realize it was her. Either she was short sighted or my drawing wasn't as good as I always thought it was." "Or you drew what you were seeing, not what was there." "Or there is that, granted. Anyway, drink up, then we'll sort out a pose for you." "Oh, well I didn't think..." "Are you going to the Christmas party?" Jamie changes the subject. "The what?" "Christmas party. Well, the Christmas piss up is a more accurate description." "I didn't know about it, but it's only November." "Oh, it must have been mentioned while you were off. It's going to be at The George on the first Saturday in December." "Well, I'm not much of a pub person..." Carrie starts, 30
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"Oh, go on, it's always a good night." "Well, I'll try and pop in for a bit, it's just I always feel kind of out of place, as I don't drink alcohol." "Why not?" Jamie puts down his mug and opens a drawer in the coffee table. "I've seen the damage it does," Carrie replies solemnly. "I don't ever want to get like that, angry, loud and violent." She shivers. Jamie's eyes meet hers for a moment then he continues to pull things out of the drawer. "Well, I'd understand it if you didn't come, then. Just it won't be the same without you." Carrie blushes. "I'll make it, for a bit. I'll probably go early though, I get scared when people get drunk." Jamie walks over to the corner and fiddles with an artist stand. "Now, I was thinking you could kinda recline on the sofa there. It gets bathed in moonlight and I really want to paint you like that. The moon beams will really radiate off your sweet, pale skin. So if you could take your clothes off and get comfortable," Carrie throws Jamie a scared look. "I want to paint your beautiful skin, Carrie, please." "I don't know if I can, Jamie. I'm not ... I mean my body is..." Jamie approaches her and she panics, her words getting tied up in knots on her tongue. He wraps an arm around her waist. 31
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"You're beautiful," he whispers. His lips brush hers and her mind goes blank. His lips are so tender and soft, his tongue is gentle in its explorations and tasting of the strong coffee he just drank. It takes a few moments for Carrie to focus away from the explosion of pleasure dancing across her lips and to realise that Jamie's fingers have undone all the buttons on her work blouse. She tries to pull away from his kiss as panic flares, but he holds her more firmly, his kiss deepening as he mistakes her struggles for a heightening of lust. The thing is, as soon as the kisses becomes rougher, she finds her lust exploding in the pit of her pelvis and through her whole body. She kisses back, her lips working once more as she rubs them against his. Her blouse slips off her shoulders and the gentle skim of the material sends tingles of thrilling pleasure up and down her arms and into her breasts, which are now firmly pressed against Jamie's chest. "So beautiful," he moans as his lips kiss down her neck. She moans as he hits sensitive zones that are seemingly directly connected to her cunt. She feels her clit thud in rhythm to the sucks of his mouth on her neck. She loses herself in the sensations and it isn't until she feels the pressure relieved that she realises he's undone her bra. "No," she cries as he peels the strap down her shoulder. "Shush," he implores as his lips lift from her skin allowing the strap to slip down her arm. "No, Jamie." She gasps as the other strap is peeled down and the bra falls away. Jamie steps back and Carrie crosses her arms in front of her. 32
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"No," he commands in a strong voice, and Carrie finds her arms falling to her sides, her face burning with shame and what? It takes her a second to realise it's lust. His commanding tone turns her on. "Oh Carrie, you're magnificent." He moves towards her again, his kisses trailing down until his lips tickle over the flesh of her breast and seek out a nipple. He sucks hungrily as his fingers work on the button and zipper of her trousers. Carrie just closes her eyes, her hands clenched at her sides as she allows Jamie to do what he wants to her. She is scared, definitely scared but her anxieties seem to be lifting the more naked she gets. Her body is trembling with desire. Goose bumps cover her flesh as her trousers pool around her ankles, and Jamie groans around one nipple before leaving it to suckle its twin on the other breast. Jamie is enveloped in the sensuality of the moment, his own nerves buried beneath the urgency of lust. What an amazing woman, such a beauty. He is already hard and straining. Her flesh is like milk, creamy and satisfying. He will never be able to get enough of her. He knows it now as definitely as he knows the sun sets at dusk. He latches his fingers into the waistband of her plain cotton panties and slowly pulls them down. He can feel her fists tightening beside her as he pulls them lower, dropping to his knees to get a better grip and view. He peels the thick material away and watches the soft pattering of brunette hair appear. Lower he pulls and the pouting lips of her pussy hang down like dew drops as he pulls the material away from her completely. 33
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"Beautiful," he croons, for what seems to be the millionth time this evening. "Jamie." Her voice is cracking with emotion and when he looks up a tear softly hangs at the corner of her eye. He stands up and presses into her curves. "Its okay, Carrie, you're so beautiful. I could look at you all day and all night." She wraps her arms around him and buries her head into his shoulder. "Thank you." She sniffs then pulls away him. "I'm sorry to be so, well, like this. It's just I have issues." She giggles depreciatingly. "More issues than the Evening News in fact." He grins. "We all have issues." She leans forward and of her own volition presses her lips to his. "Lie on the sofa." He lets out a shuddering breath. He wants her. God, how he wants her, but he wants this delicious anticipation to last. She complies, tucking her knees up to her body, throwing an arm across her breasts. "Not like that." He strides over and pulls her arm out of the way. He angles her so that an arm lies beneath her breasts, offering them up for him. He then straightens out her legs before bending the top one up, making a triangle of limbs and parting her pussy, revealing it. "I can't pose like this." She squirms, as Jamie walks away. "Oh yes, you can, or would you prefer me to tie you spread eagled on my bed instead?" he snaps and she gasps. "So, what's it going to be Ms. Beautiful?" 34
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"I'll stay here." She nibbles her bottom lip. "But you want to be tied up, don't you?" She flushes then nods her head. Hell yes, she wants to be tied up, she wants to be left completely at his mercy, she wants to beg for it now, right now, but she cannot bring herself to let the words drip from her drying mouth. "Another day." He grins. "And that is a promise." Jamie busies himself setting up a canvas and selecting a pencil to do his outlines with. He dims the light, until the bright moonbeams illuminate the centre of the room, bathing Carrie's skin and making it gleam like alabaster. "Jamie," she all but whispers, "please talk to me, I'm feeling awfully exposed right now." "Deliciously exposed." Jamie looks over and licks his lips, "I'll talk to you now. I was just getting myself sorted out. You look ethereal bathed in that moonlight." "Like a little pixie?" "Well, I've never thought of pixies as overly sexy, but yes, if you want to be a pixie, you can be a pixie." "Thank you." It surprises Carrie how quickly she is adapting to being naked in front of this man. As long as she doesn't think about her split thighs and the juices pooling between them she feels quite confident. "You're going to look amazing all tied up." Jamie's pencil scratches across the surface as he sweeps up and down, adding shadow and highlighting the light. "I didn't think..." Carrie stutters, her cheeks flushing deep pink once more. Jamie picks up his paint brush and mixes 35
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together a blush pink, capturing the high colour on her cheeks. "I meant every word I said." He nods, watching her body come to life on his canvas. "I'm going to tie you down and paint you. Oh I'm going to paint you in so many wicked, sexy positions. Spread eagled on the bed will only be the start of it. The blush on your cheeks makes me imagine how delightful your buttocks will look over my knee, shining bright red from my slaps. The dampness between your thighs makes me want to spread you wide and sketch your cunt. I want to paint your most intimate parts onto my canvas then I want to paint them with my come." Carrie moans, her eyes flick close as she imagines him that close between her thighs. "You want all that don't you?" Jamie asks, placing soft hints of peach to the white expanse of her moonlit body. She does not answer, the words seem to be stuck in her throat, "Don't you, Carrie?" He repeats, her name resonating with inference. "Yes," she gasps, "Sir." His eyes meet hers and he smiles. She doesn't know why she said that, how the "Sir" slipped from her imagination onto her lips, but she is thrilled to see the approval in his eyes. "Oh, Carrie, I'm going to have so much fun discovering you." **** She opens an eye carefully and looks around her. This isn't her bed. She feels the soft blanket covering her naked body, 36
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the soft material of the sofa below her. It's not even her room. She jolts up in panic. "Hey, Carrie," Jamie's voice carries over from the other side of the room. "You fell asleep last night, so I just covered you up and let you." He walks over and kneels next to the sofa. "Morning, beautiful." The kiss is soft and caring and it reminds Carrie of all that happened the night before, she wraps the duvet tighter around her body. "I hope you don't mind but I just worked on the painting whilst you were sleeping. I've worked more on your colouring and facial features. Do you want to see it?" His eyes glow like a proud little kid's. Holding the blanket tightly around her, she stands up and tucks the long white expanse behind her making sure not to expose an inch of flesh. If Jamie thinks anything about Carrie being so reluctant to expose her flesh he doesn't show it in his face. Jamie walks over to his painting, heart thudding and stomach churning, hoping beyond all hope that she'll actually like it. When she gasps as she looks at, it he watches her face intently. "So, what do you think?" Carrie can't speak. She is completely dumbstruck by the image before her. This beautiful, angelic looking woman is stretched out sensually, her perfect skin highlighted by the soft beams of the moon shining down upon her. "It's not me," she whispers, and tears stream down her cheeks, "It's not me." "Is it that bad?" Jamie asks his face covered with shame. Carrie shakes her head as the tears fall in sobs now. 37
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"No, it's beautiful, but it's not me. It can't be me." She lifts a hand, the blanket falling down and exposing her breast. "She is gorgeous," Carrie sobs, her body shaking. "Oh, sweetheart." Jamie runs a hand down her arm. "That is you. It is." Carrie swings gracelessly into his embrace, hiding her face in his shoulder as the blanket falls down between them. "I'm fat," she whimpers, "and ugly but you've made me look so amazing." Jamie strokes her hair, cuddling her tight to him. "I don't know where you got those silly ideas from but you're anything but fat and ugly. You're curvy and gorgeous. I painted what I saw." Carrie looks up and Jamie cups her face with his hands, wiping away the tears from her eyes with his thumbs. He pulls her face towards him and captures her mouth in a wildly passionate kiss which holds a resonance of deep caring. It is a healing kiss and Carrie feels it coursing through her whole body, lifting her from the gloom and depression of the earlier moment. He thinks she is beautiful, he sees her as beautiful. To Carrie that is a miracle. He continues to pull her forward as his hands move down to her hips. He encourages her to step out of the wound up blanket and as she steps over, he cups her rump and presses her into his body. She can feel him through his soft, casual trousers and he is hard. Oh hell, is he hard. Carrie slips her hands to his waist and tugs on his trousers. Their mouths part and he grins at her as she skims the 38
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material down his thighs, letting his cock bob into view, just under the hem of his t-shirt. "I better take this off, too." He grins, tugging the dark fabric over his head and throwing it to the floor. "There. Now we're equal." He takes Carrie's hand and pulls her through a doorway. Whilst his mouth is not on hers, whilst his arms are not wrapped around her, Carrie looses the strength of her passion and her worries return. "Jamie, I don't think we should..." Jamie shakes his head, sighs and twirls her around, pushing her back. She screams as she falls, hitting the bed with an "oomph." "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses as she gets her breath back. "I'm fucking you," Jamie replies, climbing on to the bed on top of her, grabbing her hands and forcing them back over her head. "Is that okay by you?" Carrie looks into his bright, burning blue eyes and bites her lip. She can feel his erection as it lies between her thighs. She just longs to feel him filling her. "Or do I have to tie you down? Because I'm going to have you, Carrie. I'm going to fuck you right now, no matter what." Her eyes go wide with shock and desire as he nibbles on her neck, then whispers softly in her ear. "I'd never hurt you but I know you're going to say no as I have my dirty, wicked way with you." Carrie groans, delightfully decadent images writhing across her mind's eye, "But I don't think you'll mean it, so if you really, really need me to stop, yell, "Burger." Okay?" 39
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"Yes, Sir." She groans quietly. "Pardon?" "Yes, Sir," she says firmly, looking him straight in the eye, watching the smile as it curls up his lip then presses against her own corresponding smile. He holds her hands above her head as he forces her thighs wider apart with his knees. Her feet dangle over the edge of the bed as he nestles himself comfortably against her wide open cunt. She can feel the head of his dick resting between her inflamed, slick lips. His lips are tracing gently over her chin and down onto her exposed throat. The delicate pecks of his lips and the insistent pressure of his cock at her entrance make her giddy with desire. She presses her hips up against him, allowing his hardness to penetrate her just by the tiniest fraction of an inch. "Ah, ah, ah," he scolds. "I'm the one in charge, missy." He pulls away from her, letting her hands go free. He stands up, between her thighs and looks down on her spread body, taking in each detail. He wants her, but he wants to play this game even more. She is ready for him right now, but he wants her to ache for him, to plead for him to take her, to fill her. Carrie instinctively wraps her arms around her chest, aroused and yet ashamed by Jamie's intense stare. "Move your arms," he commands, his voice harsh but not from malice, from lust. "Yes, Sir." She moves her arms, exposing herself. She blushes and closes her eyes, but part of her thrills at this 40
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domination. This is her fantasy. This is what she's always wanted. "Up on your hands and knees," Jamie snaps and she obeys, rolling over onto her stomach then rising up until her large breasts dangle pendulously beneath her and her round buttocks split and reveal everything hidden between them. Carrie bites her lip, the tumult of emotions threaten to break out. Should she cry, "Burger?" She feels so vulnerable, very scared, but ultimately, she is turned on. She decides to continue, to swallow down the instinctual panic and enjoy the reality of her fantasy come true. Jamie is feeling a host of emotions, too. Carrie is a sensitive, shy girl and he does not want to blow his chances with her by over stepping the line, but oh, does she bring the dominant out in him. He wants to take care of her, nurture her and punish her sweet, sweet behind. He mustn't go to far though or all this could be ruined. "Are you ready for your punishment now, miss?" "Yes, Sir," she replies, barely above a whisper. Jamie's hand swoops down and impacts on her buttock making her yelp with surprise and flaring pain. "Pardon?" "Yes, Sir," she repeats, louder this time. "Good." Another smack hits her bottom and Carrie squeals. It burns but her pussy is dripping wet, her clit throbbing with the force of the blow. "These are for trying to make me fuck your cunt before I was ready." 41
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Three hard slaps rain down quickly and the burning rapidly turns to a stinging pain that makes Carrie yelp and wiggle. "These are for covering up your gorgeous body when I wanted to look at it, to drink in the beauty of your tits and your wide spread pussy." Another three slaps and Carrie feels like crying and screaming but she doesn't call out her safe word. No, because with each painful collision of flesh against flesh she becomes more turned on. Her body aches with need and her clit is shrieking now for release. "And these are just so I can hear you whimper some more. You sound so damn sexy." His voice is ragged as he continues to spank and speak. "And these are so your buttocks will glow such a pretty shade of red whilst I thrust my cock deep inside you." His hand stops slapping and gently slides over the incline of her buttocks. She hisses as his touch stings, then soothes, then arouses as his fingers travel between her hot sticky folds and caress her screaming clit. "Naughty girl, I think you enjoyed that," he moans, rubbing his finger over her wet nub, teasing Carrie closer and closer to a colossal climax. Just as she is nearing release, he stops and a sob wracks her body with frustration. She barely has a moment before his cock is rammed inside of her. Hard and fast it thrusts, but causes no pain as her pussy is slick and more than ready for the invasion. "Oh, fuck, yes. Your cunt is so tight, so good." Carrie can only grip onto the sheets and enjoy the violent pounding she is receiving, the vibrations tickling her clit, 42
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leaving her hanging on the precipice of orgasm in a perpetual state of pleasure. "I want to see your face," he pants, pulling his cock from her with an embarrassingly sexy slurp. He roughly pushes her to the side so she falls and rolls on to her back. He nudges her thighs apart and climbs between them, making her scooch back, rubbing her painfully raw buttocks against the soft sheets below her. She watches with longing as he takes his dick in his hand and presses it against her wet hole. It takes no longer than a moment for him to slide in and be completely encased in her flesh. His arms come down beside her, his face hanging above her as he once again picks up the pace. Carrie closes her eyes and concentrates on the impact of his pelvis on her clit, she ignores the way her large breasts wobble on her chest, echoing the movement of her stomach, she ignores these shameful tremors and concentrates on the collision that will make her come, just a little more pressure and she will explode all over his hard, filling cock. "Look at me," he whispers. But she can't hear him. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, willing herself to orgasm. "Look at me," he says in a louder voice, punctuating his words with harder thrusts. Her eyes flicker open and she drops her gaze when it meets the intense, lustful stare of Jamie's glacial blue eyes. "Look at me," he repeats again and she looks up, straight into the abyss of lust that is openly revealed in his eyes. "Keep looking at me and touch yourself." 43
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She gasps and nervously shakes her head. "Do it. Touch your clit and make yourself come. I want to feel you squeezing my cock as you explode." She searches his gaze and finds it filled with passion and lust. She slips her fingers down her body and round the soft curve of her stomach until her fingers press between the slick folds of her pussy. He continues to pound into her as she finds her clit and rubs it, squealing with pleasure as she finds the rhythm that will bring her to the orgasm she desperately wants. "That's it," he encourages, thrusting harder into her. "Oh fuck, yes, come for me, come for me, come for me!" She comes, clenching hard around his cock as it throbs and explodes inside of her. Her hips lift off the bed smashing her fingers against his pelvis and harder against her clit, sending a shock wave through her cunt. Her whole body is swamped by ecstasy as she hears him groan and becomes aware of a feminine whimper that must be falling from her own lips. His body slumps down on top of her and he opens his eyes. He is smiling as his lips descend to press against her own. They laugh as they pull apart with sheer joy and amusement. Jamie rolls to the side and Carrie moves to snuggle into his body. "You're amazing, Carrie," he whispers, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "So are you," she replies, her lips caressing his chest. She stops suddenly and asks, "What time is it?" Jamie turns and looks at the bedside clock. 44
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"Oh, shit, we're going to be late for work." **** "So how come you were late?" Graham asks moments after Carrie arrives. "Oh, I forgot the time," she replied, flushing. "How come Jamie was late and you two came in together?" Graham smirks and Carrie turns a deeper shade of red. Before she can reply, Jamie puts a hand on Graham's shoulder and says, "We were fucking like bunnies, Graham, lost track of time. Now would you mind preparing those burgers for me? Thank you." He winks at Carrie who is staring at him, her mouth wide open. "And you, beautiful, flip those burgers, chop-chop." The shift passes in a haze for Carrie. Her mind is certainly not on her job, but that isn't anything new. This time though, her mind just can't get off the subject of sex. Flashbacks from her morning of making love, of the night spent posing for Jamie keep her constantly aroused. Jamie could pounce on her right here, right now and she'd love it and beg for more, no matter who might be watching. She is just that horny. "Carrie," Jamie's voice breaks into her reverie, "Will you go into the store? We need a new batch of burgers and some buns." This is an unusual request, as normally he'd do it himself or send one of the other servers, but Carrie puts down her spatula and heads for the stock cupboard. It's not until she is in there that she realises she doesn't know how many burgers 45
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and buns are needed. She turns around to go and ask when a big, familiar male hand slaps itself across her mouth. "You didn't say, 'Yes, Sir' did you, naughty girl?" His hand moves from her mouth. "No, I didn't because we're at work." Carrie replies defiantly, she tries to turn around but Jamie slams his body against her back. "Oh no you don't, miss," he hisses. "You've got some punishment coming." "But Jamie, anyone could come in," Carrie hisses as Jamie wraps his arms around her middle, finding the zip to her trousers. She drops her hands down to cover his. "No, not here." She panics, but Jamie easily pushes her hands out of the way. "Okay, you asked for it." He lets her go but stays pressed up against her so she cannot move. She feels him fiddling with his belt then hears it as he frees the strap from his trouser loops. "What are you doing?" she gasps, her heart thudding with frightened arousal. "I'm punishing you," he replies, pushing her arms up above her head against the corner of the metal shelving unit in front of them. His belt is wrapped firmly around her wrists and the unit and he threads it through the buckle, pulling the belt tight before tying it around itself, holding Carrie captive. "Oh Jamie, don't, please? Someone might walk in." "Who?" he hisses, pulling down her trousers and knickers in one sweeping motion. "It's pretty busy out there. Graham is busy doing his job and yours, and the two girls will be busy 46
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serving. Now hush and take your punishment like a good girl." He slaps her buttock and watches it wobble, his cock already straining in his trousers. He slaps the other and his eye falls to the jug filled with spare utensils sitting on the shelf in front of Carrie. "Ooh, a wooden spoon." He exclaims, pulling it from the jug and tapping it on her bottom. "Okay, miss, this is your punishment. Don't scream or someone will come running." He lifts the spoon and taps it on her arse, gently. She cringes then relaxes as she feels the gentle tap on her bum, just as she relaxes he pulls the spoon back and lets it go with much more force, making her yelp with surprise and blossoming pain. "I thought I said be quiet." He spanks her again and she bites her lip, the pain shooting through her body, up through her aching arms and down to her toes via her electrified and dripping cunt. "I think you want someone to come in and catch us. You want someone to see you tied up like this. Oh yeah, you want them to see you, don't you, naughty girl?" Another slap of the spoon is followed rapidly by yet another. "Answer me," he demands. "Yes, Sir," she groans. She would like it, someone watching her arse get redder and redder with each swing of the spoon. "Oh fuck, Carrie. You're so sexy." The wooden spoon clatters to the tiled floor and Jamie's cock eases its way between her pink and sensitive buttocks. It slips down over 47
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her arsehole, making her shiver with ... what? Fear or excitement, maybe both. "Not today, not right now. I need to feel your wet cunt squeezing me." He gasps as his cock slips and slides into her tight cunt. "But I am going to fuck your arse, oh yes. I'm going to fuck all your holes and your tits, I'm going to fuck you in every way I can, Carrie. There won't be a space on your body that hasn't been covered with my come." He powers into her pussy, the stainless steel rack shivering and clinking as it moves with the force of his fucking. "I can't hold it," he groans into her ear, his breath sensuously tickling as her body is on fire with arousal. "I'm going to fill your cunt, baby, gonna come in your tight, wet cunt." He holds her hips tightly as he groans and empties inside of her. She can feel his cock expanding and contracting as his hot come is forced into her. He pulls up his pants and unties her from the steel frame, spinning her around and kissing her hard. He presses her back into the shelves and runs his fingers down over her stomach and into her pubic hair, then lower and between her wet lips. Their lips never part as he runs his finger up and down over her excited and exposed clit. She writhes and moans as he rubs rhythmically up and down her slit until she squeals into his mouth and her juices gush out all over his hand, her whole body tightening and then relaxing as her orgasm washes over her.
