He'll tell me, she thought. He'll tell me if I do it wrong.
"Take a little more," he whispered, his thighs suddenly shaking. "I promise I won't... push too far."
When she did as he asked, he sighed as if she'd granted his dearest wish. He was hot in her mouth, alive. He tasted of almonds, of salt and skin. It seemed natural to lick him, to suckle this tender fullness to the limit of their hands' grip.
He gasped at the change of pressure, then stroked the tangle of her hair as if tempted to grab it. Even if this had not given him away, she would have sensed the rise of his ex1 citement in the leaping of the flesh beneath their hands.
"Tighter," he said, compressing her sweaty fingers with his own. "Don't let me come."
She hadn't known she could stop him, but the thought that she could hold him on that edge seared her with aching fire.
"Here," he rasped, moving her hand to circle the top of his scrotum. "Squeeze and tug."
His testicles felt like two boiled eggs, odd and firm within the wrinkled skin. She had to pull them down, away from his body, to hold him as he asked. He grunted when she did it, then lifted his hips and pushed himself slowly into her mouth. His legs were drawn up, his heels providing leverage.
"Yes," he said, his own hand falling away. "That's good."
He drew back until her lips tightened around the flare. The tip of him was sleek and ripe. She licked it, circled it, gathering salt and shudders. When she dug into the little eye, he moaned and pushed again.
"Slow," he urged, though he was the one who moved. "Slow and easy."
But perhaps the advice was meant for him. He began to build a rhythm, gentle, careful, but with a
tension behind it she could not miss.
He's making love to my mouth, she thought, amazed and aflame with the power he'd placed in her hands. He trembled like the victim