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"Right, back to work." He leaves her to pull up her pants. "Oh, and we need two packs of burgers and the same on the buns." He winks and exits the store room. Carrie takes a moment to compose herself, her heart still beating in her chest like a caged beast trying to escape. She can't believe that just happened. It is like Jamie has watched her fantasies and is now attempting to act them all out. He literally is a dream come true. Carrie laughs and picks up the buns. She can't believe this is happening to her. **** "Well, you've only yourself to blame," He says, tying a knot and checking its strength. "I warned you exactly what would happen if you didn't comply, didn't I?" "Yes, Sir," Carrie replies. Eyes focused on the white ceiling above, she breathes deeply to control the nervous fear that is building inside of her and concentrates on the erotic thrill eating her instead. "Oh yes," he sighs, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Oh, yes. I knew you'd look fantastic like this. You're so beautiful, Carrie." His eyes slide up and down her naked body as it is stretched from corner to corner of his bed. Her arms and legs are tied down with long silk scarves, fantastic for adding colour to a still life and even better for restraining beautiful women. "Now, where did I put my paper?" "You're not going to draw me like this, are you?" Carrie gasps and struggles in her bonds. 49
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"Yes, yes I am," he replies. "This kind of beauty is crying out to be captured on paper." He picks up his pencil and pad and starts scribbling. "How do you feel?" he asks, his eye darting from paper to body as he sits comfortably in the corner. "Exposed," she replies, "I feel like those virgins in the old tales about dragon sacrifices. I feel scared, scared that you'll leave me here and I'll not be able to escape but I feel aroused too. I feel aroused because I know, well I guess, well I hope, you're going to fuck me once you've finished your picture. I think you're going to fuck me until I explode into a million orgasms before you'll untie me." "At least a million." He grins, adding detail to the paper before him. "Fuck it, that's a good enough outline." He growls and stands up. He slams down the paper and pencil and walks over to the head of the bed. Carrie watches his naked body as it walks over to her by straining her head up. She watches his straining cock bobbing as he strides over and licks her parched lips. "Here." He smiles, pressing another pillow beneath her head. "You can watch everything now without hurting your neck. Oh and look." He climbs onto the bed beside her. "It lifts your head to the level of my crotch." He presses his dripping cock tip to her mouth. "Suck me," he commands and she parts her lips, letting him slip into her warm wet mouth. She can't move her head much so he bobs up and down on his heels to force his cock 50
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in and out of her mouth. She swirls her tongue around his swollen head and savours his taste. "Oh, you're so good." He groans, banging harder and faster into her opened mouth. Carrie feels the spittle dribbling down her chin and onto her chest. She hears the gagging and choking noises she is making but she is surprisingly unembarrassed by it all. When Jamie first face fucked her, she thought she was going to die from embarrassment, but now, a few weeks later she feels nothing but sexual pleasure as he uses her. Her confidence has blossomed. How could it not? Every day he tells her she is beautiful and he fucks her at every opportunity. His desire for her is mending her broken heart. He grabs the back of her head with his hand, his fingers curling into her hair and pulling her tighter onto his cock. "I'm going to come. Oh Carrie, I'm going to come all over you. Suck me, yes, suck me." He mumbles and groans, moaning and cursing as he thrusts harder and harder, chaffing her lips and filling her throat. She groans with displeasure as his cock is pulled from her mouth with a pop. She was enjoying being used and wanted to suck more on her sexual pacifier. He pumps his cock in his fist just twice before he erupts, spraying come over her face in an arc. He pumps again and yet more of his ejaculate sprays out and decorates her breasts. The splatter of his come on her body makes her shake and throb with need. She can feel his hot juices cooling and drying on her flesh and she wants to rub it in, to dip a 51
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finger in and to lick it, to taste him. Her hands are tied so all she can do is groan in frustration. "You're amazing," he groans, dipping his finger in the come coating her breast. He holds it to her mouth and she eagerly sucks on it. "So fucking good and so good at fucking, come to that." He smiles, stroking her hair out of her face before dropping a soft, tender kiss onto her lips. His kiss deepens and Carrie struggles, wanting to wrap her arms around him and pull him tight to her. He smiles, she can feel his lips curling as the touch hers and he gently shakes his head. "You're going nowhere yet, miss." He smiles, then his kiss slips onto her cheek. "I'm going to enjoy you. Oh, how I'm going to enjoy you." The kiss turns into a suck as it drops to her neck and a nibble as it reaches her shoulder and her collar bone. It flutters up and down and over her breasts before he sucks on each nipple in turn until her hips bounce up and down in frustration. He moves lower still, trailing over her stomach, into her belly button and down onto her hip. She groans as his lips miss her pubic region and trail down one inner thigh and calf to take each toe in turn into his mouth, sucking on each one for long moments, giving her feet, one and then the other, ten perfect blow jobs that leave her screaming and weeping with need and desire. At last, his lips travel up the other calf, higher, his tongue ticking the back of her knee before slipping up her inner thigh and licking up the dew that has dripped down there. 52
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He uses his fingers to gently pull apart her bulging, hot lips and just looks longingly at the red, swollen pussy before him. "Please," she begs, lifting her hips. "Please, Sir." "Please, what?" he teases, stroking the inside of her lips with his thumbs. She flushes. She finds it hard to talk in candid, lewd language but she has been teased to such a level that the words slip out quite easily. "Please lick my cunt, Sir. Please eat me out. Please fuck me with your tongue, Sir, please, please." He pokes his tongue from his mouth and presses it into her wet, expanded hole and she screams with pleasure. He withdraws it, covered in her sweet juices and swipes it up and down the length of her slit, just missing her clit each time. He reaches under her and grasps her buttocks, squeezing them as if testing for ripeness. "Make me come, Sir. Oh God, please make me come," she begs, thrashing her head from side to side. She is aware of the aching in her ankles and wrists and along her limbs but this ache only seems to heighten the desire in her cunt. He has mercy and flicks her clit with his tongue. He sucks and flicks and sucks and flicks until she yells out his name and stiffens. He continues to suck as her fluids literally gush from her cunt and she mewls and cries until her body shudders and shivers to a stop. Jamie climbs up and wraps his arms around her middle, hugging her closely. "Wow," she gasps, her cheeks and chest flushed bright red. 53
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"Oh, yeah." He pushes his erection into her thigh. "Again?" She giggles and he nods. "Oh, yeah," he repeats, nodding furiously. They laugh and Jamie begins untying her bonds. Carrie shakes her arms and legs, feeling the blood flowing in tingles to her fingers and toes. Soon she is held down with different bonds as Jamie hovers over her, holding her hands above her head as he kisses her. "I want to fuck your arse," he whispers and Carrie's eyes shoot wide open. "I've never, never done that," she gasps, "I don't know..." "You'll love it." He smiles. "And you'll do it for me, won't you?" She looks up into his eyes and nods her head. "Pardon?" "Yes, Sir." She replies, her cunt contracting in anticipation, her stomach filled with dancing jumping beans of doubt. "Good girl." He smiles and kisses her neck. "You're going to love it, I know it. I'm going to love it, oh fuck, am I." He reclines next to her and gently prompts her to roll onto her stomach. "On your knees by the edge of the bed." He commands and she follows his order. He places pillows between her and the bed, giving Carrie some support that she is very thankful for. Jamie moves from the bed and she starts to worry. Anal sex. Oh fuck, it's just not meant to go in that hole. It's going to hurt, it's going to hurt. She hears Jamie rummaging in the bedside drawer then feels his hand on her butt. He strokes over and over her soft, 54
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exposed flesh, dipping down between the globes to tease her slit and her still hyper sensitive clit. She moans and wiggles to feel more of his ministrations. It is only when he lets his finger trail up her crack and rest on the puckered opening that her worries resurface. She tenses her whole body, fear gripping her tightly. "Relax," he urges, flicking open a bottle of lubricant. "You need to relax or it'll hurt, Carrie. Trust me. You can always use 'burger' if you need to." Carrie forces herself to relax by taking some deep breaths, and she feels a cold blob of jelly being rubbed on her arsehole. She concentrates on the rubbing and moans as the finger tips just inside of her. It explores gently before retreating then returning with more slippery, cooling gel. As the finger searches further she feels his cock knocking against her arse. "Oh, fuck." He groans as he presses a second finger to her hole and it slides in easily. Carrie continues to concentrate on her breathing. She can't believe that some guy has his fingers up her arse and she's enjoying it. It feels so deliciously dirty. It feels freeing. A third finger slips through her sphincter and she groans as she feels the stretching. It's not painful, but it is strange and she concentrates again to stop from panicking. "You love it, don't you, dirty girl?" Jamie groans as he watches the trio of fingers plunging in and out of her tight hole. He can see her open cunt too, just dripping with arousal. He presses his cock lower, bending his knees until the cock head is at her entrance. He leaves his fingers 55
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embedded in her arse as he uses his other hand to feed himself into her hot cunt. "Yes," she hisses as he slips his cock into her. She hadn't been expecting it, but oh, it feels so good. She can feel his fingers and his cock rubbing against each other through her. It is as if all her sensitive spots are being rubbed from all sides at once and she shudders with climax after climax. She clenches and releases over and over again, massaging Jamie's cock to a higher state of arousal. "I have to have this little hole now." He groans, pulling himself reluctantly from her warm, enveloping cunt. He removes his fingers and quickly presses his cock against the shrinking hole, feeling the pussy juice slicked tip slipping inside. "Oh, fuck," Carrie gasps, feeling a cock in her arse for the first time, getting used to the alien fullness which makes her want to scream. He presses in gently, more of his cock head disappearing between her globes. He grabs a cheek in each hand, pulling them apart so he can see the progress of his cock as it sinks inside her secret hole. "Oh no, no, no, no." she wails, instinctively panicking and tensing up as the sensation overwhelms her. "Hush," he coos. "Play with your clit, baby. Go on, play with your dripping wet cunt whilst I fuck this arse. I'm going to fuck it, baby, no matter how much you say no." Carrie groans, his cock sinking deeper as she relaxes. She runs a hand beneath herself, the pillows propping her up as her fingers seek out pleasure. His cock sinks deeper still and 56
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she hits her clit, biting the pillow before her as the pleasure and pain mix and become inseparable. "Oh yeah, you are so fucking good." He presses in more, his cock rapidly disappearing inside of her. When he is completely enveloped he holds still, stroking her arse with his hands, enjoying the moment, enjoying taking her anal virginity. "I'm going to fuck you now." He grins and pulls slowly back out until his head is the only thing inside her and slowly runs it back in. "No!" she cries, furiously fingering her clit. "Not that. No, not there mister, not there." "Oh yes, there, little girl." He growls, picking up on the role-play and joining in. "Not there, oh please, mister, not there. You shouldn't be in there. Please, I'll do anything else for you, anything, please, mister." "Oh, you will slut." He slaps her arse and feels her clutching in orgasm. "You'll suck me and fuck me and I'll come all over you and inside you as much as I like. You're mine now, girl, all mine and I'm gonna fill this tight little hole with my hot come." "Please no, Sir, no." She gasps, urgently needing air as her body is swamped with ecstatic pleasure, her fingers bringing her closer and closer to a massive orgasm, his cock in her arse making her shudder and shiver. "No, no, no, no, no." She chants as his thrusts increase in their pace and she approaches the point of no return, racing full pelt to her goal. 57
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"Yes!" He yelps as her body clenches, crunches and clutches as a devastating orgasm rips through her. His cock explodes as she does, filling her with come as he hisses and groans. Her body spasms and shakes and lies still over the pillows. He gently strokes her back as he regains his breath, slowly he pulls out of her, watching the extended hole bubble with his come and the lube as it squeezes shut. He grabs his paper and pencil and sketches her there, legs spread, arse in the air, his juices dribbling from her ass and down to pool with her pussy juices, her fingers trapped below her body, just cupping her genitals, juice coating the palm. Carrie stirs. "Don't move, I'm drawing you." "Like this?" "Yes, like this. You're beautiful, so sexy. I'm nearly done." "Good, 'cause I can't feel my arm." "Okay, okay you can move now, I can fill in the rest from memory, delicious memory." He throws himself down on the bed beside her, wrapping her in his arms. "Thank you, Sir." She smiles. "For what?" "Taking my anal virginity and making me come like a bloody geyser." They look up and laugh then kiss, giggling with joy and sexual repletion. "My pleasure, beautiful, my pleasure." **** 58
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"Carrie," Jamie yells and Carrie smiles. He jumps up from his stool, runs over, kisses her and leads her to their table. "What do you want to drink?" Jamie asks when he gets her seated with the other Betta Burger employees. "A diet Coke please." She smiles and he nods, walking off to the bar. "Are you driving?" Fiona asks her eyes already unfocused by the alcohol she has consumed. "Nah, I just don't drink alcohol." She could have said she was an alien and alcohol would make her dissolve into a pile of pink goo and she wouldn't have received such a disbelieving look. "Oh." "So, are you and Jamie an item then?" Graham breaks in, saving Carrie from one embarrassment and throwing her into another. "Well," she begins and tries to word it right. "They're fucking," Fiona hiccups. "In the store cupboard actually." Carrie's cheeks flare even redder. She is mortified that someone saw them. "But are they an item?" Graham asks, smirking. "Yes, we are." Jamie says as he passes behind him, putting down Carrie's drink and sitting next to her. "Is that okay by everyone?" He looks round the table and they all look sheepish. "Good." **** 59
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"Well, now I remember why I don't go to pubs." "She didn't mean to throw up on you, I'm sure." Jamie says, just a hint of a smirk at his lips. "Well, I know, but if I were at home now I'd not be smelling of sick or standing outside in cold December rain waiting for a taxi with Christmas Karaoke being sung, no, howled in the background." "Those are all valid points." Jamie wraps his arms around her and forces their lips together in a rough kiss. "Don't, Jamie, you'll end up covered in sick." "Don't care." He whispers in her ear as he nibbles her neck. "I want you." Her knees turn to jelly, but Jamie's arms around her keep her steady. "Well, you can come back with me if you like." "I was planning to." He grins, slipping his hands down to her buttocks and squeezing. "Thanks for letting me know." She tuts and rolls her eyes. Her body may be reacting to his caresses and nibbles but her mind is still firmly scared and pissed off after being in a room full of drunken people, one of whom threw up on her. "Don't give me your cheek." He smiles wickedly. "Or are you angling for a spanking right here in the street?" He slaps her arse and she jumps, her cheeks flashing crimson. A car horn beeps behind them. "The taxi is here." He grins and she turns into the headlights of the black cab, looking more than a little cowed. Jamie holds the door open as Carrie climbs in. 60
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"I'm not 'aving any drunk sicky people in my cab," the driver snaps as Jamie closes the door. "Oh, it's alright mate. She's not drunk. She's not even had a drop of alcohol. Someone threw up on her." The driver cackles with laughter and winks into the mirror at Carrie, who bites her bottom lip and fights the instinct to flee. Jamie and the cab driver strike up a conversation and Carrie lays her head on Jamie's shoulder and just breathes, feeling his strong arm over her. His other hand sits on her knee, but as the journey continues, the hand moves higher, crinkling up the skirt on its way. Carrie wriggles and fires a look at Jamie who just smiles and moves his hand quickly up under her skirt and rubs a finger up and down her cotton covered cunt. Carrie doesn't breathe as his fingers trace the outline of her lips and then presses down just on top of her clit, all the while talking to the cab driver about the last Manchester United match. The taxi stops all too soon and Jamie removes his hand to pass a note to the driver. "How much do I owe you?" Carrie asks Jamie as the cab drives away. "Oh, I think a good hard fucking should do it." "I'm not a whore!" Carrie exclaims, the emotions of the night finally making her break. "I know, I know," Jamie says, following her into the foyer. "I was just joking." "It wasn't funny." Tears streak Carrie's face.
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Jamie's hand lands on her arm and she shrugs it off then walks into the opening lift to the very back corner. He follows her. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his hand skimming down her arm. She looks up and sighs. "It's really scared you, hasn't it?" "Yes." She sighs and he wraps his arms around her, cradling her body as she sobs. "Oh, sweetheart, you don't have to be scared. I'm here, I'll look after you." "I just," she sniffs,he elevator door opening at her floor. "I just don't like being in a room filled with people who aren't in control." She walks forward, pulling her keys from her bag after wiping her tears on her sleeve. "They were only a bit tipsy," Jamie replies. "I don't like it," she snaps, the door relenting and letting them in. "I know tipsy and good-willed soon turns into drunk and disorderly." "Carrie, love." He turns her into his arms and holds her close. "I will never, ever let anything bad happen to you, okay? I'll always protect you." She turns from his embrace and walks over to her wardrobe. "I've heard all that before from the man who used to hit me once he'd had a drink or two." She unbuttons her blouse and lets it fall to the floor, the skirt soon follows and they both get flung into the sink. Jamie grabs Carrie by the arm, spinning her round and into his embrace. 62
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"I'd never hurt you," His blue eyes burn intensely. "A little pain to heighten our pleasure, yes, but I'd never hurt you. I'd never let anyone else hurt you either." "I just panic," Carrie says, the comfort of Jamie's arms giving her the freedom to express herself. "I just feel like that little eight year old girl covered in bruises and cowering under the covers, smelling the alcohol fumes and knowing what is coming." Jamie says nothing but squeezes her tighter. "I know it's silly, but I just can't help it, I knew I shouldn't have gone. I knew it. The smell, the noise and the drunks slurring just makes my skin crawl." "I'm glad you did." Jamie runs his fingers gently through her hair. "I only did it for you." She smiles weakly. "Sorry that I've ruined your party." "Not in the slightest," he replies, "Thank you." "For what?" "Facing your fears just to please me." "Well, I didn't do so well with that, did I?" Carrie giggles lightly, the wave of emotion breaking, ushering in calm. "You did well enough." He smiles then presses that smile to her upturned lips. It was soft, and sweet, and not at all demanding and the lovemaking that blossomed was just the same. Jamie gently removed her bra and knickers as she pulled away his shirt and trousers. They rolled onto the small bed entwined in each other's embrace, kissing and caressing, Jamie slipping inside Carrie smoothly and setting up a slow rhythm. 63
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Their lips meet and kiss as their bodies shiver and shudder, gently but inexorably bringing them closer and closer to orgasm. "So beautiful," Jamie gasps as his orgasm breaks over him. "Thank you," whispers Carrie, smiling and holding him close, "Thank you so much." **** "Morning." Carrie chirps as she walks into work, still tying on her apron. "Morning," a familiar and feared voice replies. "Now get to work." "What the hell are you doing here?" Carrie exclaims. She is still a little shy, still a little quiet but her confidence has grown in leaps and bounds over the past month with Jamie and she is no longer the nervous, timid little girl she was. "I'm working," Graham hisses, "like you should be doing. Customers need serving." "Where's Jamie?" she snaps, walking over to her till, serving now, not just flipping burgers. "Sacked." "Why?" she replies. "For conspiring to get a good, decent employee fired," he spits back. "That's me, of course." "Bullshit," Carrie hisses, typing in her security code. "No, I'm back, girl, and I'm in charge. Now get to work. My uncle has reinstated me after the trouble your boyfriend 64
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caused and I'm going to make this the most profitable Betta Burger branch in Britain. Now hop to it." "How may I help you?" Carrie smiles at the slack-jawed youth before her. "Erm, bacon burger, please." He smiles, his cheeks flushed. "Certainly, sir." She smiles and repeats the order for Graham, all the time in turmoil over what she's just heard. She wonders if Jamie is okay. She wonders how she is going to work under that bullying prat of a manager, Steve. Steve brushes past her, sending cold shivers up and down her spine. "Come on, concentrate. I can't believe that prick let you onto the counters. After the rush you're going right back to flipping fucking burgers, you useless waste of space." His spittle lands in a fine mist on her ear as she takes another order, smiling through gritted teeth. "Oops, I slipped," Steve exclaims as he steps on a dropped, plastic ketchup bottle, squirting it all up the back of Carrie, her trousers and her blouse. He laughs heartily and Carrie turns around, a large milkshake in her hand. "Oops." She grins, flicking off the lid and chucking the bright pink contents over Steve. "I slipped too." Before he can gather his breath she picks up the mega Betta burger off the tray and stuffs it in Steve's mouth, still wrapped in its greaseproof paper. "You can stick your crappy job up your arse," She hisses, turns on her heel and leaves. 65
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"I didn't say you could go!" Steve yells at her back after spitting out the burger. "No, I've quit, you can't tell me what to do at all, buddy. Fuck you." She calmly takes off her apron and flings it on the floor of the staff room. She unlocks her locker and takes out her bag and turns around as the pink covered Steve enters the room. "Get back in there, you fucking idiot." "No," she replies coolly, locking her locker and throwing her bag over her shoulder. "Now, you stupid bitch." He steps forward, spreading his legs wide and planting his arms either side of Carrie. "Did you not hear what I said?" she whispers, then lifts her knee quickly, connecting roughly with his genitals. He steps back with a groan, cupping his balls with his hands. "I said no. Now fuck off." She walks away from work, her heart thumping but her head held high. No one is going to push Carrie around anymore. Well except for Jamie, and she enjoys that kind of bullying. **** It's snowing when Carrie leaves her house, wrapped in a huge coat and carrying a brightly wrapped present in her hands. She's not been able to get through to Jamie, he isn't answering his phone at the flat and it seems like his mobile is switched off, too. So Carrie is going round to tell him the news. She spent the afternoon searching for a new job and found one. Every shop needs people over Christmas. 66
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The snow makes the world look so different. Carrie concentrates on the crunch of her shoes in the white expanse and smiles. She stood up to a bully and got a new, better job in a bookshop. It's snowing and there is this sexy man who thinks she is beautiful waiting for her and they're going to make sweet, kinky love. Things are good right now for Carrie and she feels like skipping through the white flakes, her heart beating joyfully as the world turns sparkly and clean before her eyes. She walks into his building, smiles and says hello to a student she vaguely knows. She stomps her feet on the mat, shaking soft, crusts of snow from her shoes and chuckles to herself. It's like she's been carrying a weight of snow, piled up on her back in a big, cold, heavy block and now it's melting and she is shaking it off. She goes to the lift, but it is broken. A momentary frown and she's off up the stairs. She rounds the last corner with a puff and a wheeze and comes to an abrupt stop. There, just outside his flat is Jamie but he's not alone, he's with Fiona, her blue streaked black hair instantly recognisable and she is lip-locked with him. "You bastard," Carrie gasps, flinging the present to the floor. "You fucking bastard." She turns and runs full pelt down the stairs, Jamie yelling her name as tears drip down her cheeks and sobs wrack her body. ****
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"Now look what you've done," Jamie hisses at Fiona, "you daft bitch." "What? That was only Carrie." Fiona shrugs. "You know Carrie is my girlfriend." Jamie sighs. "Oh," Fiona exclaims, flipping her hair. "I thought you were just fucking. Looks like you're a free man now, so are you going to take me back?" "Not in a million bloody years, Fiona, I love Carrie." He pushes her out of the way, scoops up the dropped box and flies down the stairs. He loves her. The realisation hits with some force. Yes, he does love her and right now she hates him. Damn. He bowls through the double doors and out into the car park, running as fast as his legs will carry him, his breath billowing out behind him like steam from a train. "Carrie!" he yells as he sees her ahead of him, "Stop, Carrie, please stop." He catches up with her and places a hand on her shoulder. Spinning around, she slaps him with all her strength right across his cheeks. "Fuck," he exclaims rubbing at his face. "I deserve that, Carrie. I've been a fool." "No, I've been the damn fool," Carrie sobs. "I thought I meant something to you. I thought we had something special." "We do!" Jamie exclaims, running his fingers through his hair, making it stand out at strange angles. "So, how long have you been with Fiona, too?" Carrie sneers. 68
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"I haven't, well not whilst I've been with you, Carrie. She's an ex, a crazy fucking ex who I bumped into this morning after I got fired. I talked to her. She acted all understanding and then just now she kissed me. I didn't want to be kissed. I don't want to go out with her." "Pfft," Carrie tuts rolling her eyes, "No, Carrie, I don't want anyone else but you. I love you." The words tumble from his lips and get whipped around in the wind with the cold, soft flakes of snow, making everything look brand new. Carrie looks at him and he reaches out to grasp her arm. "I love you," he repeats, his breath rattling from his lungs, his icy eyes melting and crumbling under her frosty stare. A lone tear slips down his cheek and Carrie reaches out, wiping it away. "I love you, too," she whispers, walking into his arms, "I love you, too." They kiss, lips locked tightly in the cold. They could stay frozen together forever and a day and they would be happy. The snow swirls around their bodies as they blend and combine, the expression of love freeing them, freeing them to be totally honest with each other. **** "Where have you been all day?" Carrie asks after taking a warming sip of hot chocolate. Jamie sits on the sofa beside her. "The library," he replies. "That's why my phone was off." Carrie nods. "I've quit work." 69
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"You what?" "I've quit Betta Burger." And she expands, telling Jamie exactly how she handed in her resignation. "Wow, I wish I'd been there to see that, but now we're both unemployed for Christmas." "No, we're not, Open the present." Jamie lifts a brow then picks the small flat box off the table, ripping off the coloured paper. Inside the box is a piece of A4 paper with a cheque clipped to it. "No way. This can't be..." "It's totally genuine. I've got a job selling their books and they want your sketches to place on their walls. They want to sell your work." "How did they ... what did you ... how?" Jamie is delirious with pleasure and simple sentence structure seems to have escaped him. "I took the sketches I have that you've done of me to show him and he loved them." She puts down her mug and lays a hand on Jamie's arm. "He thought they were beautiful and he wants to see more. He's just opened a café area and his walls are bare. Your paintings and sketches will be perfect." "Thank you." Jamie grins. "Thank you, so much." "Well, I couldn't leave you jobless since I got you fired in the first place." Carrie's face drops a little. "But it does mean I've sold those sketches you gave me. You're not mad are you?" Jamie looks at the letter of commission before him and the cheque in the box on his knees and he grins. 70
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"Of course I'm not. It gives me an excuse to draw more. I'll have to. I've got four walls to fill now." Carrie lets out a sigh of relief and kisses his lips. "I can't believe you showed those pictures to someone though." Jamie runs his fingers through her hair. "You're so shy." "I was." Carrie nods. "But weeks of being called beautiful, of being fucked and admired and sketched and painted has made me rediscover my confidence." She tears up, takes a deep breath and finishes, "Your love has transformed me." Jamie pulls her into a tight embrace and kisses her forehead. "No, Carrie, I've just restored you. You've always been beautiful and always will be." "You are beautiful, too," she sniffs, kissing his cheek, "but naughty." "What?" Jamie looks confused. "Having your phone off all day, not telling me you'd been fired, snogging another woman..." "But she snogged me," he protests. "Whatever, you've still been a naughty boy and what do naughty boys get?" Jamie smiles and winks, then bows his head. "Punished." "Pardon?" "Punished, Mistress," he repeats, his cheeks flushing, his cock coming to life in his pants.
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"That's better." She grins wickedly, her bright green eyes shining mischievously. "Now stand up, drop your trousers and bend over the sofa arm." Jamie does as he's instructed, his hard cock digging in to the soft material and begging for release. Carrie giggles and gently slaps his buttocks. "Where are your manners?" She slaps him harder. "Sorry, Mistress, Thank you, Mistress," he replies. "That's better." She smacks him again, harder still seeing his flesh wobble and pinken. "Thank you, Mistress," he hisses, the pain warming his backside and stiffening his dick even further. Carrie spanks him a couple more times, enjoying the buzz of power flowing through her veins. "Stand up," she commands, shrugging out of her skirt and t-shirt. Jamie does as he is told and Carrie pushes him down onto the sofa then rips off her kickers. "I need to fuck you," she exclaims standing over him, one leg on either side of his legs. She lowers herself to her knees, her wet cunt hovering over his straining cock. She looks into his eyes as she sinks down onto him. He slips in smoothly like a sword into its sheath. "Oh, yeah," she gasps, her eyes closing for a second, then fluttering open. She is determined to watch him, to observe him as he comes. She sets up a rhythm rocking her pelvis to and fro as he holds tightly to her hips. Not a word is spoken as they fuck. Their eyes focus on one another, pupils expanded with lust, the depths filled with love. 72
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They feel connected, completing a circuit which allows their bodies to conduct the sexual electricity with great efficiency. With each bounce Carrie's clit presses against his pelvis and sends shivers of pleasure throughout her being. With each grasp and contraction of her cunt his cock throbs and pulses, his mind and body overtaken with desire. They moan and hiss, their breath escaping and mingling as they rush on, coming closer and closer to climax. "I love you," he roars as he explodes, "I love you," she echoes as she shudders and shakes, collapsing onto his chest. Jamie wraps his arms around her, holding her close and cherishing this moment of total contentment. She closes her eyes and listens to his heartbeat, safe at last.
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Artifice L.E. Bryce
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Also by L.E. Bryce Dead to the World My Sun and Stars Ki'iri Becoming The Golden Lotus Concubinage
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An abridged version of this story first appeared in Forbidden Fruit ezine in May 2006.
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Twelve figures froze in their dance across the marble, limbs gracefully proportioned, faces serene under the ceremonial weight of their costumes. As promised, the stone carvers had delivered the frieze in six months. Jahzel was certain the goddess would be pleased by the offering. Behind him, the High Prince could hear his courtiers murmuring in mutual admiration. One could always rely upon them to fawn over the latest royal commission, no matter how garish. Jahzel's father had possessed execrable taste, yet the utterances remained the same. Even the priests, whom Jahzel summoned to approve the work, couched their opinions behind affected gestures and smiles. Jahzel nodded to the master carver, a stooped twig of a man who had lived through the reigns of Jahzel's father and grandfather. Despite his seeming frailty, Khemwy had lost none of his wits, a lesson which the current prince learned fifteen years ago when he sat for his first statue. A body dried out by the desert sand lives forever, the old man said, grinning through the gap in his front teeth. Gods willing, I'll still be here in my workshop when your son follows you on the throne and wants to see himself fifty feet high in some city he's conquered. Khemwy had not, Jahzel noted, punctuated his remarks with any of the usual formulas. When your son—may you father a hundred more—follows you—may the gods keep you in perpetual good health. Endless litanies as ancient as Tajhaan itself, and as thin as the dust blown in by the desert wind, Jahzel once spoke them to his own father as an 77
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obedient subject long before the cycles of life and death made him a living god. All he did now was attended by elaborate ritual, through which little else penetrated. For this reason, for the novelty of hearing clean, plain speech, Jahzel had offered Khemwy no reprimand. "Once again, we are more than satisfied with the efforts of our stone carvers. Their work will please the lady Shalat even as it pleases us," he said. Gesturing to the priests, he continued, "If the goddess' servants approve, the work shall be formally dedicated and mounted in her temple." With artful smiles, the priests bowed. Their spokesman made a carefully rehearsed, tiresome speech in praise of the work which Jahzel stopped trying to follow after the first few sentences. If the goddess does not shut her ears to such prattling as I do, then she is far more forgiving and patient than I, he thought. Again nodding to Khemwy, Jahzel gave the man and his workers permission to drape the protective cloth over the frieze, which would remain until tomorrow under the watchful gaze of the sentries in the forecourt of the royal apartments. Sensing their presence was no longer required, the courtiers began to disperse. Jahzel's wife rose from her chair at the edge of the courtyard and approached him, her ladies following at a discreet distance behind. "At least this time you did not have to go through the tiresome business of sitting for the stone carvers," she said petulantly. "All that unhealthy dust, and they would have had you wear your royal robes." Jahzel gently took her hand. In the early days of their marriage, he would have kissed her knuckles, but now he 78
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knew better than to touch her lacquered nails or the delicate henna designs her maids had painted into her skin. "I have already done my duty by the sculptors this year, my lady," he replied. "I trust this dedication to Shalat is as pleasing to your eyes as it may be to hers." Cherike drew her lips into a thin, sour line. "Perhaps as a reward her servants will find a more comely priestess with whom you can make next year's Great Marriage." "I do my duty, lady," Jahzel said tightly. Cherike was a Khalgari princess, for whom the fertility rites of Tajhaan seemed foreign and offensive, and from the beginning he had tried to be understanding. Each spring at the Great Marriage he sent her new jewels and silks to remind her that she was still his High Princess and the mother of his heir. "The goddess has blessed us with a great abundance. We must show our gratitude." Had they not been in public, she might have said more, though it would have been unseemly for her as his wife to question his sexual activities. Instead, Cherike bowed to him, formally took her leave and returned to the royal harem. Mindful of his wife's peevish nature, Jahzel rarely received her in private. Her complaints were always the same: she did not like being secluded as Tajhaani royal women must be, she did not like her husband's other wives, the women who attended her, or the desert heat that even her gardens and fountains could not dispel. But for the fact that she had borne him an heir, he would have sent her back to her father's house long ago. 79
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Late afternoon was turning to sunset. Jahzel washed, changed his robes and sat down to supper in a sitting room hung with crimson draperies. A procession of eunuchs brought in covered dishes which they laid before him and tasted; the ritual could last half an hour, regardless of how famished Jahzel might be. This evening, however, he had little appetite, giving him patience enough to wait until a eunuch of the royal harem brought his eldest son for an hour's visit. At six, Muhal was an intelligent, handsome boy who thankfully displayed none of his mother's temperament. Jahzel delighted in his youthful conversation, asking questions about the day's activities which Muhal answered in great detail, and was sorry to see their hour together come to an end. As the servants cleared away the remains of the meal, Jahzel retired into a private inner chamber where he often read from his collection of scrolls or, when the mood took him, indulged in more intimate pleasures. His servant Udjan, at his post in the corner, stood ready to carry out whatever wishes his prince might have, but after several moments contemplating what he ought to do, Jahzel decided he was interested in neither reading nor lovemaking. "Pour me a cup of Besarian white," he said, "and I will walk outdoors. The evening is pleasant enough for it." Udjan poured the wine, tasted it and discreetly wiped the rim of the cup before offering it to Jahzel. "Do you require a guard to follow you, my lord?" he asked. Jahzel liked his unadorned manner, yet there was no engaging him in 80
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conversation. The man only spoke as many words as were needful, and Jahzel knew he would never relax his vigilance before the High Prince, even if granted leave. Wine in one hand and a lantern in the other, Jahzel strolled through the gardens. Twilight had already fallen over the city, a rich blue dusk into which the moon rose high and full: the kind of desert night about which poets sang. Gooseflesh prickled his arms at the breeze that stirred the manicured fruit trees and hedges. Even though the rains had ended four weeks ago, spring nights remained cool. Torchlight flickered from the sentry post by the far wall. A uniformed guard peered out, poised to issue a challenge until he recognized the intruder as the High Prince. With a crisp salute, he and the other sentries respectfully melted back into the shadows as Jahzel passed into the outer court. The frieze, a mountain of dark draperies, dominated the space. Gingerly stepping over the ropes that pulled the cart, Jahzel approached and raised the cloth. Placing his wine cup at the base of the sledge, he lifted the lantern and gave the carvings the attention his earlier audience did not permit. Real temple dancers were androgynous creatures, painted and choreographed in stylized movements. In his work Khemwy had captured that air, yet in places, life breathed through. Jahzel savored the details with which the stone carvers had lavished their work. Here was a face of astounding beauty, eyes half-closed and full lips parted in ecstatic worship. Jahzel let his fingers graze the finely finished surface, lingering over high cheekbones and sliding down to trace the tendons in the 81
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neck. Khemwy always used models for his work, but without access to the exquisite bed slaves of the elite, where had he found such a lovely boy to pose for him? Dropping the cloth back into place, Jahzel finished his wine and made his way back to his apartments, where he spent an hour reading before he had Udjan summon the eunuchs of the bedchamber to help him retire. Workers came at midmorning to pull the cart from the palace to the temple of Shalat, where the frieze would be mounted on one of the walls. Since yesterday, no grumbling had come from the priests, which meant they either approved of the work or were indifferent. Jahzel briefly interrupted to see how the work was progressing and exchange a few words with Khemwy. A team of eight mules was brought in through a side gate to be hitched to the cart; the overseer barking at the handlers straightened and immediately softened his tone when he spied the High Prince watching from the archway. Khemwy gestured at him to continue before offering Jahzel an anxious bow. "Forgive the commotion, my lord." "Noise and industry are synonymous with each other, master carver," answered Jahzel. "I examined your work more closely last night. Your models must have been of exceptional quality." "What's that, my lord?" Khemwy strained to hear over the noise before asking Jahzel to repeat what he had said. "Oh, yes. I'll only take the best."
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Jahzel indicated that the stone carver should step back under the arch, which muffled the worst of the commotion. "I take it they were not genuine temple dancers?" he asked. "No, not the real thing, my lord," replied Khemwy. His eyes were still trained on the workers, and he was poised to intervene and shove the overseer aside at the first suggestion of trouble. "The priests wouldn't allow me to borrow them." Jahzel did not inquire further about the face that inspired the figure he had admired the night before. His chief vizier appeared and swiftly ushered him away to review the day's itinerary. For three hours, he heard petitions and then presided over the trial of a physician accused of poisoning two patients. Witnesses were called, oaths were sworn and Jahzel adjourned the court to ponder the case and his decision. Once a month, the High Prince took on a judicial role to remind his people that justice and mercy ultimately resided in him. Divine representative on earth he might be, but Jahzel found that exercising his legal prerogative was rarely a pleasant experience. Tajhaan's draconian law codes exacerbated the proceedings, particularly in this case. Whether his crime was committed through accident or negligence, if found guilty, the physician must die. At noon, the viziers cleared the hall, freeing Jahzel to enjoy a light lunch with two of his courtiers before undertaking an excursion to the shrine of Belsha'at to perform his daily devotions. Afterward, he received a party of highranking silk merchants in a pavilion attached to the royal residence, where over wine and delicacies they discussed tariffs until sunset. 83
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Business often continued into the evening hours. Frequent state banquets and formal suppers consumed most of Jahzel's leisure time. Last night had offered a rare respite from official business, and that he could enjoy two such nights in succession was remarkable indeed. Supper was served in the crimson and gilt sitting room, yet once Jahzel decided he wished to dine, it was too late to have Muhal join him. Calling Udjan, he instructed the man to remind him to visit the royal harem tomorrow. Muhal would be honored by his appearance, and it had been several weeks since Jahzel had seen his other children or their mothers. "What is your pleasure this evening, my lord?" asked the chief eunuch. "Do you desire music or poetry, or the company of the akeshi?" Jahzel sighed, remembering that his five bed slaves also required his attention. Why do I keep so many wives and concubines? he wondered. It is more work than a sensible man could want. "When the meal is finished, call Theppu to the inner room. There will be no music tonight." Theppu was a golden youth from eastern Tajhaan, with long, shapely legs he was always displaying to advantage, and the finest eyelashes Jahzel had ever seen on a boy. Upon entering the inner chamber, the akesh knelt and bent his forehead to the carpet. "What is your pleasure, my lord?" Although the youth was a skilled partner, Jahzel did not really desire lovemaking. Udjan, poised to withdraw, paused at the signal to remain. "Come, sit beside me and speak to me." 84
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Bewilderment furrowed Theppu's brow, but without comment he rose and climbed onto the divan to recline beside Jahzel. "Of what do you wish me to speak, my lord?" Jahzel ignored the light caresses with which Theppu lavished him. "You have friends in the akesh harem," he said. "Surely you pass the time with conversation? Tell me what you talk about." Theppu's confusion only deepened. "I do not understand," he replied. "Such small matters would not interest you." Because Jahzel insisted, Theppu hesitantly began to relate the day's gossip, prudently glossing over what might be offensive, until little substance was left. To offset his growing boredom, and aware that his akesh spoke only at his command, Jahzel listened with a practiced smile. Is he truly so vapid? he wondered. Does he think only of fripperies, intrigues and keeping me interested in bed? "I had no idea you led such an interesting life," he finally said, "but I know you are modest and would rather spend the evening pleasing me as you know best." Despite his lack of desire, Jahzel could not send Theppu back to his quarters with so little ceremony; his disinterest would be misconstrued by the eunuchs as either a sign of illness or displeasure with his akesh, which certainly was not the case. With murmured encouragements meant for himself as well as his partner, Jahzel drew Theppu into his arms and covered his mouth with his own, deepening the kiss with his tongue until desire began to stir in his loins. If Theppu did not want him, it did not show. Surely there must be times when he does not. Jahzel banished the thought 85
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as he undid his pleated robe, lay back and let Theppu pleasure him by taking his cock into his mouth. After Jahzel achieved release, Theppu tenderly bathed him with the warm water and linens provided by Udjan, who had remained his corner throughout. Afterward, the akesh received a token of his master's appreciation and was led away. His body sated, Jahzel lay against the cushions and let his eyes trace the intricate patterns on the ceiling until he recalled Khemwy's mysterious model. If the young man was not a temple dancer, surely he could not be a well-bred akesh, for such creatures were rarely let out of doors and did not mingle with the priestly class. Whoever he is, would he bore me as Theppu and the others do, or is he more than a beautiful face and body? If such beauty could coexist with intelligence or deep introspection, Jahzel had never seen evidence of it; the youths and maidens he bedded were as transparent as the finest silk gauze and their charms were just as ephemeral. Or perhaps I simply do not know where to find the thing I seek. All that night, the question gave him no peace. In the hazy place between waking and sleep, he imagined a lovely youth who kissed him with full lips that tasted of wine and the poetry he so loved. Robed in hair long enough to cover his nakedness, and as soft as down, when the young man spoke, his words held both a lover's warmth and a councilor's wisdom.
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Only a god could be so beautiful and wise. Jahzel clung to the dream as long as sleep permitted, and afterward to the few shreds that lingered. The following afternoon, he summoned Khemwy to his apartments. "Tell me who he is." The stone carver blinked at him. "Who, my lord?" "In your latest work," said Jahzel. "The dancer on the far right, the one with the dreaming eyes and full lips. I wish to know who your model was." "My model?" asked Khemwy. "Why, he was nobody, my lord, just some boy from the desert." Seeing this answer was not sufficient, the old man cleared his throat and added, "I found him in an oasis halfway between Akkil and Atrija. The boy is a farmer's son whose name I don't quite remember. Maybe he was called Saril, or Sarit. I don't know. Whenever I see a face or a body that's suitable, I offer food or a few coins, and if they pose well, I do my work. He was beautiful, that I remember." No one could argue that beauty such as that was wasted in a desolate oasis, yet even with his imagination fired by the information Jahzel knew better than to pursue the matter further. Bringing a young man into the palace to serve in the royal bed meant more than simply bathing him, dressing him in rich clothing and teaching him the etiquette of the royal bedchamber. Expecting a farmer's son to serve the High Prince as a regular bedmate was out of the question. Royal akeshi were well born, the sons of princes or high-ranking nobles deposed in political coups or forced by circumstances to sell a child 87
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into bondage. Those biddable and comely enough spent years learning the arts of love before they went to the bed of the man whom they would serve. At best, a lovely farm boy might spend a few years as a merchant's pet before being sold into one of the city's many bakti houses. Reflection led to a moment's regret before Jahzel swallowed his disappointment. As much as he would have liked to see the boy who inspired Khemwy's art, it was a thing best left forgotten. Spring's fine weather did not last. Tajhaan in high summer was unbearable. While shopkeepers did their business in the cool mornings and closed their stalls in the afternoon heat, Jahzel moved his court south to Akkil by the sea and remained there until the first weeks of autumn. Rather than return directly to the capital, Jahzel planned a leisurely progress northeast that would take him through Atrija and three other cities. It was not often that he was able to view his entire realm, and he stated as much to his wife when she complained at being sent back to Tajhaan. "My dear," he said, "you would hardly enjoy spending so many days on the road confined to a jolting harem wagon. Return to the comforts of the city. I will rejoin you once my business is finished." Cherike frowned, but Jahzel knew her show of displeasure belied her relief. She endured the journey to Akkil because the city's orchards and view of the sea appealed to her, but did not enjoy her husband's company enough to want to accompany him around the realm. 88
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Eight days northeast of Akkil, Jahzel and his party arrived at the oasis of Osharan. Framing a tepid lake bearing the same name, Osharan was the largest of the oases on the road between Akkil and Atrija, and supported many flax, wheat and barley fields. The town, nestled among the fields and date palms, was a drab collection of mudbrick tenements, but Jahzel found it clean and hospitable, a good place to rest before continuing on to Atrija. From the reception he received, it was clear that few royal princes ever came this way. The town elders offered him their best lodgings and begged his indulgence, which he answered by hearing petitions in their court of law and touring the town. He dined at the house of the chief elder, enjoying a plain but savory meal, and the next day met with the town priests to view Osharan's shrines, including a temple dedicated to Shalat, the town's patron deity, who brought fertility to the desert. The basalt statue of the goddess looming above the altar had a familiar look about it, prompting Jahzel to inquire about its origin. "Great prince, this is the work of Khemwy," replied the chief priest. "This image is new to us and much prized. We were very fortunate to be able to get his services." Jahzel nodded in admiration of the statue's plain, elegant lines. "Yes, you are most fortunate, indeed." In his experience, even princes found it difficult to acquire Khemwy's talents. Late in the afternoon, with a cup of the local date wine and an hour to himself, Jahzel mused over his discovery. The statue must have cost the town a considerable sum, for 89
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Khemwy was highly selective about his commissions and was not cheaply bought when he accepted. Even the frieze had required a good deal of negotiation and fussing, frustrating the officials assigned to acquire the stone carver's services; the men had finally thrown up their hands and reported to the High Prince that there were plenty of other artisans in the city who would do the same work with better grace and at a far more reasonable price. Jahzel, however, was not so willing to employ another for this commission. His palace was filled with exquisite works from the kingdom's best artisans; he did not stint on anything associated with his name, especially his monuments or dedications made to the gods. Khemwy might be difficult, but Jahzel was now more determined than ever to have the artisan complete this frieze, even if it meant interviewing the man himself. Khemwy's contrite demeanor during the interview did not mask his native slyness, and more than anything suggested this was what he had intended from the beginning. Jahzel did not fail to notice, or comment upon it. "When you want something done well," answered the stone carver, "do you get the best man for the job, or do you have some pox-addled underling do it?" "You realize that we could employ a comparable artisan for far less effort," said Jahzel. "One would think that in the royal presence you would grasp this very simple truth, or at least try to be more agreeable. Should you prove difficult, we can offer the commission elsewhere." 90
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To his surprise, Khemwy laughed, drawing back his lips to reveal uneven yellow teeth. "Ah, it's the 'we' and 'us' now, is it? For all your fine schooling, you don't get what a simple stone carver is saying, do you? You want the best for the job, and so you try to negotiate, but then you send some fat, greasy underling to make the contract. I'm not doing the work for him, you know." Stunned by the man's bluntness, Jahzel nonetheless maintained his royal calm. "Surely you know this is how the palace negotiates all contracts. We do not have time to meet with every—" "Now there you go again," said Khemwy. "If there's another prince that wants in on this contract, he'd better come out, otherwise it's just you and me, and not 'us.' You sat for me when you were still a stripling of a High Prince, so you ought to know full well what my tongue is like." Yes, and it is a wonder he has not had it torn out yet, thought Jahzel. Giving such an order did not occur to him, however, as it surely had not occurred to his predecessors. He let Khemwy negotiate his own terms, which were not unreasonable, though he cautioned the stone carver that a royal commission meant an official would be appointed to oversee his work. For the first time in months, Jahzel thought about the lovely youth depicted on the frieze. Khemwy said that the model had come from an oasis town halfway between Akkil and Atrija. Even though he denied remembering the name, the town must have been Osharan. I am a hunchbacked dwarf if he does not remember; the statue in the temple tells 91
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me he has been here more than once. Why must the man be so secretive about his doings? Does he think I will have another artist use the boy and thus spoil the beauty and rarity of his work? Summoning a servant to his side, Jahzel sent the man to find Saruken, the lieutenant who oversaw security in the royal household. Saruken entered, saluted, and waited at attention for further instructions. "You have people who can find a pearl in a sand dune," said Jahzel. "Send one or two of them into the town and ask about a boy named Sarit or Saril. When you find the boy, bring him here. I have business with him." However odd the lieutenant found the request, he bowed and replied that it would be done. Jahzel returned to his date wine and scroll, and enjoyed the cool quiet of the chamber. The chief elder, whose house was the finest in the town, had vacated the residence to make room for the royal entourage. It was a small dwelling, though well-made and clean, and the servants Jahzel brought with him were unobtrusive as they went about their tasks. For his comfort, they pushed the room's original bed with its uncomfortable straw mattress off to the side and replaced it with his own traveling bed, a collapsible frame of gilded ebony padded with fine linen and silk. As he waited, Jahzel found his eyes wandering to the cushions, and was surprised at the tightness in his belly. You are as anxious as a bridegroom, he thought. Do not be such a fool. Lying with a farmer's boy is out of the question, though he and his family 92
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would hardly refuse the honor. You mean only to see him and satisfy your curiosity, nothing more. A polite knock brought two servants with a shallow basin of water and fresh clothing. He bathed, dressed and went to supper with the priests, forgetting about the boy until he returned after dark to find Saruken waiting outside his door. Saruken saluted him. "I did as you ordered, my lord. The boy waits downstairs. Shall I bring him up?" Lamps had been lit within, and the two body servants waited with water, linen and his bed clothes. Jahzel motioned them aside, signaling they were not to leave but wait. It is very late. I will see the boy, and if his look and manner please me I will send for him again tomorrow. He sat down in the chair near one of the alabaster lamps to wait. "Yes, bring him to me." In those last few moments, Jahzel did his best to breathe and pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary, yet could not help but recall his first wedding night when he and Cherike were both young and full of illusions. He will be beautiful, but shy. My words will be gentle. I wish only to look at him, and talk to him. Perhaps I will kiss him, but nothing more or it will not be seemly. From the moment the youth walked into the room, Jahzel knew his servants had made a horrible mistake. Rather than the lovely creature with full lips and lush skin he expected, Saruken had fetched him a pockmarked young man with coarse hands.
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Saruken barked a command to kneel, which the young man did, turning his face aside at the High Prince's obvious displeasure. Jahzel forced himself to remain calm. This was a large town, where a name might be shared by more than one person, and Saruken had simply brought the wrong boy. He would correct his mistake in the morning, then all would be well. "Lieutenant, I commanded you to bring a boy named Sarit, or Saril," said Jahzel. "Is this all you have brought me?" Saruken saluted and nodded. "Yes, my lord. My men went street by street, but there is no other in Osharan with such a name. The boy's name is Saret ked Khamenu." Jahzel drew a sharp breath, expelling it slowly before speaking. No, this cannot be. It cannot. He is supposed to be beautiful. "Boy, you will sit." He gestured for the servants to bring a footstool, upon which the young man awkwardly perched; his legs were long enough that he might have drawn his knees up to his chest and rested his head upon them. Saruken retreated to the doorway to await further instructions. "Do you know a stone carver named Khemwy?" Almost too frightened to speak, Saret nodded. "What did I do, sir?" For once, Jahzel did not know how to answer tactfully. You disappointed me. You should have been beautiful, not this hideous thing. "Did you work for him?" Saret nervously licked chapped lips. "He was working on a carving, sir. I asked if I could help him." 94
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"So you know something about working in stone?" asked Jahzel. "No, I-I don't, sir. He sent his men out to find some boys and girls to pose for him, but he couldn't find enough that he liked." Saret hugged his knees to his chest. "I asked him if I could pose, but he didn't want me right away. We needed the money, and the priests said the goddess would smile on anybody who helped with the work. I wanted to do it." The notion of such an ugly creature serving as an artisan's model was so ridiculous Jahzel choked back the urge to laugh. "And how did you think you could honor the goddess?" Saret bit down on his lower lip, and his arms tightened around his knees. "You mean why did Khemwy use somebody so ugly?" His voice was low and rough, not at all pleasing to one accustomed to the soft, almost musical voices of the royal akeshi. "At first he told me to go away, but I wouldn't until he agreed." And the old fool never even thought to tell me. Jahzel clenched the arms of his chair in his rising anger. A colossal joke, though whether it was being played by Khemwy or the gods themselves he did not know. "Why would you even think to ask him?" Momentarily forgetting etiquette and fear, Saret looked up at him. "But who wouldn't ask to be beautiful, if they were so ugly?" Jahzel could find no answer to that. Already, the conversation was growing wearisome, for there was nothing the boy could offer him but his uncouth appearance and 95
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peasant's tongue. Citing the lateness of the hour, he dismissed Saret and did not send for him again. At home in Tajhaan, surrounded once more by his flawless concubines, Jahzel summoned Khemwy. At first, the old stone carver, hard at work on a pair of statues for the temple of the Twin Brothers, rebuffed the royal messenger, but finally he came, covered in granite dust and not at all pleased at the interruption. Servants brought in water and linens. "Wash before you sit," ordered Jahzel. Khemwy sniffed at the scented water in the basin, but did not dip his hands. "Then I won't sit," he said. "As soon as I know what this is about, I'll be on my way." Jahzel clenched his jaw. Even Cherike dared not be so forward with him. "Old man, do you know that I have executed men for less insolence?" Any other man would have been cowering at his feet, but Khemwy brushed aside the threat like a bothersome gadfly. "If you wanted my head, you would've sent someone to the work site to do it there," he answered, "but you didn't, which means you want something from me that I can't give you if my head is stuck on a spear." "You are not as indispensable as you think." Jahzel brusquely waved away the basin and servants. Normally he would have offered his guest a drink, perhaps some delicacies, but under the circumstances Khemwy did not rate such courtesies. "You did not tell me the truth about him." "Tell you the truth about who, great prince?" Khemwy frowned, then his eyes widened with comprehension and he 96
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pursed his lips together in a tight smile. "Ah, so you went to Osharan to see him. For one who likes such fine and fancy things, I imagine you thought him the ugliest thing you'd ever seen." This time, Jahzel decided, the old man was not going to toy with him. "You did not tell me the truth," he said. "You lied to me and, worse, you have lied to the gods." Khemwy haplessly spread his hands. "Oh, but how was I to know the royal mind? You asked me for his name, nothing else. As for lying to the gods, what I did wasn't any different than what any stone carver does for his patrons. Do you honestly think that's your real face on all those monuments?" "That is different," Jahzel answered tightly. "Those images are for the common people who will never see my face and care nothing for what I truly look like. They need only see a High Prince towering above them. This matter is something else entirely. You told me the boy was beautiful." "Are you displeased because you truly think I lied, or is it simply because you wanted to bed him?" Jahzel drew a hissing breath. "You go too far, Khemwy." "Would it have pleased you better if I'd made Saret ugly?" Smoothing his hands over his leather work apron, Khemwy sat down on the cushioned footstool the servants had brought for him. Jahzel grimaced at the dust he left on the deep red silk. "I suppose living in this golden jewel box of yours, you forget what real people look like. In a place like Osharan what they'd call beautiful you'd still call plain."
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"Not even the lowliest quarry slave would have called that boy anything but ugly," said Jahzel. "You lied to me, and you knew it was a lie. For that alone I could have your head." Khemwy lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, but it seems the great prince only sees with his eyes, or his loins. Tell me, how long did you spend with the boy before you sent him away? Not long enough, I gather, if you're sending for me now." "Explain yourself," said Jahzel, "and do not toy with me this time. I want the entire story." His command was answered by an insolent smile that said Khemwy would do exactly as he pleased in the telling. "As you wish, great prince," answered the stone carver. "There were plenty of pretty boys and girls I could choose from, but how many of them do you think could hold a pose? Worse, when I gave them work they strutted about and put on airs like they'd been dipped in gold," he said. "I won't put up with such nonsense and told them so. Then along came a boy with a face that'd scare away the jackals, and he wanted work. I told him to piss off, and the other boys and girls set on him with taunts, but he didn't go. Saret kept pestering me, telling me he just wanted to help and wouldn't make any trouble." "If he irritated you so, then why did you give him the work?" asked Jahzel. "Because he could hold a pose and he never complained, never put on airs. I let him work for that, not his face," said Khemwy. "Once I asked him why it was so important to him, since I'd be taking the frieze away with me and he'd never see it again. He told me it was something that people would 98
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see, that it would last hundreds of years after he was gone, maybe forever, and nobody would ever know the face on the work was ugly." Jahzel paused over this explanation. Saret said no such thing when questioned, but then he had not said very much at all. And I never asked him. "So you gave him what he wanted?" "There was no harm in it," said Khemwy, "and after a while I didn't see him as ugly anymore. If you wanted the truth the first time, great prince, you ought to have asked me more questions. How was I to know my work stirred your loins so much that you'd try to find the model? When I said he was beautiful, of course you thought I meant his face, but a young man's heart doesn't need a pretty face to go with it, and I gave Saret his heart's desire. He wanted to be part of something beautiful. I gave him that." Khemwy's eyes narrowed and once again he smiled. "Now you tell me, great prince, what did you give him when you saw him?" Jahzel stiffened against the back of his chair. "Your question is impertinent, old man." "Is it, now?" "Go back to your work," Jahzel said sharply. "We will not speak of this again." Chuckling, the stone carver left, but Jahzel knew no peace. Chewing his lower lip, wanting to forget the old man's words and what had happened in Osharan, he paced his apartments, cursing his inability to lay the matter aside. What did I give him, indeed? As if I have an obligation to give anything to a simple farm boy! he thought. 99
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His anger, far from satisfying, felt misdirected. It shamed him, both as a man and a prince. Nothing, I gave him nothing, not a kind word, not even my hospitality. He glared at the door through which Khemwy had left. A prince should be more gracious, and yet I was a boor. Does that satisfy you, you insufferable old fool? In the evening, his nerves still taut, Jahzel sent for Theppu and instructed him to play upon the kithara while he closed his eyes and tried to forget his troubles. After a time, he sat up. "Tell me, pretty one," he said. "What would you do if you were ugly?" Still playing, Theppu smiled coyly. "My lord, I am not ugly, unless you find me so." "But if you were," urged Jahzel, "what would you do?" In the young man's silence, Jahzel saw that he was not merely being vapid; the question simply did not register. Theppu was right. He was not ugly and could not conceive of an existence without his beauty. But one day, thought Jahzel, it will be as the priests tell us. All that is young and beautiful withers and returns to the gods. Even you, pretty one. One day your charms will fade and you will be as old and leathery as Khemwy. "Come, lie beside me." As Jahzel kissed and caressed Theppu, no passion stirred his loins. He did his duty, however, stroking his lover to a breathless climax so he would not realize his master was not aroused. Theppu would mention such a thing to the vizier of the akeshi quarters, and within a day the physicians would 100
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descend on the royal household with embarrassing questions and repulsive aphrodisiacs. Once it was seemly, Jahzel sent the youth back to his quarters and sat quietly in the lamplight, contemplating what it was he truly desired. What should it matter if an akesh does not fire my blood? I have done my duty by my wives. If I find Theppu a vacanteyed novelty, why should it be a matter of state? Jahzel could only wonder what his viziers and physicians would have said about his interest in the stone carver's model. Their imagined diagnoses, their scorn, echoed in his mind until he shut them out. This was his secret, his private torment where all his other ailments were the talk of the court. A restless winter culminated in the rains that brought life to the dusty hills of Tajhaan. For a fortnight, the desert bloomed, and Jahzel made preparations to leave for Akkil six weeks before he was expected. Naturally, his wife protested at having to quit the harem so early. Jahzel wasted no time informing her that she need not accompany him. "If it displeases you so," he said, "you may remain here with the children and my other wives." Cherike's mouth tightened, her delicate nostrils flaring as they always did when she perceived some insult, real or imaginary. "Husband, I have not forgotten your promise to let me go to Akkil each year," she said, "but I do not see why you must undertake another progress so soon after the last."
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"Because as a High Prince I wish to view my realm," answered Jahzel. "I require neither your approval nor your presence." "It would be unthinkable for a king to appear without his consort." Cherike tilted her head in a condescending gesture Jahzel knew all too well. In a moment, she would do as she always did and compare Tajhaan's customs unfavorably with those of her homeland. "Unless she is with child or her husband leaves on a military campaign, a queen does not—" "Let me remind you that you are no longer in Khalgar," Jahzel sharply pointed out, "and you are not a Khalgari queen to display yourself in public. You are a princess of Tajhaan, and as such you need not be concerned with matters outside the harem. Indeed, you should rejoice, as my absence means your bed shall remain empty. "As for going to Akkil, you will have your due, but I will hear no complaints about my official business." Among the guards and other servants, two akeshi accompanied Jahzel for his pleasure, though he had little interest in sex. And yet, on a night so cold not even the braziers could keep his tent warm, he summoned them both to join him under his blankets. Exertion drove away the chill, but the practiced charms of the two youths left Jahzel numb. Even as he rode them, his thoughts wandered to an oasis many days to the southeast, and to the ugly peasant boy who dwelt there. His partner, writhing under him, moaned and slid a hand down his back to cup his buttocks. In response, Jahzel thrust harder, until climax took away everything but the heat 102
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between their bodies. The other youth lay beside them, kissing his companion and stroking his own cock until he received permission to come. Once the sexual euphoria began to fade, Jahzel wanted to be alone, yet outside his blankets the tent was still cold, and he felt his breath become smoke as he exhaled. His partners he kept with him, gently admonishing them to go to sleep when they inquired if he desired anything further, and at last drifted off to the thought that perhaps in the dark beauty and ugliness were nothing more than abstract concepts. I could make love to him, and it might still be good. Jahzel's half-conscious mind drifted among fantasies of taking Saret in his arms and, through his passion alone, making him beautiful. But no, his voice is rough, and he would not know how to please me. Loving him would be more effort than it is worth. Despite his words to Cherike, Jahzel did not go straightaway to Akkil, but first held court in Atrija, renowned for the ancient fortress standing sentinel over the desert from a crag that cast its shadow over the city like a ship's prow. Fine horses were bred here, and it was from this place that Jahzel's great-grandfather had gathered an army to ride across the desert and seize Tajhaan from the prince whose weak dynasty had brought the kingdom to the brink of ruin. Even here, the gods conspired against him, for in his chambers the sandstone walls were alive with the sculptor's art. Beautiful youths and maidens, desert warriors on horseback, and the gods themselves appeared to move in the flickering shadows and lamplight. This was ancient work, of a 103
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type common in Atrija, but Jahzel paused before it, his lips parted, noticing it for the first time. "My lord," said the youth behind him, "does it please you to come to bed?" Without turning his head, Jahzel held out his hand. "No, Amril, it pleases me to have you here." His dream-lover returned to his thoughts as he ran his fingers through the akesh's long, dark hair and pulled him forward for a deep kiss. Jahzel rarely tried to embellish his lovemaking, but in his arms Amril became a breathing shadow, stone given life, stepping down from the relief to give him pleasure. Lost in ecstasy, the name that formed on Jahzel's lips did not belong to his partner. All his being longed to hold this lover close, to join with him in flesh and spirit, until he realized what he was doing. He did not think Amril noticed, but afterward, deep shame replaced his rapture. The Saret who graced Khemwy's frieze was only a reflection of the boy who dwelt in Osharan, the translation of one man's perception into art, an object of desire. You are lusting after shadows, thought Jahzel. The gods did not make Saret to satisfy your base cravings. Jahzel ordered the decorations covered for the duration of his stay. He paid homage at his ancestor's monuments, dined with several high-ranking officials, and toured the city's granaries and stables before riding south. In Osharan, the town elders were amazed to receive him again so soon. Royal couriers had borne the message weeks in advance, so lodgings were ready, even if the people 104
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themselves did not know quite what to make of the visit. Jahzel assured his hosts that he was simply passing through on his way elsewhere, and once more took up residence in the chief elder's house. That first night he was obliged to spend dining with the elders, while on the second he managed to plead exhaustion and escape with a private meal prepared by his own cooks. The servants were ordered to set the table for two, although Jahzel did not inform them who his guest would be. Just before sunset, he sent for Saruken. "Go into the town and bring back the boy you brought last time." Through the sheer silk partition, he sensed the akeshi warily observing the exchange. They had assisted with his toilette, and he dismissed them with a reassuring smile. "No, my pets, it is not as you think. This boy has not your charms and is not trained for the purpose. It is merely a matter of business." Once alone, Jahzel began to fret. For weeks, he labored over what he would say and do. It was not like the first time when he did not know what beauty would walk through the door. Now he knew what Saruken was bringing him, and knew his own failings enough to be ashamed. Looking at the table with its fine settings, Jahzel took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. It is not a fantasy or a game of seduction. It is just a meal, nothing more. Footfalls on the stairs outside told him that Saruken had returned. Jahzel heard muffled words at the door moments before it opened, and the eunuch on duty entered to announce the lieutenant's return. 105
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"I brought him, my lord." Saruken came in, hustling before him a young man who clearly wanted to be elsewhere. "Very well, you may leave us," said Jahzel. "You may also leave, Eshemi." He nodded to the eunuch, who withdrew and closed the door with marked reluctance. That left the young man standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Twisting his large hands behind his back, Saret stared at the floor. His threadbare linen tunic, trimmed with faded embroidery, looked like his festival best, while the red patches on his neck, face and arms revealed a hasty attempt to bathe before entering the presence of the High Prince. Because he would not speak, Jahzel took the initiative. "Do you wish to sit, Saret?" With a graceful gesture, he indicated the carpets, cushions and low table set with gold plate. "Do you desire some wine?" Servants waited behind the silken partition, ready to serve the meal as summoned. Saret did not move. "You wanted to see me, great prince?" he croaked. "Yes, you will be my guest for supper." "Your guest?" Saret's gaze dropped to the plain garments he wore, to his rough hands and worn shoes. "Sir, I'm not—" "Be seated and I will explain." Jahzel made certain to keep his voice low and gentle, especially when Saret did not comply. "I realize your last visit was somewhat brief. You have nothing to fear from me." At his silent command, a servant entered bearing a carafe and two goblets upon a tray. Saret stared at the cup the woman offered him until Jahzel ordered him to take it, but even then he did not drink. "It is Besarian white," said Jahzel. 106
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Seeing the young man did not understand, he patiently explained, "It is wine from Khalgar. Have you ever had wine before?" Saret quickly shook his head. "We have beer in my father's house," he murmured. "If you would prefer beer, then I will have some brought." "I don't want to make any trouble, sir." Saret hesitantly tasted the wine, heeding Jahzel's admonishment to sip slowly, and nodded when asked how he liked it. Sitting down to supper proved more complicated. Saret was plainly uncomfortable among the brocade and velvet cushions, and did not know what the courses were or what utensils to use. Jahzel watched, inwardly berating his own shortsightedness at thinking a private supper would accomplish his aim. Saret was a peasant unaccustomed to such niceties. Several times he started to reach for a morsel with his fingers, only to snatch his hand away when he saw the High Prince watching him. Jahzel patiently told him what each dish was and which utensil to use, demonstrating with his own place setting, but under such scrutiny Saret ate very little and drank even less, seeming to choke down what he did consume. Finally, the High Prince motioned to the servant and murmured that she was to bring beer, cheese, olives and flat bread. "Perhaps I was wrong in thinking you would enjoy these dishes," he said. "I'm sorry, sir." Saret's eyes and the hunch of his shoulders showed genuine apprehension. "It's so much food and too fine for me." 107
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"Seven dishes is a small meal," explained Jahzel. "A royal banquet in Tajhaan may consist of up to four hundred." Saret twisted his fingers in his lap. Chewing his bottom lip, he sighed heavily and asked, "Sir, why do you want to eat with me? Last time—" "Last time I was weary from my progress, so I was not as polite as I should have been. Such a lack of manners is inexcusable in a prince." Through the partition, the servant reappeared with a large tray and folding table. Jahzel signaled that she was to offer the food and beer to Saret and then leave. "Did Khemwy ever show you his work?" "What, sir?" Saret stared into the clay cup, studying the beer before taking a sip. "Oh no, he said he would finish it in Tajhaan." "The frieze is now in the temple of Shalat," said Jahzel, "where it is seen and admired by many worshippers." Saret nodded, but a slight smile appeared on his lips. "Yes, sir," he said softly. "Khemwy is a very great artist." "When I saw the frieze, my eye was caught by a certain figure," explained Jahzel. "I know that Khemwy works from life, so I had him tell me which model he used. He gave me your name and told me you were beautiful." Shame darkened Saret's face, and he looked away. When he finally answered, his voice was small, almost inaudible. "But he lied to you, sir." "Khemwy told me he did not. It was my error that I did not question him further at the time." Jahzel reached for the carafe and refilled his wine cup. "I realize now that an artist does not see with the same eyes as a prince. Perhaps it would 108
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comfort you to know that I do not look like my statues either?" "I didn't notice, sir." "I imagine it is difficult to notice anything when one is staring into one's lap." Jahzel drank and set the cup down. "If you had been raised at court, you would have known that an invitation to dine at my table means you may look at and speak to me." Permission had been given, yet Saret did not raise his eyes. Sighing, Jahzel tried a different tactic, one he sometimes used to reassure virgin brides or akeshi who came trembling to his bed for the first time. He smiled, letting his voice become gentle, chiding. "You do not wish to look at your prince?" Saret lifted his eyes just enough for a quick glimpse before lowering them again. "If I looked at you, sir, then you'd have to look at me also." "Your appearance is not as offensive as you believe. Look at me, or I shall think you wish to avoid me." Once his initial distaste passed, Jahzel found Saret's ugliness bearable. "You have the look of one who has had the pox." "I had it as a baby, sir," replied Saret. "Then I broke my nose when I was six and it didn't set right. My brothers are all very handsome." In the firm lines of Saret's jaw and cheekbones, and in the fullness of his eyes, Jahzel saw the ruined beauty he might have shared with his brothers. Those nobles and princes who could afford it were inoculated against the pox, yet clearly no 109
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such protection had been available for Saret. "How old are you?" "I'm twenty, sir." "Do you have a bride?" Saret sputtered before abruptly choking off his laughter. "Oh no, sir, I don't have a wife," he said, then added, "You're not going to give me one, are you?" "You seem to find the idea amusing," said Jahzel. "It wouldn't be any good, you see, whether I wanted to get married or not. Not even the ugly girls will look at me." "Then I will respect your wishes and not give you a bride." Saret took another drink. As accustomed to it as he must be, somehow beer emboldened him where wine did not. "I didn't want to go with your soldiers, sir. They teased me after the last time." "My guards teased you?" If this was so, Jahzel must remember to speak sternly with Saruken. "No, not the guards, but the neighbors," said Saret. "They saw me going with the guards and said things afterward. It isn't fit for royal ears, what they said." Jahzel suspected what tone those jibes had taken. "I would not take a farmer's son or daughter to my bed, no matter how beautiful. But if I did, it would be a great honor for you." Saret twisted his hands in his lap. "They know you didn't, that you wouldn't. I mean to say is—" "Because you are so ugly I would not make the effort, is that it?" finished Jahzel. When Saret nodded, he added, "Does it trouble you that I am here?" 110
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"Sir, I know you wanted to see the beautiful boy who posed for Khemwy," answered Saret, "but that was the first time and you didn't like what you saw. Now you're here again, knowing how ugly I am, and you give me supper and want to talk to me. The neighbors won't know what to think. I don't know what to think." "Saret," Jahzel asked gently, "what did you tell Khemwy when he asked why you thought you why you wanted to pose for him? What did you say to convince him to let you stay?" Saret told him, repeating what Khemwy had said months earlier. Only now, the sentiment lacking in the stone carver's account was present, and Jahzel could see why Khemwy had relented. "I just wanted to be part of something beautiful. It didn't matter if he paid me or not, as long as he let me pose for him. Didn't he tell you, sir?" "Yes, he did, but I wished to hear you say it." Jahzel looked over at the filmy partition, where the two servants waited for his signal. "I should explain something to you, Saret, and then perhaps you will understand all this. "In my household, there is nothing or no one that is not beautiful. The gardens, the furniture, the servants, even the privy where I perform my bodily functions are all pleasing to the eye. I have six wives and five akeshi, all exquisite creatures, yet none has any thought but for what is in their wardrobes or jewel boxes. And then, when I saw Khemwy's work, it occurred to me what an amazing thing it would be if a young man or woman existed whose face and soul were equally beautiful. I thought it must be you." 111
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"But it isn't, sir," Saret said shakily. "It isn't me at all. I'm ugly, and only the gods can change my face." "Or an artist's hand," said Jahzel. "You truly are not as ugly as you believe." His lower lip trembling, a heartbeat away from bursting into tears, Saret looked away. "You're saying that to be kind." Jahzel nodded. "I also say it because it is the truth. I would not have you leave here empty handed, but I cannot give you anything more precious than what Khemwy has already given you." Theppu would have met this statement with a seductive pout and caresses until he elicited a jewel, fine silk robe, or costly scent from the High Prince. Saret, on the other hand, began to protest. "I don't need anything, sir. Khemwy gave me a little money for my work." His embarrassment was sincere enough that Jahzel made no attempt to ask what he would like, though it was not his intention to dismiss the boy without some token. "Then I will respect your wish, Saret. My guards will escort you home with my assurances to your family that we did nothing more than talk." Rising from the cushions, Jahzel extended a hand to his guest. Court etiquette did not require him to make this gesture, not for a mere subordinate. As Saret stood with lowered eyes, once again a commoner in the presence of his prince, Jahzel stepped forward and placed his hands on the youth's broad shoulders, steadying him before leaning in. Startled by the familiarity, Saret jerked back. "Sir, what are you doing?" 112
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No one has ever kissed him before. "It is not what you think," Jahzel said gently, "only the kiss of peace between brothers." As he spoke, Jahzel bent and touched his lips to Saret's pockmarked cheeks. "May the gods favor and keep you, Saret." Saret wordlessly touched a hand to his cheek, his eyes wide and moist with emotion. Given another moment he might have spoken, but the spell was broken by the arrival of Saruken and his guards. Jahzel nodded that he should go with the men, one of whom immediately smothered his guffaw at a freezing glare from the High Prince. Alone once more, Jahzel stood at the window, looking down into the shadowed courtyard garden as the servants entered and began to clear away the remains of the supper behind him. Melancholy replaced his earlier calm, for he knew in his heart that he would not see Saret again. I should have kissed him again, he thought, and tasted his lips. I could have offered him an hour of tenderness along with my friendship, for no one else will ever be so moved by him. Sighing, Jazhel leaned his forehead against the windowsill. No, for then I would have wanted him beyond what I could have, and that cannot be. Curse you, old man, for stirring such longing in me. For he understood now that Khemwy had not lied, that a beautiful boy truly did dwell in Osharan. What the gods had taken away from Saret, they had restored in a purity of spirit worth the wooing, yet it was not to be. 113
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Jahzel's daydreams could supply passionate interludes that reality could never fulfill, and he knew how terrible a thing irony was when it wore flesh and tugged at the heart.
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One More Stroke Kate Burns
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Also by Kate Burns Halfpipe Romance Love Lessons Into the Heat Canyon's Call
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Chapter One "Are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, it's a long stretch from here to there, don't you think?" The voice coming through the telephone line was wobbly but I knew it wasn't because of the long distance connection. Jenny was having separation anxiety, something that always showed itself in her voice. And if the truth be told, I was having a bit of it myself. Not that I'm going to admit it. Uhuh. I haven't traveled halfway across the globe to admit I'm lonely for my twin sister. "Of course I know what I'm doing." I dropped into one of the serviceable yet ugly chairs that filled the apartment and twisted the old-fashioned phone cord around my index finger. "I'm taking a break from real life. Living my dream, remember? I'm getting away from school and the job and—" "And Paul?" Sighing, I shrugged. The soft cotton of the much washed Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt caressed my shoulders. It was Paul's shirt, or at least it had been, until I'd confiscated it last year. I don't know why I had brought it along, except that its touch brought him close. As close as I wanted him to be, but not as close as he seemed to feel we should be. Paul. The word brought a chill in the warm room and my heart gave a wayward thud. "Yeah, him too," I admitted. "He's part of the reason I came, I'll admit that. I'm hoping he takes this time to move forward, to find someone new. To forget about me." 117
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It's true. Almost. I'd love it if Paul and I could be friends eventually. So, truthfully I didn't want him to forget about me entirely. Maybe I just wanted—needed—him to forget about the crazy obsession he had, the one where wedding bells, a long white gown and a houseful of little Pauls took prominence. I liked him well enough. I mean, we'd been dating for two years, hadn't we? But love him? Enough to marry? Sorry, but that wasn't in my heart. Or our future. So really, this idea to pursue my dream, far, far away from the Pennsylvania countryside where we'd all grown up, was for the best. Hopefully, for all of us. "I don't know, sis..." Jenny sounded doubtful. "I do know. He's got to find someone new, someone who can love him the way he deserves to be loved." I poked my fingertip through a frayed hole in the thigh on my jeans. Ratty. I look decidedly ratty in comparison to the city's meticulously coiffed and runway-inspired women who strolled the cobblestone streets. Thank God no one could see me. For at home, I could pass muster at the chicest grocery store in town. Here? I wasn't dressed—or manicured—well enough to take out the trash. "Are you listening to me?" Jenny's voice slammed into my head and I realized I'd been daydreaming. "Hmm?" "I said, I saw Paul last night. He looked horrible. Just terrible, Kim. Remember how he looked in high school after he'd had mono? Drawn and pale? Well, that's pretty much how he looks now, too. I nearly cringed when I saw him. And I didn't know what to say, either." 118
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"You're saying my leaving has given him a case of mono?" "No, that's not what I'm saying and you know it! It's just that he looks like crap and ... and I just thought you'd want to know." Jenny had made no secret of the fact she thought I was temporarily insane when I'd planned this trip. She'd also been vocal about her views on Paul's undying love for me. She'd as much as said I'd never find another guy to love me the way he does. Not being pissed over comments like that wasn't easy, but hey, everyone's entitled to their opinion. And Jenny's motivation—if not her viewpoint—was in my best interest. Rising, I said, "He'll get over me, the same way he got over mono. Really, in the long run it'll be better for all of us. He wanted what I can't give, Jen. Not with him. Who knows? Maybe not with anyone." "Is it really so terrible, what Paul's asking? I mean really, it's not like he's proposing something criminal or deadly. He loves you, for Chrissake!" In my mind I could see Jenny pacing as she spoke, running her fingers through her long, blonde hair, her hazel eyes flashing over what she considered my obstinacy. Mirror images of each other on the outside, yet so different inside. Jenny has been engaged to her high school sweetheart, Josh, since we were seventeen. She couldn't possibly understand how I felt about marrying Paul. "But I don't love him, not that way! Can't you even try to understand?" I plowed my hand through my hair, snagging a finger on one of the large silver hoops I wore. There was no need to look at my twin to know she wore tasteful pearls or 119
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diamond studs. Like I said, we're like night and day. "I can't do it—marriage. The big M. The tie that binds, the ... the noose that chokes. Or at least that's the way it would have been with him, I know it." "Fine. But did you have to go so far to decide this?" Ah, the crux of the matter. We were back to her missing me. And why not? She had a wedding to plan, and with me here she'd have to do most of it herself. I knew I'd let her down, but dammit, this is my time. I need it. I deserve it. And I won't feel guilty over it. Well, hardly. My voice softened. "I did. Please, remember you can email and we can IM all you want. I'll help plan your wedding, but from a distance. And I won't miss your special day, not for anything." "Promise?" "You know I do. And who knows? Maybe I'll even find someone special to bring home with me for the ceremony. And Paul—maybe he'll have found someone new by then. Hey, sometimes we need to move forward, Jen. This is my way of moving." I heard a long breath from the other end of the phone line and smiled. Jenny was seeing reason. And the family says I'm the stubborn one! Go figure. "I know. Really, I do. I just wish you could be here. Honestly, I wish you could be getting married with me. Remember? We always planned a double wedding, and now— " "Now you'll get the spotlight all to yourself," I soothed. "Listen, I've got to run. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" 120
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"All right. Love you." "Love you, too." "Kim?" "Mm?" "I understand," Jenny said softly. "Really, I do. I'm being selfish, wanting our childhood plans to work out now. Forgive me?" "Of course I do. Not all dreams are meant to be lived, Jen. The wedding scenario? That's one dream that's best left in our memories, I think." Plopping the clunky receiver down on the phone cradle, I sighed. Paul's face filled my mind. Dating him had been difficult, even at the best of times. Leaving him had been nearly impossible. But I knew it was the best thing I could do. For both of us. Glancing toward the wide wall of glass, I caught a glimpse of the skyline outside. The rooftops of the city were silhouetted against a darkening sky. The sight was impossible to resist. Running my hand across my backside, I quickly considered changing before heading out. "Fuck it. Paris will have to deal with the ratty outfit and bare face. Besides, who's going to notice me anyway? One more art student in this city?" I grabbed my bag and slung it on my shoulder as I turned toward the door. "No one. No one's going to notice me. And if they do, they'll just think I'm just another crass tourist." Being a stranger in a foreign land had its advantages. Anonymity. A wealth of new sights and sounds. New people. 121
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And no one who could see the relief I was experiencing—or my guilty pleasure over it—at leaving Paul behind. No one. I hoped. **** Humming, I make no effort to move quickly. I feel alive for the first time in a long time. The late day sun warms me; a breeze lifts the hair at the nape of my neck. The air is sultry and spicy as cafés open up onto the sidewalk and prepare their late-day offerings. Scents of gastronomical delights waft enticingly through wide open doorways. My stomach growls. I haven't eaten anything today. I consider stopping for a crepe, but I'm too busy absorbing the sights and sounds to give in to the demands of my body. There'll be time to fill my belly later. I narrowly avoid being knocked over by a pair of German tourists toting bulky camera bags as I turn toward the steps leading to the Metro station. The trip from Charles de Gaulle airport had been by taxi but if I'm going to spend the summer here I'll have to learn to use the public transportation system sooner or later. Why wait? There's no time like the present. The posted schedule tells me I'm right on time. The next train should pull in any minute now. It doesn't matter where it's going. I've got no agenda, have I? The tracks, as well as the station itself, are remarkably clean. No homeless panhandlers, no garbage littering the rails and no mysterious puddles in the dark corners of the station. In fact, there are no dark corners. Everything is well-lit, 122
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illuminated by huge fluorescent fixtures on antique-looking chains. The platform begins to fill up. I try not to stare as I watch tourists mingle with commuters. Residents stand out from the crowd, their sophisticated fashions and immaculate grooming making them look like they've just stepped from the pages of fashion magazines. For an instant I feel woefully out of place, but a fresh influx of brightly attired tourists lets me blend into the background—or so I imagine. Then I see him, and I forget about everything and everyone else, myself included. He wears ass-hugging jeans, a tight black t-shirt and scuffed black motorcycle boots. Gorgeous—he's perfectly gorgeous. Not just handsome, but out-and-out pussy-warming stunning. Muscular without being muscle bound, he's got a broad back, slim waist and tapered hips and his hair, a warm, deep shade of chestnut brown, is styled so it brushes his collar. The stranger has chiseled features, with high cheekbones and full, sexy lips. And his eyes, they're— Staring. Right at me. My face grows hot beneath his open appraisal. His glance travels up and down, lingering on my breasts whose nipples pebble in response. Just when I think I can't stand another moment of intense scrutiny, he smiles. "Bonjour." His voice is smooth and rich. A tiny thrill shoots through my body, making my nipples almost painfully hard. My crotch dampens, and I shift slightly without thinking. As my thighs spark a tremor of fresh desire in my sex, I feel my cheeks grow hotter. Can he know how much he turns me on? 123
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"Bonjour." The words come out evenly, much more coolly than I expect them to. Thank God, there's no tremor in my voice. Only in my pussy, it seems. "Hello." "Ah, I thought you must be American." A lock of hair falls forward onto his brow, and he sweeps it back casually. The careless gesture, so intimate yet easy, excites me further. There is a definite tightening at the apex of my thighs. "I suspected as much." Great. I must really look like a tourist. "You suspected I'm American?" My eyebrows rise. I hope I look charming, flirtatious even, despite my disheveled appearance. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what made you suspect something like that? Why not German, Italian or Scandinavian, even? Why American?" The crowd on the platform swells. We step closer and for the first time I see how tall he is. At five nine, I'm only chest high on him. He smiles. It's a full, broad parting of lips and I feel like an ice cube on a steamy sidewalk. The man is sex on legs, and he makes my legs wobbly. Very wobbly. "It was a natural assumption, really," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "I could not consider you any of the other things you mentioned. No, never." "Why not?" There is no logical reason for pressing him, but I can't stop myself from asking. Anything, any topic of conversation will do, as long as it keeps his smooth-as-silk voice filling the space between us. In the distance I hear the first rumbling of the approaching train. 124
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"Oh, many things. A German would most likely be carrying a camera, like those over there." He inclines his head. I've already noticed the group so I acknowledge his observation with a nod. "An Italian woman? Never without an elegant little handbag—something that you are not carrying." His gaze sweeps over my body again. For the first time since I've left the apartment, I don't know what to do with my hands. Just barely I resist the urge to shove them in my pockets. "No, you are confident enough to go out into the world without a bag. I like that." "Thanks," I murmur, suddenly tongue tied. "And the other one? What was the other one you mentioned?" He leans close and I get a whiff of his cologne. Something spicy, it makes my insides quiver. "It was...?" "Scandinavian. Why didn't you figure me for a Scandinavian woman?" The game has gone from unsettling to fun in no time. I find I'm eager for his reply. "Hmm?" With a roll of two of the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen, the stranger lifts his palms. No wedding band on his hand. Good. "Scandinavian? I admit I am not even certain that I have ever seen a Scandinavian woman, not knowingly at least," he says, a deep, throaty chuckle accompanying his words. "No, you have all the outward appearances of an American woman. Beautiful. Confident enough to go into the world without anything unnecessary, like handbags, cameras or fluffy little dogs. No, you look like a woman who knows what she wants." 125
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The sound of the approaching train forces me to raise my voice. "You're pretty observant, aren't' you?" "I try to be. You never can tell when something will cross your path that should be observed," he says with a devilish smile. "Some things should be examined carefully, I think. What about you? Do you believe in recognizing something of value when it comes into your path? Seeing what you want? And taking it?"
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Chapter Two Luc grins, gazing across the scarred wooden tabletop as he leans close. The candle's flame glitters in his dark eyes. As he looks deeply into my eyes, I wonder if he can see my secrets. My longing. My past, present and future. It would be wonderful to think he can, but at this moment I hardly care. All I know is I want him, very much. I want Luc and after a few pitchers of local brew, I believe I'll do anything I have to in order to get him. Naked, preferably. The first pitcher of ale we'd drunk in the dimly lit bar had broken the first-meeting weirdness, what little of it there was, between us. The second had made our tongues as loose as leaves in a breeze. And the third, the one that's nearly empty? That's the one that must be making my head feel fuzzy. Fuzzy and nearly uncensored. "I'm glad you said 'yes' to stopping in at the bistro." Luc lifts his mug in silent salute. "I hoped you'd agree, but I would not have blamed you had you declined my offer. After all, not every man you meet in the subway station is ... how shall I put this?" "Not a lunatic?" I suppress a giggle. "Exactly! Not of the honorable, ordinary, just-want-to-getto-know-you variety. Like myself, naturally." The past two hours had shown that Luc Granville was anything but ordinary. A chef by trade, vintner by lineage, the twenty-nine-year-old native Frenchman divided his time between Paris and St. Duchesne, a small town an hour's ride 127
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north of the city. His family owns a vineyard and most weekends during the growing season Luc lends a hand among the vines. He's single, intelligent, and has a sense of humor that needs little translation. We've been laughing so easily that it feels like we're old friends rather than new acquaintances. "I'm glad I said 'yes', too. The train ride wasn't nearly a long enough time for us to get to know each other." Maybe it's the fact that we've just met, or the openness I see in Luc's eyes, or even the thought that he seems so drastically different from what I'm used to dealing with. Whatever the reason, I feel completely at ease with this man. Talking with him is effortless—and agreeable, on so many levels. Who could have known that conversing with a man could bring so much pleasure? Still, I can't help but imagine him naked. "I'm having a great time with you, Luc. I'm glad you came up to me on the platform. Honestly, though, I thought you were coming to tell me that I was an ugly, uncouth American." I place a hand over my mouth to stifle the belch that appears suddenly. Wrinkling his forehead, Luc scowls. It is the first time I've seen him do anything other than smile or grin, and the new dimension his displeasure gave to his face is decidedly intriguing. A tremor shoots up my spine as I focus on the furrows between Luc's brows. With an accent that grew thicker with each glass he drank, Luc says, "Don't tell me you actually believe that foreign propaganda? That-that-that crap that's spread around in other countries about the French thinking Americans are crude? Rude? Disgusting?" He 128
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practically hisses the last word, as if it was too vile to pass his firm, yet soft-looking, lips. "Yeah, well, that about sums it up. That's exactly what we hear, so yeah, that's pretty much what I expected from you. It's my first day in Paris, like I said before. And you, Luc, are my first experience with a Paris ... Pari ... Paris-guy." A hiccup echoes my words. "I figured you were going to herd me out of the country. At the very least I thought you might try and pitch me off the platform and onto the tracks." "You must be joking! Nowhere is something that barbaric done!" His outrage would have been comical if it wasn't so damn sexy. My panties moisten. I hold tightly to my beer mug, so the trembling of my fingertips won't be as obvious as it feels. "I can see you've never been to New York, have you?" I smirk. "If you had ... well, I can promise you, you would never have made a statement like that!" A tilt of his head, a small move forward and Luc's lips find mine across the table. We kiss for what feels like hours but are, I know, just seconds. His mouth is hot on mine, his lips firm yet tender. Luc touches his tongue to my lower lip gently but as I open my mouth to him he pulls back, ending the kiss. Without his lips on mine I feel empty, chilled. A smile plays around the edges of Luc's mouth as he spoke. "No, I have never been to New York. I have never been to the United States. Only Europe and Australia. Oh, and once to Japan, but never to New York. I have seen many foreign films, of course. And I studied the culture and language of your country in school, of course." 129
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Running a finger along the rim of my mug, if only to keep myself from running the same finger along Luc's whiskerstubbled jaw line, I nod. "So that's where you learned to speak English so well, in school. I wondered." "Yes, most children in Europe learn some English skills. It comes in handy, I think, when we need to converse with beautiful women on subway platforms." "I'd say." The air feels electrically charged since our kiss. A new crispness, a clarity, exists that hadn't been here earlier. I hold my breath, yeaning for the feel of his mouth on mine again. Even in my relaxed state I'm not confident enough to lean forward and kiss him. Time for me to go. End the night on a high note, right? Always leave 'em wanting more—or cut and run before making a fool of oneself, I always think. I've had enough beer that I could do something stupid. Like I said, time to go. "This has been great, thanks." I stand but before I can say another word Luc stands, too "It has been magnifique. And if you are ready to depart, I will walk you home. Unless, that is, you live a great distance. In that case I will dash home and get my car so that I may drive you home. Will that be necessary?" Silently I shake my head. His charm, manners and almost old-world chivalry stuns me. "Fine. Then, we will walk." Luc smiles. "But first, you will have to tell me where you live, Kim, so that I will know what direction to turn when we leave. Do you know your address?" My voice returns in the form of a very undignified giggle. A giggle that lets me know I'm tipsier than I'd first thought. 130
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Do I know my address? For an instant I draw a blank but then, as if by some divine intervention, it comes to me. "Eighty-four rue de Flexures." My tongue slips around the foreign words effortlessly and for an instant I wonder if I'm not nearly as drunk as I first thought. Then, I take a step, tripping over the table leg and falling right into Luc's arms. Oh well. So much for the idea of not being drunk. But at least I'm finally pressed against this handsome man. This handsome man with a hard-on. **** "Yes, yes, that's right. Oh, Kim, you are so delightful," Luc murmurs as he sprinkles kisses along the side of my neck. His voice is low and hoarse, and almost desperate in its wanton desire. "Oh, yes..." My fingers push aside the fabric of his jeans and press deeper into his clothing. Luc wears no under shorts, and his erection fills my hand instantly. I tug his cock to freedom, sliding my fingers along his silky steel shaft with my own share of wanton lust. I squeeze the cap, wondering how he looks. I'd love to see his body, see what I'm touching but the alley is dark. We've made it to a block of my apartment, but the casual touching and kissing that began as soon as we'd left the café had quickly become intense. The first secluded spot we'd found that would let us indulge the frenzied pitch our desire had risen to was this alley. It felt amazing to hold his cock, to feel his body tremble beneath my touch, but still ... I would have loved the chance to see every inch of his hot, hard, male body with my own eyes. 131
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"Yes, ma chere, touch me." Luc's cheek, with its stubble, stung mine as he nipped my earlobe between his teeth. "My turn, is it not?" "Please," I moaned. My voice was barely recognizable even to my own ears but the heat in my nether region was familiar. I shifted as Luc tugged my zipper down. Wiggling my ass, not minding the brush of brick on my skin as he pushes my jeans down my hips, I fall back against the building I'm leaning beside and spread my thighs as far as I can. "Please, touch me Luc. Please..." My hand pistons along his shaft as his fingers slide between my swollen labia. Arching my back, I groan as he finds, then gently pinches, my engorged clit between his fingertips. I nearly come after the first few strokes of his hand but Luc grows still before I can find the peak. A chuckle, throaty and sinfully sexy, fills my head. I press myself against him, wanting more—so much more—of what he offers, but Luc chuckles a second time. "No, not yet," he murmurs. Kissing my forehead, he pushes his cock hard against my palm. "Not yet, chere. Stroke me, stroke me hard. I want to feel you touch me; want to feel your hand on my hardness once more before we come. Stroke me hard and fast, Kim. Then we will see about taking our pleasure." Never before has a man been so open with his desire. The way Luc's told me what he wants excites me further. Licking my lips, I look down to the place where I know his erection is. My hand disappears into the darkness, clutching his penis. Again, I wish for light—even the wavering light of a flame will 132
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do! Anything, just so I can see this divine man's flesh with my own eyes. Sadly, there is no light, but there is heat. Luc's hips move in time to the rhythm of my hand, and his head falls back as I stroke his cock. A groan comes from deep within his body, like the sound of a large, satisfied cat. His purring ratchets up my desire yet again. My pussy drips, slick with my need and my hips begin to move, too. Luc's fingers slide against my slippery slit, the tip of his index finger finding my soft, wet entrance. He presses inside, and my muscles clench around his finger. "Now. Come with me now. Let me stroke you until you can stand it no more," he whispers, stroking my clit more forcefully. His cock is hard, my pussy soft and the heat between us makes me perspire. My heart trips double time and I feel the first twinges of my climax at exactly the same instant Luc's cock spasms. My body shudders as we convulse against each other. Two strangers sharing a moment of passion in a dark alley, never to see each other's bodies but knowing them more intimately than words can say. In my beer-induced haze, I vow never to forget the feel of this man's cock, or the touch of his fingers on my sex. I didn't get to see Luc's body, but I won't forget it, either.
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Chapter Three My day isn't going well. First, there was the missed Metro train. Then, the run to catch the bus that would bring me within four blocks of my destination. Oh, and the pounding headache I had, leftover from last night's beer fest, made everything more annoying, including the bitch teacher who was, even now, humiliating me in front of the entire class. "A bit more to the torso, I think. See how his musculature is sharply defined in the upper chest region? Yours looks a bit flat." Adrienne's paint-stained index finger hovers above my sketch pad. She jabs, pointing out the offending pencil strokes. "See? There. And there. Your strokes, they are not good. You need practice. Practice, practice, practice! They are too flat. Much too flat," she proclaims in her you-can-dobetter-can't-you? tone before moving on to the next student. I pull a face at her skinny little behind, hoping, not for the first time, that the skin-tight black pants she favors give her a galloping case of crotch rot. I feel heat sear my cheeks. Not only had the other eleven students been privy to this verbal dressing down, but the object of my sketch had heard it all, too. And he was what really counted at this very moment. The finely chiseled male model who sat in the center of the room had been the object of my sketching for the past hour, but also the center of a rather interesting—and very sexual—little daydream I'd been having. One that had been started last night, in a dark alley, with the very same man. I can't wait to hear Luc's 134
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explanation for this, being a male model. Why hadn't he told me? Shit. Now it was all ruined. The sketch. The come-hither expression I'd been giving Mr. To-Die-For Luc as I slipped the spaghetti straps of some filmy negligee off my shoulders in my imagination. Shattered, each and every glorious, panting, tortured breath he took as he ogled me, his tight jeans barely able to restrain the turgid flesh behind his fly— "All right, class," Adrienne called out, clapping her hands as if chasing away a gaggle of geese. "Enough for today. Tomorrow we'll work some more on the male form." She turns and raises an eyebrow at Luc. "In all its glory. Until then, perhaps you can all contemplate the mysteries of pencil, paper and musculature. Adieu." Bitch. Standing, I turn. Beside me, Celine is shoving her sketchpad into her lumpy, oversized bag. Celine always looks like she'd shopped in a dumpster and had thrown whatever she wore together in thirty seconds or less. The French version of casual chic, I suppose. Whatever, she still looks remarkable, in an artistic sort of way. She catches my eye and smiles. Leaning close, she says in a low voice, "Don't pay any attention to her. You know how she is. She's done that to all of us. Probably didn't get any again last night. I heard from Julie that the big A's fiancée dumped her." I snort. It's hard to believe a woman that bitchy could find a man to tolerate her. "So she's got to take it out on us?" 135
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Celine shrugs philosophically, in typical Parisian style. "C'est la vies, non? Where there is bitchiness, there is usually a bitch. We, dear Kim, have a super bitch in our midst. Pay her no attention, and continue with your work. And remember, good is in the eye of the beholder. Adieu!" "So long." Leave it to Celine to put this into perspective. I take a last look at my sketch, sigh, and close the cover on my pad. The brown leather tote I carry my supplies in is a gift from my godmother, the woman who helped finance this year-long experiment. It still smells new, as if it had come from Saks the week before instead of a month ago. A month. That's how long I've been at the prestigious Sauvignon Academy of Arts. A month to settle in, absorb the ambience of the land and begin my life as a real artist. Or end it, if Adrienne was to be believed. The woman seemed to take delight in ridiculing my work. Not me, the only American in a class filled with French students. No, that would be too blatantly cruel. No, Adrienne pointed out flaws in my work— over and over, day after day. Four weeks. I'm ready to explode. "I did not get to see your work. You have put it away too quickly." The voice was as smooth as caramel, so deep and sultry it brings prickles of heat to my already heated body. It is him. Luc. The model, the man of my dreams, the— "Really. I wanted to see what the-the ... how do you say it? What the excitement was about." Slowly, I turn. He's put his shirt on, but there was no denying it—the man standing so close I could smell the warm, 136
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musky scent of him is one hot male specimen. I inhale deeply, remembering the touch of his fingers against my skin. "Hmm, you want to see the excitement, do you?" I wiggle my brows, wishing I'd taken the time this morning to do more than slash lip gloss on my mouth. Even a hint of mascara would've helped, but there had been no time. Between the beer and alley sex, I'd overslept. "Well, I wouldn't mind seeing a few things myself. That is, if you're willing to show them to me. Again." Luc's brows come together and I resist the urge to press my fingers to his forehead. He is beautiful, even in the casual denim shirt and faded jeans he's wearing. So different from last night's fashionable look, but still incredibly sexy. How can I be so lucky? To meet him today, when I thought I'd never see Luc again? Cupid must be smiling on me. The hammering in my chest, and the warmth in my center, remind me that I've made the right choice about Paul. Not that I really need to be reminded, but if I'd had any doubts at all they'd be history. How could I feel such a huge gush of pleasure and excitement over seeing Luc if I had any real, deep feelings for Paul? I couldn't. In one burst of good fortune, I'd learned once and for all that I'd made the right decision about ending my relationship with Paul. "Pardon?" The long, strong length of Luc's neck is exposed as he tilts his head to the left and stares down at me, a puzzled expression on his face. His sexiness steals my breath away and there is a sharp hammering in my chest. Can one die from desire? In this instant, I believe they can. 137
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"Pardon, but I think I may have ... have—" Luc's fingers wave in the air beside his head, as if he's looking for the correct word to continue the conversation. It's strange to see him grapple with the language. Last night he didn't seem to have any problem communicating—with or without his clothes in place. Was it the beer that had made him so chatty? Boldness overcomes my usual reserved character. Grinning, I tease, "You may have what? Forgotten what you've already shown me? Is that it? You're losing track of what you've already revealed? If not to my eyes, exactly, then to my hands and ... other parts." A tremor shoots through me, stiffening my nipples. They press against the fabric of my shirt. Luc's glance at their hard points tells me he's noticed. Does he remember how my breasts felt beneath his frenzied touch? Adrienne's voice cuts, yet again, into the stupendously wonderful erotic daydream I'm having. It is like a burst of frigid water on my hot, willing body. My spine stiffens as I turn toward the door. "I would think, mademoiselle, that your time would be better spent with pencil in hand than in flirting with my model." Lifting one overly thin eyebrow, Adrienne pursed her lips as she stared at me. Refusing to rise to her malicious bait, I lock eyes with her and count to ten. I won't let her goad me into a confrontation, not in front of Luc. In private, I might scratch her eyes out, but here I'll keep my calm at all costs. Dismissing me with a small snort, she turns toward Luc and says, "I have things to discuss with you. Tomorrow's session, for one thing. And," she lowers her voice so 138
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drastically both Luc and I lean forward to hear her next words. "Other things. More personal things. If you will, follow me. We will talk in my office—in private." With an apologetic smile, Luc follows Adrienne from the classroom. For a long moment I stand, silently, beside my chair. How has my day gotten so screwed up in such a short time? And how did my Prince Charming turn into a frog?
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Chapter Four "No, I'm not just having rebound sex. It was—well, it was fast, drunken, casual sex but I didn't do it because of Paul. Actually, I realized with Luc that I'm over Paul. Way over him." Absently, I drag my pencil across the vellum sheet of paper attached to the board on my lap. Before me, Luc's face comes to life. His chiseled chin, big eyes and strong jaw line. They're all as I remember them from last night. Thinking of today's encounter does nothing creative for me—not unless you call raising my blood pressure a creative gesture. "Hm?" Jenny's been talking; I haven't been paying attention. "I said, are you sure you're over Paul? Really sure?" "Completely." I nod, even though I know she can't see me. "At least Luc was good for that, making me see that I've done the right thing about Paul. I'm so steamed he acted the way he did today. And the way he went off with super-bitch Adrienne ... every time I think about it I want to spit!" "Then don't think about it." "How can I not? When he came over to me after class I thought ... I thought ... hell, I don't know what I thought." I thought we were going to pick up where we left off last night, but I felt too foolish to say that, even to Jenny. I needn't have tried to conceal my thoughts, not from her. "You figured the two of you would just continue where you'd ended last night, didn't you?" 140
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"Something like that," I admit, penciling in Luc's hair on my sketch. He looks so realistic I can practically hear his voice. "Maybe he wasn't as interested as you thought he was," Jenny suggests. I hear the sound of her why-don't-youcommit-already speech coming on. She can't help herself. She's trying to be supportive of my choices but sometimes the get-a-man, get-married side of her rises to the surface. I'm not in the mood to hear it. Not at all. "Maybe not. Listen, I've got to run." I snap the board onto the ugly table beside me and stand. Dropping my pencil on top of what is now Luc's almost-finished likeness, I rake my fingers through my hair. Curly, as usual. The damp Paris air is making it curlier than it ever was back home. I sort of like it, this wilder version of myself. "Run? But we just started talking!" "Right, but I've got to go." "Where? You're done with class and you don't have a date. You don't even know anyone there, so who are you rushing off for?" She's got me. Possibilities fly through my head faster than the interest mounts on my Macy's charge bill. "Not who. I didn't say I was seeing anyone," I say, stalling. A burst of inspiration! "Where. I'm going to the Louvre. You know, the big museum? You've heard of it, haven't you?" I do a little happy dance in front of the phone table. I feel tethered to this big black monstrosity. When will the rest of the world follow us into the 21st century? I'll have to pick up 141
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a new cell phone tomorrow. Or maybe today, after I shake Jenny from the other end of this damn phone line. "Don't be a wiseass, Kim. Of course I've heard of it. I just didn't know you were planning on going there today, is all." Neither did I. Jenny continues, "Are you going alone? Or are you meeting someone? Or maybe you're hoping to meet someone new, maybe have stand-up sex in another alley?" She giggles and I want to reach through the phone and strangle my twin sister. Why did I tell her about the alley? Why? "I'm not going to meet anyone, or with anyone," I insist. Tugging my top into place at my waist, I say, "I'm a grown woman in search of culture, that's all. And I don't need anyone to help me find it. I'll talk to you later, Jen. Bye now!" Without giving her a chance to speak, I drop the receiver onto the cradle. **** Dusk sweeps over the city like a lover's cloak as I slowly walk toward my apartment. The museum was amazing, much grander and more spacious than I'd imagined. Walking through the rooms, looking at masterpieces painted centuries earlier, I felt a connection to the city not within me until then. The pulse of Paris lies in its culture, and a generous measure of that culture comes with its art. Almost drowsy, sated as I am by my overindulgence in the great masters' works, I stop outside the door to the café. Music, loud and with a beat that echoes the rhythm of my heart, comes through the building and into the air on the 142
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otherwise quiet street. Clover cigarette smoke perfumes the breeze. There are no bans on public smoking here. Summoning an inner strength, I bend forward, peeking in the window beside the door. The café is not crowded, but it is not empty, either. My gaze scans the dark, wood-paneled room, dismissing images in search of the familiar stance. There. In the far corner, partially hidden by an enormous floor plant. It is Luc. I recognize the way his hair brushes his collar, the width of his shoulders tightly stretching a black shirt over his skin, a casual wave of his hand toward the bartender who speaks with him. Yes, it's Luc. Anger stabs me as I recall our earlier meeting. How dare he treat me as he had? Pushing the door open, I cross the floor. Anger is replaced by something else, something soft and liquid hot, as Luc sees me and grins. "Kim! You are here! I have been hoping to see you, ma chere," he purrs. Luc pulls me against his body, kissing me so thoroughly my head spins. Tightening in my groin takes my thoughts from my head, and I press my thighs together. Whispering in my ear, "I have thought of nothing but you, all day. You, you, you—in the alley, what we did has made me horny, all day. I can think of nothing else, ma chere. Only the way you felt in my arms. The way I felt buried deep within your hot, wet body." I want to protest. Really, I do. But my mouth won't form the words. A mug of beer appears beside me, on the counter where we lean. I drink it without thinking. 143
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Brushing my lips with my fingertips, I ask, "Why did you act that way, then?" Luc's brow furrows. Tossing a few euros on the counter, he takes my hand. We wind our way through the café. Outdoors the air is less smoky but my head is still spinning. Could it be the beer? My stomach is empty otherwise. Or could it be the smoke? Or maybe it's just Luc—the nearness of him makes me feel unbalanced, yet steadies me, all at once. I don't know how that can be, only that it is. Our alley—for a moment I think Luc will pull me into it at we pass, but he doesn't. We walk quickly, without speaking, almost as if we're propelled by an unseen force. Nearing the park that is across the street from my place, I realize what he's got in mind. I've seen lovers in this park before, shadowy shapes on benches, beneath trees and huddled on the grass. French love, without concealment. An empty bench lies just within the park's borders. Partially concealed by the droopy branches of an ancient tree, it is the perfect spot for us. Luc sits, grinning as he pulls me onto his lap. My pussy tingles as our lips meet. How can anything else matter now, when I want him so much? Casual sex, that's all this is. No entanglements, no commitments. Right? Yeah, right. I'll tell that to my heart—later. Much later. Now, I'm too busy tugging Luc's erection from his tight jeans. My hand pistons on his cock as he pulls my zipper low. "Chere—oh, yes, that feels so good," Luc murmurs. He feathers kisses along my neck. I press myself against him, moaning as he fingers my clit. 144
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"Yes, that's it." I feel like I'm going to explode. Luc chuckles, gently pinching my sensitive nub between his fingertips. Pleasure pulses within me, burning a trail between my body and his. "It is good, no?" "Yes," I gasp. His cock teases me, a drop of moisture seeping from him. I flick my finger over it, massaging the wetness into his taut skin. "It is good. But—" "But what?" he asks. His hips buck, his cock presses closer to my aching sex. I can't wait. My need is too urgent. "I want more, Luc. I want—" A whimper, a sound I barely recognize as my own, escapes. "I want to feel you inside me." My knees feel shaky as I rise to them, hovering above his lap only long enough to push my jeans down. My thighs are forced almost shut but not so close that getting what I want— what I need—will be impossible. "I want you. I can't wait." The low, throaty chuckle beside my ear entices me to move faster. Angling his cock toward my need, I spear myself, settling onto his hardness as if it's the center of the universe. There is no foreplay, no sweet word or tender caress. We are possessed, driven by the fire burning between us. Luc's cock, wet with my juice, thrusts upward. I feel the tip of him press deep within me, and my pussy clenches around is hot, hard flesh. My climax slams into me so forcefully I feel the air leave my lungs in a swift burst. This is not the time to ask questions, only to feel and be felt.
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Chapter Five Disappointment washes over me. The class has begun, Adrienne is droning on about light, refraction and the neverending quest for proper perspective as she walks between our seats. Beside me, Celine sketches absently. Today she wears another of her dumpster-inspired outfits, a wildly artistic looking amalgamation of leggings, flowery scarves, a vest and several silver link belts. The belts jingle softly, like sleigh bells, as she breathes. I'm surprised super bitch hasn't mentioned them yet, called them a distraction from her lesson or some such nonsense. The class is only half over. Adrienne still has plenty of opportunity to bitch. It hadn't occurred to me that Luc wouldn't show up this morning. After we'd buttoned up last night, he'd kissed me and walked me to the door of my building. It had been late. We'd made no promises but I'd just assumed... Ah. Therein lays the trouble. I'd assumed. Had my years of dating Paul let me grow complacent? Was my assumption based on Paul's predictable nature? It must be, since I'd believed Luc would show up today and he hadn't. Damn! How could I have been so naïve? And why does it matter so much whether or not he's here? Really, it's just casual—oh, hell, it's nothing of the sort. Casual ended before it began, I think. At least for me. No, this is much more than— "Allors, there you are!" Adrienne chirps. "You are late." 146
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"My apologies," Luc says, flashing a smile that made my heart lurch. "An accident, ten kilometers from here. No way around." Unbuttoning his shirt, Luc shrugs out of the garment and sits on the stool in the center of the room. Lessons, talk, absent-minded sketching—all are forgotten. The tempo of the room changes instantly. Luc has arrived, and everyone's focus shifts. My fingers fly as if by magic. Steadily a sketch appears. Luc, all lines and whisper-thin shadings. His face is perfectly proportional, shadowed as his gaze fixes on a distant point. The body that had been flat yesterday was today a study in detail. Muscles and planes, ingrained in my mind courtesy of our lovemaking, take shape. Microscopic black dots from my pencil tip brush away, borne by the current from an escaping breath. Too soon, the class ends. I have seen, felt, heard nothing save the beat of my own heart. When Luc moves to retrieve his shirt, the spell is broken. Adrienne stands beside my chair. My gaze travels up, along her slim legs in yet another pair of tight black trousers, over the untucked, flowing purple blouse that skims her hips toward her face. I watch as she pulls her stare from my sketch pad to meet my gaze. "Not bad," Adrienne says. A smile teases the corners of her burgundy-glossed lips, but she does not allow the smile to fully flower. A nod, small yet satisfying, and, "Your strokes are ... not bad. Not bad at all." Then she is gone, moving swiftly from the room. 147
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"High praise indeed, my American friend," Celine says. She pokes her sketchpad into her lumpy bag. Lifting the bag to her shoulder, she glances at my pad and nods. "Well deserved. Until tomorrow." Smiling, I close my pad and place it gently in my bag. Suddenly I'm filled with a sense of knowing—a feeling that yes, I have made the best decision of my life by leaving Paul and home and coming to Paris. Yes, this is where I belong. I know it is, I know it as sure as— "Hey!" Luc stops, halfway out the door. He turns, a hesitant look on his handsome face. Gripping the door frame, he says, "Yes?" "Where do you think you're going? Enough is enough—I put up with this crap yesterday, but today—hell, no. I'm not going to play games with you, no matter how I feel about you!" The way his eyes widen, feigning surprise, angers me. My hip bounces painfully off a chair as I stride across the room. "Games? I do not understand—" Luc lifts a hand into the air, acting like he's searching for a word. Again. The same trick he pulled yesterday! "Don't give me that crap, that-that-that game you're playing is a load of bull and you know it." "Bull?" I resist the urge to stamp my foot. Parisian women probably don't do much foot-stamping; I won't sink to making a fool of myself in front of this infuriating man. But he's not going to make a complete ass of me, either. 148
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"That's right, bull. I mean it; you've got to stop acting like you don't know me from Adam. And just for the record, you have no problem communicating—in any language—when your cock is hard. Maybe that's the problem, your cock isn't stiff. Think you'll be able to speak English if I give you a hardon?" I cup his crotch and squeeze. Not only is he not hard, but he tries to pull away as I begin to massage. "Mon dieu!" Luc gasps. He's against the door frame, effectively pinned. I feel a small stirring against my palm. "I don't understand—" I smile. "Oh, yes you do. You understand perfectly." My thumb presses against the tip of his penis as I speak. "You understand just what—" "Claude, are you still in there?" My hand freezes. The voice is one I know. "Claude, are you—" I'm living a nightmare. Or my wildest fantasy. Or I've lost my mind. Who knows which it could be? Luc—the second Luc—steps around the corner. He stops short in the corridor, just a few feet from where I have my hand on his penis—the first Luc's penis. "What is going on here? Kim? Claude?" The first Luc twists sideways, pulling himself from my grasp and suddenly I feel completely untethered. I watch as the two men converse in rapid French, hand gestures punctuating each flurry of syllables and eyebrows moving up and down as their expressions change. 149
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A smile washes over Luc number two's face as the men turn toward me. Luc number one passes a hand over the front of his jeans, pressing his palm against himself. "I believe we have what in your country would be called a funny situation." Luc. My Luc, I can tell by the way he speaks so easily he's my Luc. But who the hell is this other guy, this look-alike? "Today I had planned on discussing you, and the way I feel about you, over lunch with my brother. My brother, Claude." Luc tilts his head, and Luc number tw—er, Claude nods. "Your brother?" "Yes. We made plans to get together today so he could tell me about his new romance, with Adrienne. Also, he wanted to discuss an—um, unconventional American in the class Adrienne teaches. One whose behavior he cannot understand. And I ... well, I..." "Yes?" I step closer to hear Luc's words. They matter more than I could have imagined. "You what?" Luc's eyes find mine and I feel my heart swell as we stare at each other for long, silent moments. Finally, he speaks, his voice bringing tears to my eyes. "I wanted to talk with Claude about a woman I've met, one who makes me feel differently than any other woman ever has before. She makes me do crazy things, like making love in the park. I want her constantly, I think about her nonstop. But it's more than sex, more than a casual affair. I've fallen in love with her. Love at first sight, I think it was." Luc wipes a tear from my cheek, then asks, "Tell me, ma chere. Do you believe in love at first sight?" 150
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Nodding, I answer. "I never did before. But now that I've been in Paris for a while, I see that love at first sight happens. It's happened to me." "I hoped you would say that. But soon, dear Kim, we will have to see whether or not we can't move our love to a proper bedroom. I can't keep ravishing you in public." "Why ever not?" I ask, reaching forward to press my lips against his. "I'm getting pretty used to this free and easy European style of loving." "Ah, but there is so much more for us to explore. So much we cannot do ... in public." As Claude saunters down the hallway, his eyes thoughtfully averted, Luc slips a hand beneath my top. His fingers find a nipple as if radar guided, and he gives the tender skin a fast pinch. My body responds instantly, heat and moisture coating my sex as I push my hips against his. Luc's cock is erect, a solid presence between us that makes me smile. I want him—here, now, later, anywhere I can get him—and he knows it. Oh, God, I can tell he knows, and the knowledge he recognizes my desire, and shares it, brings the sizzle up a notch. My voice is hoarse when I force myself to speak. "Where, then? And when?" Luc chuckles, the sound like music to my ears. "Soon, ma chere. Very soon. But first, don't you think it would be impolite of us to ignore Claude? I had hoped the three of us would go for lunch. To the café, perhaps? My twin brother does not speak English as well as I do but he is learning. Between you and Adrienne, I think he will begin to really 151
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catch on. So, what do you say? Lunch first? Then, afterward, you and I will have our own dessert course? In private?" I nod, smiling. Yes, art school in Paris is just what I need at this point in my life. And maybe, it'll be just what I need for a good while longer. After all, it just might take me a bit to get my ... um, stroking technique perfect.
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Unveiled Emma Wildes
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Also by Emma Wildes Servicing Lady Tremayne Ritual Passion The Arrangement Secret Sins (a collection) 413 Remembrance Lane
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The faint tap of rain on the window was balanced by the blaze of a fire in the elegant hearth. The duke lifted a brow, a faint smile hovering on his mouth. "Name your price, St. Claire." This was, of course, the tricky part. Nathaniel weighed his words a moment, for while he had made similar arrangements before, haggling with a wealthy, powerful peer of the realm was a bit different. "The monetary portion of our bargain is important to me, naturally. However, Your Grace, I have a stipulation you might find unusual that actually takes precedence over the price of my services." "Is that so?" Robert Augustine, the seventh Duke of Caerleon, leaned back in the chair behind his desk. Tall, aristocratically good-looking with thick chestnut hair, austere features, and crystalline gray eyes, he was dressed informally for the interview in polished boots, fitted dark breeches, and a pristine white shirt open at the neck. A crystal decanter of brandy sat at his elbow, and as he asked the question, he moved to refill his glass. "Enlighten me as to this stipulation, though I doubt it will affect my decision. I wish for you and none other to paint my wife's portrait. Quite frankly, you are the best, and that is what I require." The statement would have sounded arrogant except Nathaniel could tell it wasn't intended that way. The duke had more money than Croesus, or so rumor had it, and it was more a declaration of fact. He could afford the very best and didn't apologize for it. 155
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"It would be my pleasure to paint Madame de la Duchesse's portrait, your Grace," he said with careful intonation. "It is my honor to have been asked. However, please be aware I want to do two paintings. One, the formal one you wish to commission and a second of my choosing, to be displayed at my discretion." Caerleon paused in the act of lifting his glass to his mouth. "A second painting?" "A nude." The duke took a measured sip of brandy and set aside his drink. The expression on his handsome face was difficult to read. "Let me understand you, St. Claire. You wish to have my wife pose for you naked?" "Yes. Exactly," Nathaniel said in a bland voice. The fire crackled in the ensuing silence. At a guess, it was not often the formidably self-possessed aristocrat was without words, but he did appear to not know what to say. Nathaniel hadn't expected enthusiastic, instant agreement, so he sat quietly and took a drink from his own glass. This was very important to him. An opportunity to advance his reputation that might only arise once in his lifetime. Finally, Caerleon gave him a brittle, wry smile. "I take it if I do not agree to this rather outrageous request you will outright refuse to paint the formal portrait. Artistic blackmail, as it were?" The duke didn't look infuriated or shocked, which was a good start. Relieved and hopeful, for he hadn't been certain he wouldn't be tossed out on the street on his ear, Nathaniel leaned forward a little in earnest persuasion. 156
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"Your wife, Your Grace, is one of the most beautiful women in England. I did not think much about this, even after receiving your invitation for an interview, until I met her the other evening at Herr Mozart's opera, Le Figaro. I do not expect you to fully understand this, but as an artist, I know immediately when a subject is exceptional. The Duchess has more than beauty. There is an essence there I need to capture, and if I can do it properly, I believe it could be my finest work." "I am impressed by your passion, naturally, but not certain I want the world ogling my wife's bare body." That was the crux of the matter, and though not married, Nathaniel had enough empathy to understand the issue of male possession. ". Most of us have good imaginations, Your Grace. Do you honestly think no one pictures her without her clothing now? In the current fashions, the size of her bosom is not a secret, nor the narrowness of her waist—" "Yes, yes, I get your point." The interruption was without rancor and Caerleon frowned. "Believe me, convincing me is not the most difficult part of all this, St. Claire. Even if I agree, which I have mixed feelings about, you will still have to somehow get Vanessa to consent. I won't say she is shy precisely, but certainly modest, almost to a fault. We have only been married two months, and if you can understand this, her sensibilities are still somewhat on the virginal side." Nathaniel did understand. In fact, it was perfect. That was exactly what he wanted—no, needed—to capture. The underlying sensuality starting to awaken, the woman emerging from the innocent girl, passion as an essential part 157
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of life, the very thing that created every human being on the planet... The more he thought about it, the more he had to paint this picture. He took a breath and asked the unforgivably personal question he needed answered. "Does she enjoy sex, Your Grace?" Robert Augustine narrowed his gray eyes. Long, graceful fingers stilled on the side of his brandy snifter. "I beg your pardon?" Nathaniel could lose very little by being blunt, and it was one of his most significant failings anyway. He smiled and lifted his brows. "Does she like to fuck?" It was clear the duke struggled for a moment with the urge to react in a less than civilized manner. But good breeding apparently asserted itself for after a moment, he said curtly, "May I ask why you would ever inquire over such a personal matter?" "What I wish to capture is her extraordinary allure, and that innocent uncertainty is part of it. I felt it in just one brief introduction. Surely you, who share her bed, know what I mean. You are handsome, rich, titled. Of the myriad women who would no doubt fall happily at your feet, you chose her. From what I understand, she is only from a modest background and did not bring even a dowry to the match." "I did not realize artists listen to random ton gossip." "We are on the fringe of society, but we do hear things, especially about important patrons. It would help me greatly if you would answer my question." 158
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Abruptly, the duke shoved himself to his feet and wandered over to the window. He took a drink from his once again almost empty glass and murmured, "She is still very timid, but I would say she probably enjoys it under her reticent reservations." In other words, her esteemed husband wasn't sure. Nathaniel wondered if the lovely duchess herself knew if she liked marital relations. "What if I told you that posing for me would loosen her inhibitions?" **** It was humiliating to a certain extent to discuss his marriage with someone who, though he might be a celebrated artist of some renown, was still a stranger, not to mention a bourgeoisie with very little social polish who worked for a living. But, quite frankly, Robert knew he and Vanessa were at a bit of an impasse in the bedroom. She wasn't frigid in the traditional sense of the word, she was simply so nervous and anxious she wouldn't please him that lovemaking was an exercise in frustration for them both. It had never occurred to him he would not be able to arouse his own wife, and he had been dismayed to realize that no matter what he tried, he simply could not get her to relax. And that, he thought sardonically, is what happens when a man becomes besotted with the innocent, unworldly daughter of a Methodist clergyman.
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He stared at the droplets running down the rain-streaked window with abstract attention. "What makes you think the duchess has inhibitions?" "I read people, Your Grace. Otherwise I cannot transfer their ... well ... souls onto the canvas, as it were." St. Claire jumped up and paced across the room, his thin face alight. Not yet thirty at a guess, with a slim, boyish build and expressive hands that were in constant motion as he talked, he showed his half-Italian heritage in the shock of dark hair, only carelessly combed, bronzed skin, and dark, compelling eyes. Half the well-bred ladies in London's haute ton imagined themselves in love with the romantic young artist, and all of them wished he would deign to paint them. St. Claire, Robert had been informed, was extremely selective. Yet he wanted to paint Vanessa in the nude. Good God, how could he possibly agree? Robert turned, watching the other man restlessly roam across his study. "Mr. St. Claire, I am sure you understand my reservations. The mere idea of her posing unclothed is difficult, but you say you also want to keep the work and display it at your discretion." "That is not negotiable, I'm afraid." The young artist shook his head. "Everything is negotiable, for a price." Robert spoke with cynical conviction and decided a third glass of brandy was an excellent idea. He moved back to his desk. St. Claire snapped his fingers, a small smile on his mouth. "Diable! I beg to disagree. In your world, I suppose it is. But not in mine. I exist for art, not for possessions. That is the 160
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reason I must own this painting I am destined to create. It should not be locked away, for only you to see, which I feel is what you would do with it. Can you understand?" Amber liquid splashed into his glass in a generous measure. Robert elevated his brows in reproof. "In theory, yes. In reality, if the news got out that a nude of the Duchess of Caerleon was on exhibition, I assure you all of London would rush to see it." "Precisely. As her husband, surely you would want her beauty on display." Like bloody hell. "You are misguided about the extent of my generosity." "What if I promised you she would be warm and willing in your arms each night?" St. Claire looked disturbingly sincere, picking up his glass and dashing the last of the contents into his mouth. "Would you not vote it worth the cost of sharing her with the world?" "How the devil can you be so assured of that?" His pride be damned, Robert found he was curious. "I know women. I study them and not just their bodies. As you may have noticed, I do no male portraits." The young man shrugged. "Your lovely wife might be self-conscious now, but take my word, Your Grace, after I finish the work, she will be infinitely more comfortable not only with nudity, but with her sexuality." If it were true, he might actually take the chance. Robert smiled, just a humorless twitch of his mouth. "You still have to convince her, and believe me, that will not be an easy task. 161
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She insists even now the light be doused before we go to bed and she retains her nightdress like it is a holy shroud." Why the hell he'd just admitted that was a mystery and it was disconcerting to see St. Claire did not look surprised. In fact, he seemed delighted. "I knew it. I could sense her inner war, an intriguing sensuality against a prudish sense of propriety. Nature against discipline, which is fascinating, I'm sure you agree. She is afraid of her inclinations and even more afraid of you." His jaw tightened at the presumptuous assessment. "My wife has no reason on earth to be afraid of me." "On the contrary, she has every reason to be afraid she disappoints you in bed because I suspect strongly it is the truth." "All this from a brief introduction at the opera the other night?" "And our interview just now, yes." The dark-haired young man nodded, a quicksilver smile flashing. Robert stared, nonplussed but swayed. He'd certainly had no luck in changing the situation, but unfortunately, St. Claire was all too correct about his conclusions. He finally gave a curt nod. "Fine, let me have someone fetch the duchess, St. Claire. I agree to your terms and if you can convince her, you will have my admiration." "I can convince her." The assurance in the other man's voice made him pause. "How can you be sure? You do not know her. She is a proper lady in every way, and I promise you the notion of taking off 162
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her clothes in front of a stranger will make her vastly uncomfortable, if not outright horrified." "With your permission, let me ask." "Be my guest, I am sure." Robert crossed to open the door and summon a footman. After all, if St. Claire was correct, not only would his wife have a formal portrait done by one of the most brilliant emerging artists in Europe, but his personal life might improve significantly. A few minutes later the duchess entered the room, a slender vision in a pale muslin gown, her signature blond hair drawn into a discreet chignon at her nape. Vanessa was exceptionally beautiful with enormous dark blue eyes, delicately shaped feminine features, and a truly spectacular figure that was a study in contrast between her firm, full breasts, petite waist, and long slim legs. He'd met her quite by accident when his older cousin, the Marquess of Brookwood, had a country weekend party and she had been invited because she was a school friend of the marquess' daughter. Not yet nineteen, his bride-to-be had been more than stunning. A few short weeks later they were engaged, and in less than four months, married. He had no regrets, but, as an experienced man dealing with a very inexperienced young woman, no idea exactly what to do either. Rushing her into an intimacy that made her uncomfortable seemed churlish, but as things were it was not perfect. The more careful he was not to frighten her, the worse it all became. 163
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It was ironic to think he himself hadn't seen her naked, yet they had been married for eight weeks. Maybe St. Claire's infamous picture would finally rectify that situation. At least he could look at it. He said with dry inflection, "Darling, you remember Mr. St. Claire, I'm sure. He wants to ask you something."
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Chapter Two "There is no time like the present. Disrobe." Vanessa Augustine glanced up and felt a convulsive swallow constrict her throat. This madness was all of her own doing, for she could have refused. Robert had made it perfectly clear it was her choice whether or not to pose for the infamous—and undeniably talented—St. Claire, but there had been something about his expression that told her this was some kind of test. Having failed him so miserably so far in their marriage, maybe this was the way to redeem herself. God knew she owed it to him to try. If, as the passionate young artist promised, the process would make her more comfortable with the marital act, she certainly could use the help. However, at this moment of truth, she wasn't sure she could go through with it. St. Claire stood by his easel, brush in hand, his dark downy brows lifted. As usual he wore a paint-stained smock, his hair was an unruly halo, and there was an ocher streak on one lean cheek. She had gotten used to his careless appearance during the sittings for her ducal portrait, and truthfully, despite the disorderly mess of his studio and his sometimes outré behavior, she found she liked him. Since her sudden elevation to noble status when she married Robert, he was the one person who did not treat her with any special deference. He was only nominally polite in fact, and it was a bit refreshing. All the formality could be stifling. 165
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Maybe that was the trouble. She felt stifled, intimidated, and generally as if her handsome, confident, and aristocratic husband thought he married the wrong woman. "Madam, stop clutching that robe like a gothic heroine if you please. Take it off and lie down on the chaise. I will pose you in a moment. For now I still need to mix some paints, so you may just relax." St. Claire did begin to fiddle with several jars, paying no attention to whether or not she obeyed. She'd come this far. This was a point of honor, in fact, a chance to prove to Robert she wasn't a complete prude, even if every time he touched her she seemed to freeze up. With a final glance around the untidy loft, as if she suspected someone else might be lurking in the jumble of discarded cloths, old canvases, half-empty tea cups, and abandoned wine bottles, Vanessa took a deep, shuddering breath and shed her robe. It slid from her shoulders to a pile at her feet and she stood there a moment, in patent disbelief she did such an outrageous thing. Hands at her sides, she felt an eddy of cool air brush her bared skin and shivered. "It is warmer over here," Nathaniel said in an abstract voice, not bothering to look up. "Come lie down. The divan is near the fire." The disregard for her nakedness helped a little, but still her cheeks stung with heat and she knew she blushed furiously. The object he referred to was a small, surprisingly elegant pale blue chaise, obviously newer than anything else in St. Claire's studio. Self-conscious did not even begin to describe how she felt as Vanessa walked over and quickly lay down. There was an old stained apron on the floor nearby and she 166
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barely resisted the urge to pick it up and drape it over her exposed body. St. Claire finally glanced up, flicked his gaze over her in a quick, dispassionate perusal, and nodded. "Flawless, as I imagined. It is a pity you wear clothes at all, Your Grace. Now, please, on your back. I want your breasts in relief, knees bent and your legs spread apart as if in invitation. Lift your arms above your head, as that will enhance the supplicant nature of your position." What? To say she had expected at least somewhat of a modest pose was an understatement. Her hand strategically placed between her thighs to cover her most private place, maybe her long hair veiling her breasts. Vanessa stared at him and didn't move. "I ... I cannot pose like that, Mr. St. Claire. I can't believe I am here in front of you naked in the first place. But ... but..." "How many times have assured you I wish to be called Nathaniel?" He looked unfazed and more than a little amused. "And I believe I told you this was going to be a daring painting, one I think will test the limits of my talent. I think I am going to call it Woman Incarnate." "Whatever you call it, I cannot pose that way." "Why not?" The simple question made her blink, not sure how to answer. She finally stammered, "Be ... because it isn't ladylike in the least." "My dear Duchess, this picture is a about a fantasy and no man wants a lady in bed. Moreover, what woman wants to be 167
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one?" He rubbed his jaw, smearing more paint, his stained fingers restless in the mannerism she'd come to know during the two weeks of her formal sitting. His dark eyes glimmered with an excitement that had nothing to do with the proximity of her nude body. "This particular image is going to be symbolic of the sensual side of every female. In the most traditional position for intercourse, legs open, her body ready for sexual gratification, eyes closed, her unbound hair flowing around her, waiting for her lover. It will be perfection and you are the model I have been waiting for, believe me. Your sensuality is like a celebration of womanhood. I promise you, the world will applaud." The description made her feel a flicker of panic. Sensual she was decidedly not. If that's what St. Claire wanted to display to the world, he'd chosen the wrong woman. He could ask Robert and she was certain her handsome husband would instantly agree she lacked that quality to a dismal degree. "Mr ... er ... Nathaniel, please, you do not understand. I am uncomfortable not only with being here, but even with the topic. There are literally dozens of lovely ton beauties who would die to pose for you in any way, even the graphic one you propose. Please, I think I should go now." "You cannot, Madame de la Duchesse, for I have done my part and painted the portrait your husband commissioned. It can't be undone and you owe me this time." Why the devil did I think I could go through with this? Vanessa fought the urge to jump up and run out of the room in an undignified rush. Pose with her legs open, like a woman anticipating sex? 168
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He picked up a piece of charcoal and quirked a brow. "Think of it this way, Your Grace, you will be immortalized. Alas, only anonymously, as we agreed. I have no intention of naming you as the model because you insisted. Though some might think you are my Venus, they will never know for sure, you have my word. Your face will be slightly averted, your eyes closed in the expectation of ecstasy, and I fervently believe this painting will be something to be proud of when it is finished. Now then, please, lift your arms and spread your legs like I instructed. I think you will find it isn't so difficult after all." **** It was no wonder Caerleon carried that air of an underlying frustrated proprietary male. The woman was a goddess, so lovely it was going to be difficult to look away, if even to glance at the canvas in front of him. During her sittings for the formal—and in his opinion—dull ducal portrait, Vanessa Augustine had been both demure and diffident, a sapphire blue gown enhancing the color of her beautiful eyes, just a hint of her creamy shoulders and full bosom revealed. But this glorious female, all voluptuous curves and intriguing hollows, was another creature entirely, thought Nathaniel as he studied her supine form. She was so tense, she was drawn tight as a bowstring and he was going to have to do something about that, but she was also exactly what he was looking for in a model. Titian's red-haired depiction was no longer going to be the standard against which to measure female beauty. 169
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"Each day I will have to arrange you." He said the words casually, for she was obviously uncomfortable enough already. "Do not take it amiss when I touch you, Duchess. I require the same tilt of your head, bend of the knee, position of the arms. As with the portrait, please tell me if you become too uncomfortable, for I tend to become absorbed in my work and time passes swiftly." She nodded and her glorious breasts quivered a little. Golden hair spilled over the side of the small couch to pool on the floor, the effect exactly what he wanted. He cupped her chin, averting her face so her delicate profile was as he wanted it, and though he knew it would be met with some resistance, placed his hands on the inner sides of her knees. "Relax." He spoke as soothingly as possible as he urged her legs apart to the desired distance. "Close your eyes now and imagine you are waiting for your husband to make love to you." "I would never lie in front of Robert like this," she whispered as her lashes drifted lower, but she stayed obediently in place, the position of her arms giving her a vulnerable yet wanton look that was exactly what he wanted. Nathaniel stepped back and studied each detail with satisfaction that was partially artist and partially pure male appreciation. There was no flaw in her ivory complexion, her limbs were supple and beautifully formed, and even the triangle of dark gold hair at the apex of her thighs was symmetrical and dainty. "Why would you not allow your husband to admire your incomparable beauty?" 170
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"I ... I suppose I do not think of myself that way. Besides, I hardly wish he think of me as some sort of brazen harlot." Nathaniel got a glimmer of the underlying problem he already knew existed. He crossed to the easel by the tall window overlooking the street and picked up his brush. "I am going to guess you've been told it isn't appropriate for a woman—especially a titled lady like yourself—to enjoy sexual relations, much less initiate them. What rubbish." "I don't think this is a subject we need to discuss." It was impossible for her to look prim sprawled in naked abandon on the small couch, but her voice certainly reflected it. "On the contrary, this painting is about desire and sensuality, Your Grace. It is the perfect topic. You are here in front of me, completely undressed, and it isn't as if we are strangers. Why don't you take this opportunity to ask me any questions you might wish answered on the subject I am assuming you won't discuss with your husband. It is natural to be curious about sex." She blushed very easily, he'd discovered that already and her cheeks were bright pink over his outrageous suggestion. "I am sure you think you are quite an expert, but—" He dipped the tip of the brush in some blue paint and applied the first stroke to the canvas. "I have had my share of women, probably more than my share. Tell me, Your Grace, are you in love with the duke, or did you marry him for his position and wealth?" Her eyes opened for a moment, the remarkable shimmering blue color a contrast to her long lashes. "Do you 171
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ever take into consideration the possibility, Mr. St. Claire, that your bluntness can be offensive?" "I am a simple man." He gave an unrepentant shrug. "I have no time for useless politesse and no use for impractical fencing around what others might think indelicate topics. You would not be the first female to use her beauty to snare a title and fortune." She sat up a little in affront. "I most certainly did no such thing. In fact, I avoided Robert after our initial introduction because of his intimidating status in contrast to my humble background. However, he sought me out and eventually proposed." "Please lie back down, Your Grace. So it's a love match then?" "On my part, yes." Some of the color faded from her smooth cheeks but she reclined back into the correct position. "He has never actually said so, but I assume since he could have anyone, that is why he selected me." Or, Nathaniel thought with a more cynical view of the world, because Caerleon wanted a glorious ornament on his arm. However, he had seen the way the man looked at his beautiful wife and his guess was she was correct and he was at least infatuated. When a worldly man like the duke fell for a young ingénue who had extraordinary sexual shyness, it was no wonder there was misunderstanding between them. Innocent young ladies were not the kind of women rich, titled gentlemen took to bed, not unless they wanted to be forced into marriage. It was an educated assumption that, before he married, Caerleon was used only to experienced women more 172
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than eager to spread their legs and please him in any way possible. In short, he was as out of his depth as his gorgeous, shy wife. Normally, he wouldn't interfere in the private lives of any of his patrons, but Nathaniel overtly promised Vanessa's husband an improvement in at least her level of selfconsciousness to get him to agree to the nude. He also very much wanted to see the aura of her sensual awakening and apply it to the work. In fact, it was damned important to him that she discover sexual pleasure and embrace it. His brush moved in swift, deft strokes on the canvas and he asked, "Would you like some advice, Your Grace, on how to please your husband?" The corner of her mouth twitched and her tone was dry. "I somehow doubt I could stop you if you decide to give it. You have a most unsettling way of saying whatever you want." He grinned without any trace of apology. "We are getting to know each other I see, Your Grace." **** The carriage bumped over a rough spot in the cobbled street and Vanessa absently grabbed the strap to steady herself. She simply couldn't. St. Claire was the single most shameless young man in the world and his suggestions were absolutely impossible. Weren't they? 173
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Yes, they were, she told herself with dismal self-doubt, but then again, no one needed the counsel more than she did. It did not help that her mother had died when she was very young, and she'd been raised by a man more devoted to his church than his children. Her father's notion of parenting was quoting scripture and a prohibitive disapproval of anything less than perfection in their behavior. She shuddered to even think of his reaction if he ever heard of the painting. Luckily, it was unlikely, for he would consider the work itself immoral so he would never go see anything like it, and besides, as St. Claire pointed out, she had insisted her name not be mentioned as the model. The vehicle rolled to a halt and she got out, nodding at the young footman who rushed forward to assist her. "His Grace is out, but he wished for me to tell you he'd like you to join him for a glass of wine in the informal parlor before dinner, Duchess." The butler, an austere man with a perpetually disapproving look on his face, came forward to take her cloak as she came in the door. "Thank you, Woods," she murmured. "I believe I will go upstairs and rest until then." "Very good, Your Grace." As if she could nap, she thought as she climbed the palatial staircase of the huge Mayfair mansion, not with Nathaniel's outrageous instructions in the back of her mind. Her surroundings were a testament to the wealth of the Augustine family, with expensive art, lavish furniture, and frescoed ceilings. Her bedroom—well, suite of rooms—was no less ostentatious with velvet hangings on the enormous 174
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carved bed, thick, expensive carpeting underfoot, and a gorgeous Italian marble fireplace. Her maid hovered and Vanessa repressed a sigh, the lack of privacy something she also had yet to get used to. She glanced at the clock and gave the girl a small smile. "I won't need you for an hour or so, Mary. Please have them bring up hot water for my bath then, will you?" With dark bouncing curls and an ingenuous face, the young woman bobbed a curtsey and left. Vanessa went over to the door and turned the key in the lock. The other door into her bedroom was from Robert's bedroom, but he was out, so she needn't fear an interruption from that quarter. Besides, he never came to her except late in the evening, after they both had retired. Too bad it was always such a disaster. Tugging off her gloves, Vanessa went over and sat on the stool by her dressing table and stared in the gilt mirror, noting the unhappiness in her own eyes. It wasn't that he wasn't gentle. He was, but the actual act of intercourse was uncomfortable, and the first time had been downright painful. After her wedding night she worried there was something wrong with her, and the fear hadn't exactly lessened in the time that had passed. Robert assured her if she would just relax, she would enjoy it, but in truth, she didn't believe him. St. Claire had bluntly explained the problem, though she hadn't even confided in him there was one. She certainly hoped the entire world couldn't take one look at her and realize she was a failure as a wife. 175
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Maybe she had nothing to lose by listening to the outrageous young artist. It wasn't like anyone would ever know, even him, if she followed his advice. Vanessa reached up and tugged loose the pins from the simple chignon she'd fashioned before she left the studio. Her hair fell in loose ringlets to her waist and she stood and unbuttoned her gown, letting it slide off, and then took off her chemise, slippers and stockings. Naked, she looked at her own reflection, not something she'd really ever done. The late afternoon sun slanted in the tall windows and she wanted to blush, even though she was all alone. Then she went over to the bed and lay down on top of the silken coverlet. Could she even do this? He assured her it would help and maybe he was right. She had managed to pose nude that afternoon, so that was some measure of success. After a moment of hesitation, she touched her breasts, cupping the flesh in her hands, feeling the size and shape of the resilient warm fullness. When she rubbed her nipples, she was surprised to feel them harden, the physical reaction a new one, even though Robert had touched her through her nightdress that way. It felt, well, pleasant, but then again, she was all alone and though still embarrassed, not worried about whether or not she would please her husband. It took some courage to put her hand between her legs but she was emboldened by the events of the afternoon. She explored her most intimate place, parting the soft folds, even 176
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going as far as to push one finger into the opening designed to accommodate male penetration. Understand your own body, St. Claire had urged her and he was right in one way, she didn't, not before now. Her vaginal passage was soft but tight, and it was no wonder Robert's entry felt as if he was tearing her in half. However, she'd been told—finally someone was speaking to her about it, even if it was an audacious painter who had no business mentioning it whatsoever—in very frank terms, that if she was lubricated by desire, it would feel good to have her husband inside her. Robert hadn't come to her in over two weeks now and she had the feeling he was growing irritated with her resistant reservations in bed, though he was too much the gentleman to say so. She so desperately wanted to change things.
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Chapter Three The cocky young bastard was right, and something was different after just one afternoon. Well, that was damned interesting, but Robert still couldn't see how posing for a painting in the nude could make a woman with as many sexual inhibitions as Vanessa change so quickly, even if it was subtle. Of course, there was always the possibility he was imagining the difference because he wanted it to be true. Because he wanted her. Not the way things were now, with her slender, voluptuous body tense beneath his, and her trembling acquiescence to his lovemaking. He'd bedded plenty of other women but they had been eager for it and mutual satisfaction was something he had just taken for granted. He was an experienced lover, but not with fearful virgins. That first night he expected she would be nervous—all brides were—and afterwards, when he knew it had been a disaster, he told himself plenty of wedding nights turned out that way and it was now past them. He'd been infernally wrong. Wrong enough he'd actually agreed to let another man paint a nude picture of his beautiful young wife in the desperate and illogical hope it would help, on the word of the eccentric artist. "How was the sitting?" he asked as casually as possible, handing Vanessa a glass of sherry. She was stunning in a gown of rose silk, her lustrous hair upswept in the simple way 178
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she preferred. She looked delicate and refined, and unfortunately for him, very desirable. Her slender fingers shook just a fraction as she accepted the glass. "It was ... well, I suppose, interesting." He was surprised as hell she could even manage to go through with it. "St. Claire is a very persuasive man." She made a face, and then gave a forced laugh, glancing at him from under lush lashes. "That is an understatement, Robert. I think audacious would be a better term. I have never met someone who has absolutely no regard for propriety. On the other hand, his casual attitude does help when one is lying naked on a couch in front of a virtual stranger." It made him feel a stab of jealousy she'd done it, but then again, overcoming her shyness was the only reason he'd ever agreed to the outrageous suggestion in the first place. He lifted his brows and sank into an opposite chair, doing his best to look bland. "I admit, my dear, I wasn't sure you wouldn't back out." "I tried. He wouldn't let me, reminding me of our agreement." She took a dainty sip of wine. "With your dazzling beauty, I'm sure it will be a masterpiece." "Thank you. What a gallant thing to say." Her sapphire eyes gazed at him, their long-lashed beauty mesmerizing. "May I ask you something?" She could ask for the stars and moon and everything in between and he would give it to her if it was in his power. "Of course. You are my wife. You can ask me anything, Vanessa." 179
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"Why did you marry me?" The soft question was not what he expected, and he didn't answer at once, his glass of claret dangling from his fingers. Finally, he said with caution, "I suppose because I am drawn to you in many ways. I admire your beauty, of course, but also your intellect and lack of affectation." "I see." He'd disappointed her, that was easy enough to sense, but he was unsure just what she wanted to hear. "Why would even ask me that question?" She looked away. "Please don't pretend you haven't noticed I am not exactly assuming my wifely role with ease. I suppose I hope you won't lose patience with me too quickly." At last they were finally talking about it. When he'd broached the subject before, he'd been met with silence and because he sensed her mortification, he had left it alone, not wanting to make things even more awkward. "I want your happiness and well-being at all times, my dear." Soft lips twitched into a rueful smile. "You are being polite, not honest. Maybe we should be less like a duke and duchess and more like a man and a woman." Good God, the blasted nude painting might be worth it if this is the effect. Robert set aside his glass with a soft click. He gave her a very direct look. "That is more than acceptable to me, Madame." He wanted her right at that moment. "I do wish for us to start over when it comes to ... the intimate part of our marriage." Vanessa looked endearingly 180
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sincere, though the simple word "intimate" had made her blush. A capital idea to his way of thinking, the most brilliant suggestion he'd ever bloody heard. "We could start right now." "Now?" She looked startled and her eyes widened. Robert got up and crossed to where she sat on a settee embroidered with flowers and butterflies. The décor didn't matter to him in the least as he lifted his wife in his arms and settled down so she sat on his lap, her silken skirts spilling over his legs. She gave a startled gasp but one arm came up naturally around his neck, her other hand clutching her glass so the contents didn't spill. "Robert." "I just want to kiss you." He grazed his mouth across her smooth temple in a tender gesture as he plucked the glass from her fingers and set aside on a polished table. "Nothing more, so do not worry." "I—" He cut off her reply by lowering his mouth to take hers, at first keeping the pressure gentle and persuasive. Though he always restrained his ardor in deference for her lack of experience, it had never gotten him anywhere to do so. When he felt her relax a fraction against him, he took advantage right away and brushed his tongue deeply into her mouth. Her shy response was gratifying to say the least. After a moment she gave a small smothered sigh and her arms tightened. 181
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With thoroughness he explored every delicious inch of her mouth, licking the delicate corners of her soft lips, feeling the smoothness of her teeth, and tangling his tongue against hers. His body reacted predictably to the curvaceous feel of her in his arms, the pliant weight of her full breasts against his chest. The sheer speed at which his cock stiffened to full erection was a little startling, but then again, he had never wanted any woman the way he desired Vanessa. "Your Grace, dinner is ... oh, dear. I ... I beg your pardon." With reluctance Robert broke the kiss and lifted his head at that stammered interruption. "Thank you, Woods. We'll be right in." "Very good, sir." The butler vanished discreetly from the doorway. Vanessa's cheeks held a decided pink hue and she scrambled off his lap, fussily smoothing her skirts. "That was rather embarrassing." "That was rather promising," Robert argued, stifling a wince as he stood up, the confining material of his breeches not exactly comfortable in his aroused state. "Besides, physical affection is a healthy part of marriage, Vanessa, so I am sure no one would be surprised to see us demonstrate it now and then." "Do you wish to demonstrate it this evening?" She gave him an unreadable glance as she took his proffered arm so he could escort her to the dining room. Robert stopped cold. He hesitated to answer, more than a little surprised she would bring up the question. Was she actually requesting he come to her bed, or apprehensive and 182
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trying to brace herself for the event? Just yesterday, he would have said the latter. Now he wasn't as sure. Finally, he settled for saying in a bland tone, "I will leave it up to you." She looked startled. "It is your choice and my duty to comply." The entire concept of wifely duty was, he was sure, one of the most singularly selfish male inventions in the history of mankind and it irritated him she thought that way. "Making love is not a chore assigned you, my dear, or it isn't supposed to be. I do not know what strictures and rules your prim father drilled into your head, but between you and I there is no such arrangement. When we share a bed, I prefer enthusiasm to acquiescence, believe me." "I want to be enthusiastic, Robert, but I am not even comfortable talking about this, much less ... well, doing it." It was true. He knew that better than anyone. However, that confession, said with poignant sincerity, coupled with her actual response to his kiss, was a very encouraging improvement. St. Claire might not just be an artistic genius. After all, the man somehow managed to get her out of her clothes, which was more than he could say. He gazed down at her averted face, studying the porcelain perfection of her profile. "I am willing to begin again as you suggested earlier. Just let me know when you are ready to do so." ****
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A languid hand ran down his chest, across his stomach, and cool fingers wrapped around his softening cock. Nathaniel took in a sharp breath at the skillful caress as he felt a gentle squeeze. "You might give me a minute, luv." "Nonsense." Deborah Wrightwood gave a low, throaty chuckle and began to work his shaft with an expertise that spoke volumes for the lady's past experience. "You get hard again faster than anyone I know." Her smile was both impudent and deliberately taunting. "In fact, you fuck better than anyone I know." "Considering how many men you've known, I'll accept the compliment." He wasn't being judgmental, since her promiscuity didn't bother him in the least. "Uhm." She didn't look offended either, but licked his shoulder in a wicked swipe of her talented tongue, her long dark hair spilling down her back and her plump breasts jiggling as she adjusted position. Ten years older and married to a baronet, his latest paramour was a bit spoiled and demanding, and he doubted he would stay interested long, but then again, he rarely did. Art was his love, and his work consumed almost his every waking moment. Oh, he enjoyed sex as much as the next man, but it was for physical relief, not emotional satisfaction. It had struck him that afternoon how indifferent his attitude was toward romantic affection as he began the nude painting of Caerleon's young duchess. The woman in question was so in love with her husband she couldn't relax enough to enjoy the carnal act because she wanted to please and didn't know how. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Nathaniel 184
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had never felt more than lust for any woman, so he knew nothing about the spiritual side of the connection between men and women. Their bodies were no mystery, of course, but perhaps he could learn as much from Vanessa Augustine as she could from him. It was a little ironic and maybe why he was so driven to paint the picture. "Are you paying attention, darling?" "What?" Deborah gave a very convincing pout. "I'm fondling your cock like it's part of the royal jewel collection and you are daydreaming about something else." He folded his arms behind his head, propped against the pillows, ignoring his stiffening cock in her manipulative hand. "Do you remember your first time, Deb?" "My first time doing what?" She circled the tip of his cock with her finger and tasted his semen with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows, her finger stuck in her mouth like a naughty child. "Fucking." She shrugged, looking puzzled and little annoyed he was more interested in conversation than sex. "It was a long time ago, but I suppose so." "Were you nervous?" "I was all of fifteen and my father had a very gorgeous stable boy ... I can't remember his name ... but no, not nervous. Just anxious for it." She moved suggestively, her heavy breasts bobbing. "Like now." 185
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Oh Lord, why he'd thought the hedonistic Lady Wrightwood with her indiscriminate appetite would have anything sensitive to say on the subject was beyond him. Nathaniel fought the urge to roll his eyes and despite all her efforts, felt his growing erection begin to fade. Though unprecedented, he found he wasn't in the mood for another casual coupling this evening. When talking to the duchess he had self-proclaimed a certain proficiency on the subject of sex. It was true, he'd bedded scores of women from all walks of life in his varied career, but the one subject in which he was woefully lacking was love. Woman Incarnate was about sensuality. But perhaps it was also about how complicated human sexuality actually was, how tied together sentiment was to raw desire, how different men and women were, but yet how alike in their undeniable attraction to each other. Fascinating. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his tattered robe. Damnation, he kept forgetting to buy a new one. Deborah sat up, indignant and startled. "Where the devil are you going?" "Please excuse me, my dear Deb. I must sketch in preparation for my model arriving tomorrow for her sitting." "Now?" It was practically a shriek. Nathaniel nodded and jerked the belt of his dressing gown around his waist in a careless knot. "I'm afraid so." He grinned at the very unladylike word she said as he exited the room. 186
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**** Vanessa lifted her hand to knock and hesitated, standing there in her dressing gown like a statue for a moment before she made the decision and rapped lightly. Since Robert had made it her choice, she wanted to at least try. What kind of a wife would she be if she declined to go to him? To her complete dismay, it was his valet who opened the door. The young man bowed and looked a bit disconcerted. "Duchess." It had not occurred to her Robert would not be alone, which showed how naïve she really was about how the household worked. She knew he had a valet, of course, but hadn't thought about the fact the young man might still there. "Is my husband ready?" Oh Lord, did I really just say that? "For bed," she quickly clarified. That's even worse. "I mean ... well..." she stammered, not certain who was more embarrassed, her or the servant who couldn't be more than a year or so older. "I am most certainly ready." Robert's voice was full of amusement as he came to her rescue. "Williams, you may go for the evening. I think my lovely wife wants a word with me." "Yes, Your Grace." The valet stood aside for her to enter and left the room quickly by the door into the hallway, discreetly closing it behind him. 187
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Her tall husband was partially undressed, his cravat discarded, shirt unbuttoned, and his feet bare. Tailored breeches clung to long legs and she could see the gleam of his naked chest through the open material of his shirt. When he'd come to her in the past, he'd worn his dressing gown and she had always looked away when he'd taken it off before getting into her bed, even after he'd doused the lights. But at the moment, she was actually ... intrigued. He was always strikingly handsome, but she was struck by his blatant masculinity in his half-dressed state. She'd finally really looked at her body and found she was curious about his. Robert cocked a brow. "Are you here because you would feel guilty if you did not come?" It was close enough to the truth she felt a glimmer of dismay. "I am not sure," she told him after a moment, her smile a little shaky. "I am a coward, I suppose, for I am fearful of disappointing you yet again. But, if I do not try, I will most certainly fail you, so I am in an untenable position, aren't I?" "Darling, you do not disappoint me." His voice held a note of exasperation. "I am a little frustrated perhaps, but you haven't failed in any way." Vanessa gazed at him, acutely aware she was completely naked under her robe. "I thought we agreed we would not be polite and tiptoe around this subject. I will be honest and tell you Nathaniel St. Claire explained to me more about what should happen between a man and a woman this afternoon than my married aunt who instructed me on what to do on 188
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my wedding night. Moreover, he certainly has a different attitude on the subject than Aunt Eugenia." "That doesn't surprise me," Robert muttered, his expression more curious than irritated. "Normally I would thrash St. Claire within an inch of his life for speaking to you about something so indelicate, but he seems to be having a positive effect. I have tried to talk to you about this, may I remind you. However, you have always quickly changed the subject or stopped talking altogether. A lecture is hardly romantic, so I decided to not say anything more." Like a gentleman. Nathaniel had pointed out in bed there were no titles, no lords and ladies, and certainly politesse had no place there. She glanced at Robert's bed. It was huge and sat on a dais, the carved spindles and massive headboard symbolic of the wealth and privilege of the Augustine family and the ducal master suite. With bravado, she walked past her husband and climbed up the three steps so she sat on the edge, and folded her hands in her lap. "Do you want to know what Aunt Eugenia had to say about what to expect from conjugal relations?" "In retrospect, I think I can guess." Robert gave her a sardonic smile, but didn't move, folding his arms across his chest. His thick chestnut hair gleamed in the candlelight. "I take it she instructed you to grit your teeth and bear it and it would be over soon enough." "Throw in several descriptions that included adjectives like disgusting and painful and you have it about right, I'm afraid." 189
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"Bloody hell, I was an idiot to not have simply talked to you myself. No wonder you were so tense." Since he would never have normally sworn in front of her, Vanessa stifled a small laugh. St. Claire, of course, had absentmindedly used inappropriate language dozens of times while she sat for her portrait, so she was getting used to it, but if Robert did it, it was a true reaction. "It isn't too late," she said softly. Her husband still didn't move. "You wish for me to explain the process when you now know what it is?" "Do I? It is obvious you and I do not perceive it the same way." "I suppose that is true." The response was measured, his gray eyes glimmering. "Tell me what you want, how you feel." Nervousness roiled in her stomach but it was mingled with an excitement she had never experienced before. At that, he moved, walking slowly toward where she perched on the edge of the big bed. "How I feel?" A quixotic smile curved his lips. "About making love to the most beautiful woman in the world? I don't know if I am eloquent enough, but I will try." "So will I." As she made the promise, Vanessa experienced that same interesting tremor and her breasts felt oddly tight and full. She could not help but be fascinated by the hard muscled ridges of his chest and the athletic grace of his lean body as he approached, his white shirt gaping open. "I suppose I should start by telling you when a man desires a woman and she is close by and willing, he gets an 190
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erection. It is a primal function that all male creatures experience, for the urge for sexual intercourse is based on the need to procreate. The difference between us and other animals is human beings mate also just for the pleasure of the act." Robert lifted a hand and lightly brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers as he looked into her eyes. "I'm getting one right now." He was close enough she could smell his scent, a spicy combination of brandy and something else, something entirely male. Vanessa whispered, "I see." "Arousal is not limited to men, my dear. You did enjoy our kiss earlier, did you not?" She had, but then again, he had never quite kissed her that way before. He'd been gentle as always, but more importunate. To her surprise, she'd liked it when he became more forceful for she felt as if he were treating her like a woman and not a fragile piece of glass. It was the same thing when they made love. He was so careful not to try to not cause her discomfort that she expected it to be uncomfortable. Her lashes fluttered down and she admitted, "Yes." Robert would not let her look away but caught her chin and tilted her face up. "I did too. May I?" He didn't wait for an answer but instead sat down next to her and lowered his mouth to hers. In reflex, her hands came up to grasp his shirt and she parted her lips for the foray of his tongue. The kiss was deep, hungry, and when he lifted his head she felt breathless. "Tell me more." 191
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"What if I show you? It seems to me I've been handling this wrong from the beginning, so whatever has happened—or in your case, not happened—between us is entirely my fault. In my quest to initiate you slowly into the pleasures of the flesh, I fear I made several grave errors. For one, I agreed to darkness for the sake of modesty. It made sense to me to embarrass you as little as possible but it certainly takes away from the experience for me, and so maybe it does for you as well." As she watched, he stood and first shrugged out of his shirt, and then unfastened his breeches. Under her fascinated stare, he pushed the material down his legs and stepped free. The springing length of his cock jutted up high against the taut plane of his stomach, large and long, distended with veins. There was a hole at the dark crest, right now beaded with clear fluid. "Touch me," her husband suggested, his voice just a little thicker than usual. "You said you wished for me to tell you what I want. It would please me." Touch ... that? Actually, she wanted to touch him, amazed she could have no idea how an erect penis looked, after two months as a married woman. Gingerly, she reached out and ran an exploring finger down the satiny length all the way to the base where his testicles were pulled tight, the twin sacs looking full and heavy. Not able to believe she could be so wanton, she cupped them and was rewarded by Robert giving a low groan. 192
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"I had no idea," she murmured, fondling them with tentative curiosity. "I intend to expand your education this evening, believe me. Why don't you take off your robe, Vanessa? I want to see you more than I want to take my next breath." His gaze was heavy with promise as he stared down at her. "I have no desire to wait for the painting to be displayed somewhere to be able to admire your beauty." Was it the fact she'd already posed for St. Claire that the idea did not alarm her? She wasn't sure just why it was so much easier than she expected to untie the sash on her dressing gown and slip out of it. Maybe it was the intense expression on her husband's face and the stark evidence of his desire for her. Maybe it was the unusual response to his closeness and arousal. Before, when he approached her bed and she'd known what was going to happen, she'd been intimidated and misled. Tonight, she felt much freer. Sexual desire, St. Claire had told her in his blunt, outrageous way, was natural, and she should listen to the signals from her body, not her mind. It was enlightening advice if only she could follow it. **** His wife was not just gorgeous, she was exquisite in every way. Full ivory breasts tipped with rosy nipples, a slim dainty waist, and of course, that intriguing triangle of blond hair between her legs all drew his attention, but what Robert noticed most was, despite the flush in her smooth cheeks, she 193
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stood in almost defiant display with her chin lifted and her gaze expectant. Considering the mistakes he'd made already, he tried to quell the wild beating of his heart and instead reached out a hand and let his fingers drift through the silky strands of her unbound hair. "The moment I saw you, I knew you had to be mine." "Love at first sight?" Something flickered in her sapphire eyes. "Something like that, I suppose." Her hair was fragrant and warm and he wrapped the long strands around his hand and tugged her head back so he could skim the arch of her neck with his mouth. Her pulse fluttered fast and light in the delicate hollow of her throat and he pressed his lips there, saying a small prayer that it was excitement and not fear. He murmured against her skin, "Do you wish for me to explain female arousal?" "Yes, please." "My pleasure." He'd never meant anything more in his life. "I would prefer to do it in bed." He urged her back so she lay on the linens, and climbed in beside her lissome body, marveling at how his desire was elevated to a level he'd never felt before. He lightly ran his fingers down her arm and then back up to skim over the lower curve of her breast. Vanessa gasped but didn't pull away, which was a decided improvement. "Your beautiful breasts will someday nurture my children." The idea of her heavy with his child pleased him, but for the moment all he wanted her to think about was the way he 194
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touched her. He circled her nipple, pleased as it tightened in reaction. "They are also sensitive to stimulation and react to being touched and suckled during lovemaking. Let me demonstrate." Propped on one elbow next to her, he leaned over and lightly licked one pink crest before drawing it into his mouth. Her body quivered in reaction and she made a small sound. He cupped the other breast in his palm, lifting the luscious weight of it and doing his best to ignore his own rising need. With his mouth he brought her nipples to straining peaks, the jeweled buds high and wet from his ministrations and her breathing a bit uneven as he kissed his way down her stomach. It wasn't like he hadn't contemplated giving her oral gratification before, but he'd known she would be outraged at the idea of his mouth between her legs and perceive it as unnatural. However, he had a feeling this night was a turning point in their lives thanks to the meddling St. Claire and his damned painting, and Robert was willing to take a chance on her initial reaction if she could overcome her shocked sensibilities and just enjoy it. It was the easiest way he knew to bring a woman to climax, and he wanted more than anything to give her that joy. At least she was a little aroused he realized with triumph, the feminine fragrance unmistakable, and he grazed her soft pubic hair with his mouth in a very light caress. "Robert!" The expected shock was in her voice and she tried to twist away as he cradled her hips in his hands. 195
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"Don't panic, darling." He shifted into the right position, his head poised between her slim thighs, which were currently clamped together like the gates of heaven locked against all sinners. "Are you interested in hearing more about how sexual enjoyment works for women, or did you display yourself to St. Claire for nothing?" Maybe it was a little unfair to play that card, but he had a lot at stake. "I just can't imagine what you are doing." He stroked her skin and gave a small chuckle. "I want to show you something marvelous. You have come this far, Vanessa, why not complete the journey? Let me explain. There is a certain spot between your legs that when properly stimulated will give you a sensation you have never imagined. It is impossible to fully explain sexual climax so let me show you. Put aside whatever puritanical inhibitions you have and just enjoy. Please trust me." "I do trust you, of course." She relaxed a small fraction with obvious reluctance, all tumbled gold hair and soft, enticing beauty. Robert eased her legs apart. "You'll not only trust me afterwards," he said with a wicked grin, pleased at how easily the protest was vanquished, "but I have the distinct feeling you'll thank me profusely." The fact she didn't protest further was like winning an important skirmish and he lowered his mouth to the warm paradise of her sex with the hope the entire war was swinging his way. 196
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He teased and tasted, tonguing her clitoris as he held open the perfect pink folds of her labia, using the expertise gained in the amorous pursuits of his bachelor days. The reward of her first low moan spiked to his already throbbing cock. When she voluntarily spread her legs wider and arched her spine, he felt a pure male inner satisfaction. When it came, her orgasm was accompanied by a wild scream and her slender body shook in both surprise and pleasure. He kept her there until she gave a small sob of surrender and went limp. It was like a miracle to see his delectable wife sprawled in the aftermath of her first climax, her skin blushed to a becoming rosy color by sexual culmination, her lashes shadowing her incredible eyes as she stared at him in undisguised amazement. Robert shifted, poised between her still open legs, and positioned his needy cock at her tight entrance. "I think," he said between his teeth as he began to enter her exquisite wet warmth, "I am going to pay St. Claire twice his fee."
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Chapter Four The slanting sun across the floor gave the room a lovely warmth and Vanessa rolled over and sighed, coming awake very slowly and realizing a few startling facts as she registered the smell of the sheets and the unfamiliar surroundings. She was in Robert's room. In his huge bed. Naked. And it looked like it was fairly late in the morning. Her handsome husband was nowhere in sight. Disheveled and a little disoriented, she sat up and pushed her tangled hair out of her face as she recalled the events of the evening. He had done some very outrageous things to her, she remembered with chagrin and, if she was honest, she had loved every single one of them. If it wasn't bad enough he'd put his mouth there, she'd thought it was the most marvelous feeling in the world. Moreover, this time there had been no discomfort when he'd penetrated her— quite the opposite—and she hadn't been able to hide how she enjoyed that either and experienced that same wondrous peak of pleasure. She frowned, snatching the sheet up to cover her nudity and wanted to die when she remembered how she'd cried out without reserve, the sound most definitely unladylike. It was embarrassing. It was enlightening. 198
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For the first time she actually felt like a woman, like a wife, and the sticky residue on her thighs was evidence of the three times her husband had found his satisfaction. After the first time he hadn't even withdrawn but stayed between her legs and softly kissed and held her until he started to move again, his hardened shaft evidence of his renewed need. And just as the dawn blushed the sky he'd wakened her and they had come together once more in both passion and tenderness. Maybe, now that she was able to please him more in bed, he might actually fall in love with her. Her discarded robe was on the floor and she slid out to pick it up and hastily wrap it around her. Then she hurried back to her bedroom, only find her maid there already and a tray with a teapot and scones by the side of the neatly made bed that had obviously not been slept in. "Good morning, Your Grace." The girl's face was impassive but her eyes held a knowing look. "Good morning." Vanessa tried to look composed, but it was a bit disconcerting to realize everyone in the household would know what she and Robert had been doing the night before. This was the first time she had ever spent the night in his room. "I think I overslept." "The duke left instructions not to wake you. Shall I get you more hot tea? This might have gone cold." Oh Lord, did everyone in the household suspect her fatigue was because Robert had kept her up half the night? From the expression on the face of her maid, the answer was yes. Vanessa glanced at the clock, saw it was past noon, and 199
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shook her head. "Hot water, please. I have an appointment at one and would like to bathe." "Yes, Your Grace." She arrived at the studio a few minutes late and was a little amused at how she had rushed around to dress when the first thing she had to do upon arriving was disrobe and loosen her neatly pinned hair. Since the last thing she wanted was for anyone to suspect she was posing for anything but the formal portrait, she had not brought a maid and it took a few minutes for her unfasten her dress and remove the various layers of underclothing. When she did don the oversized robe provided and went into the studio, she found Nathaniel St. Claire staring out the window at an unkempt back garden below his flat, his expression abstracted. "I apologize for being a bit tardy." She still felt selfconscious over the fact she was going to have to lie on the chaise in front of him naked, but it was a shadow of her mortification of the day before. "Quite frankly, I have no idea what time it is, Duchess, as I rarely look at a clock. I've been up half the night, working on the background of the painting." He turned. "I've contemplated..." His brows shot together as he trailed off speaking and he stared at her. "Viola! What is this?" "What is what?" Vanessa looked back at him with what she hoped was poise suitable to her aristocratic rank, but nothing could keep her cheeks from heating with predictable speed, and it was a little difficult to be dignified when standing in a robe in a somewhat shabby flat. 200
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"I think I can guess what happened last night." St. Claire's dark eyes narrowed as he said with shrewd unnerving insight, "I take it you listened to me yesterday." He can tell just from looking at me? "Robert and I ... talked." "Talked?" He looked amused. "You and your husband finally became lovers in the true sense of the word. The awakening is there. I see it in your eyes and way you hold yourself. A woman changes when she fulfills her sexuality. She knows her power, her inner soul, as it were." He moved toward his precious easel, snapping up a brush. "I was getting fatigued from working for so long, but I am energized. Please, Your Grace, on the chaise. I must capture this." A little bemused at his perception, Vanessa shed the robe without thinking too much about it and went to lie down, trying to position herself like the day before. With a few instructions from St. Claire she achieved the right pose, knees bent and apart, her arms above her head, her hair spilling around her exposed and vulnerable body. As she let her lashes drift shut, she could almost feel Robert's light skillful touch skim her breasts, and between her open legs began a small throb in memory of how it felt as he moved deep with her and the incredible sensation as he spilled his seed against her womb. Tenderness, passion, and exquisite pleasure ... it had been almost perfect. Almost. Desire was a wonderful thing, she'd discovered that. However, she wanted more. She wanted to know Robert 201
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loved her and he had never said so. It was difficult to tell if the concept was even important to him, for he had never asked if she loved him either. In his world, suitable marriages meant matches made between families for the purpose of wealth and position. The fact he'd married her instead of a blue-blooded, well-bred lady from a prominent family boded well, but she was afraid his choice had been based on physical attraction more than emotional attachment. He already had a title, wealth, and could choose whom he wanted. Even when asked outright why he married her he had not said anything about love. It was a bit discouraging but St. Claire was right about one thing, she did feel a new sense of power. Her husband wanted her, and that was a very good start. **** The man across the table settled back in his chair, his long legs extended carelessly, booted feet crossed at the ankle. "That satisfied air bothers me, brother. All bachelors pale and want to hide when a married man walks around with a smile like yours on his face." Recalling the disquiet of the first two months of his marriage, Robert was in a very good mood in contrast. Vanessa had finally loosened her considerable inhibitions in bed, and the night before she'd been both responsive and enchanting in every way. He gave his younger brother an amused look. "I don't know why my satisfaction should alarm you. Surely it merely 202
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affirms taking a wife is not like giving oneself a prison sentence." "I was jesting naturally. I cannot see myself tied to one woman yet, but I am glad you're happy." Robert signaled to a waiter to bring them more claret. The club was busy in late afternoon with Parliament just adjourned, the murmur of voices set off by the clink of glass and the occasional raised voice in debate. He said as casually as possible, "Why wouldn't I be happy? I am married to a very lovely young woman, whom I happen to admire in every way." Gavin fingered the stem of his glass, a thoughtful look on his face. "Vanessa is a diamond of the first water, I agree. But I confess I was a bit surprised when I heard you were courting someone like her. The innocent daughter of a clergyman isn't at all what I expected you to choose, much less marry so impetuously. Your tastes have always run to sophisticated ladies with social polish and the pedigree to match. Poor Vanessa has had to make quite an adjustment, I would guess." "I suppose she has." Robert hadn't really thought about the fact her abrupt change in lifestyle might bother her, mostly because he assumed anyone who moved up socially and financially would be delighted. But she was young—a decade younger than his twenty-nine years—and that very lack of sophistication had allowed him to so easily sweep her off her feet. Robert had known from the first time he met her what he wanted, but he had also sensed she was at a loss as how to deal with his attentions. 203
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"You suppose your wife might feel that way?" Gavin gave him a look of cynical amusement. "You are not the easiest person in the world to communicate with, Robert. I know, I know, all the ducal responsibilities settling on your shoulders when you were barely sixteen doesn't leave a lot of time for sitting around and examining your feelings on every matter, so you are out of practice, but sometimes you come off a bit cold and distant, to be truthful." Did he? He didn't think of himself that way, but considering the troubles of the first two months of his marriage, maybe his younger brother was right. "Did something specific bring on this lecture?" Robert poured himself wine with a lavish hand, his voice a little gruff. "Let's just say the time I saw your bride at one of Mother's dreadful dinner affairs, she looked as if she wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole. You, on the other hand, spent a good deal of time chatting with the Prime Minister and left her quite abandoned to the questionable mercies of the other guests present." Yes, he remembered the night in question. She had been more quiet than usual on the ride home in the carriage, but he had assumed, of course, she was simply dreading him coming to her later. He hadn't bothered to ask because it stung his pride, but he hadn't gone to her room either. Until the night before, they had not shared a bed since. In short, he had been a buffoon in every way. She was the one who had changed her life for him; he had changed nothing and arrogantly assumed she would feel privileged to be his wife. She was the one at that very moment reclining 204
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naked in an artist's studio, and he had no illusions it was because she wanted to pose for the picture, but probably did it because she knew he wanted a portrait painted by Nathaniel St. Claire and it was the only way. The courage it took for her to approach his bedroom the night before moved him now in a completely different way. Yes, he was still delighted she wanted the sexual part of their union to become something more satisfying for them both, but he was also humbled and touched by the depths of her willingness to put into their marriage what he had not. He stood up so abruptly his chair wobbled. "I'm a damned fool." "We all are occasionally." Gavin leaned back and gazed at him. "Are we still talking about your duchess?" "Yes." "Er ... can you be more specific?" Robert gave him a humorless smile. "Let's just say right now she is naked and with another man." "Vanessa? I don't believe it." Gavin shook his head, his expression incredulous. "She is madly in love with you. Why would she ever do such a thing?" Madly in love... "To please me." Robert gestured for his cloak. "I'll explain later. Please excuse me. I've got to go see my wife." **** Since he hated to be interrupted when working, Nathaniel ignored the knock, but it seemed the Duke of Caerleon was used to getting what he wanted. The man in question strode 205
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into the studio, and as Nathaniel tore his gaze reluctantly away from the canvas, he heard both the duchess's gasp and saw her husband stop dead as he took in her supplicant pose. "That is how you wish to paint her?" His voice sounded a little strangled, his stare riveted on the provocative and languid position of his wife's slightly parted thighs and upraised breasts. "Don't move," he instructed his subject and shot the duke a reproving look for his unannounced arrival. "Yes. Can you imagine a more appropriate way to portray sensuality and sexual allure, Your Grace?" "There is hardly anything appropriate about it, St. Claire." For all his objection, Caerleon couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. "But as you've been working on it for several days and I agreed in the first place, I don't suppose I can change our bargain now. However, I need to speak with my wife for a moment." "As long as she doesn't move, please go ahead. We have another hour left in our session." "It's personal, I'm afraid." Nathaniel shrugged and went back to work. "Feel free to wait the hour and you may speak with her alone." It was clear from the look on the duke's handsome face he wasn't used to being told what to do, much less have someone dictate to him over something he considered to belong to him, but Nathaniel couldn't care less. What did matter was that the painting was evolving like magic and his inner excitement was building over the creation. 206
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It was going to be his finest work and would no doubt scandalize the art world, but also elevate his status from budding genius to master. The normally aloof duke seemed to resign himself to an audience and crossed the room to drop to his knees next to the chaise. With one hand he touched his wife's cheek, just a feather brush of his fingertips. "Vanessa, I love you. I believe I have waited too long to tell you." The softly said words seem to hang in the room. Though she obediently stayed in place, Vanessa Augustine had her eyes open, a delicate tint of color in her cheeks as she stared at her husband. My God, it was perfect. The final element snapped into place like a key flicking open a lock. The luminous joy in her gaze as the woman in front of him looked at her lover was the last thing Nathaniel needed to immortalize and capture to complete his vision. Both for his painting and for himself. Someday he wanted a woman to look at him exactly the same way. But for now, he would settle for capturing it on his beloved canvas. "Your Grace, stay where you are, on your knees." He snapped out the order without thought and the duke's brows shot up in response. "Good God, please do not tell me you are going to include me in this outrageous masterpiece you are so intent upon." Since he was the catalyst, the only man to inspire that elusive emotion in his beautiful subject, Nathaniel said, "In a manner of speaking, yes." 207
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Epilogue Three weeks later The milling throng was a bit much, and Vanessa tightened her fingers on her husband's arm. The gallery was packed for the showing, and various paintings hung on the walls, St. Claire's brilliance displayed in different mediums. Robert seemed as always, both self-possessed and urbane, every inch the sophisticated, well-dressed aristocrat in his formal dark evening wear. However, rather than being oblivious to her nervousness, he glanced down and gave her a reassuring smile. "I must admit I am wild with curiosity for the unveiling, my love. You must be even more so." "A bit. I'm more petrified someone will recognize it is me." "St. Claire has taken care of that by claiming he was inspired by an ideal, not a single woman. It's very neatly done, I might add, for while he doesn't directly say he didn't have a model, it is implied. So there, even if there is speculation the woman in the painting resembles you, no one will think you actually posed for it." His mouth twitched. "For one thing, I doubt anyone would believe I would allow it. I am still a bit surprised myself." "I am glad you did." Vanessa meant every word. "Though he is a most unorthodox sort of person, Nathaniel did us a very big favor by making his outrageous demand." "I couldn't agree more. Last night comes to mind." He leaned down and his breath was warm against her ear as he 208
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whispered, "A repeat performance this evening would be met with great enthusiasm on my part." Vanessa felt a little breathless, recalling how ardent and demanding he'd been, and how they had come together time and again, their bodies damp with the exertion, wicked pleasure exploding as they collapsed in the tangled sheets together. Sated and exhausted, they drifted to sleep finally in each other's arms, which was now how they spent each night since the fateful day she first posed for St. Claire. "Behave yourself, Your Grace," she said with a small laugh, giving him a playful look from under her lashes. "We are in public after all. Look, there is Nathaniel and I suppose that must be it next to him all draped in fabric. Oh dear, let me hide behind you." "Never." Robert encircled her waist his arm. "You belong by my side and nowhere else, my love." She had no idea if their arrival prompted St. Claire to finally decide to dispense with the cloth, but he suddenly whisked it off in a dramatic gesture and bowed to the collective gasp of the crowd. Though she had expected to feel embarrassed at the idea that everyone who looked at it would see her naked—whether they knew it was her or not—she curiously wasn't, she discovered. In fact, when they could get close enough to actually see the painting, she found her emotional reaction to it seemed to be similar to most everyone else. It was difficult to focus on the erotic pose and be too shocked, for the woman's face and her expression captivated and dominated one's attention. How he had caught and held 209
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something so intimate and personal she didn't know, but it was more about naked emotion than a naked woman. Now she had two things to thank St. Claire for, she thought as she studied it, for he had captured the happiest moment of her life forever. "A bit scandalous, but brilliant," a full-bosomed dowager said next to her. "Don't you agree?" Vanessa tore her gaze away and murmured politely, "Yes, indeed." The woman glanced at her and then back at the canvas and frowned. Vanessa merely smiled serenely and then turned to her husband. "What do you think, darling?" He wasn't even looking at St. Claire's masterpiece but looked down at her, a faint smile hovering on his mouth. "I think it is ... perfection."
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About the Authors Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and erotica writer. She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories. Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life. If you want to know more about Victoria and her books please check out her website at www.victoriablisse.co.uk. Victoria loves to make new friends, so if you're on Myspace pop over and say hello: www.myspace.com/victoriablisse. Or send an email to her at
[email protected]. **** L.E. Bryce was born in Los Angeles, California and has never lived anywhere else. She has a Masters in English Literature from California State University, Northridge, and currently works as an English teacher. Her Jewish mother, dog, and a passel of cats help her keep her sanity. She is a regular contributor to Forbidden Fruit Magazine, and is the author of Dead to the World, My Sun and Stars, Ki'iri, Becoming, The Golden Lotus, Snake Bite and Other Dark Homoerotic Fantasies and Those Pearls That Were His Eyes. She maintains a blog at granamyr.livejournal.com. **** 211
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Kate Burns loves few things as much as she loves writing. She always knew she wanted to be a writer but circumstances kept her from pursuing her first love until a few years ago. That's when she tossed in the towel on her "conventional" job, moved back to Martha's Vineyard and began to write full time. Since then she's sold a modest number of books using her real name. Writing erotic romance is a new venture for Kate—one that she's having a lot of fun exploring. It promises to keep her occupied for a long time to come. When she's not busy writing, Kate enjoys painting and cooking. She spends a lot of time boating with her boyfriend, a tall, handsome man who is the inspiration for all of her leading men. Kate Burns is a happy woman—and it shows in her writing. **** Emma Wildes loves the infinite variations of romance in all its forms. She believes that passion makes the world go around ... and delights in being able to write about it. Come see her at www.emmawildes.com. If you also like traditional romance or mystery, please visit her at www.katherinesmith.net.
If you are connected to the Internet, take a moment to rate this eBook by going back to your bookshelf at www.fictionwise.com. 212
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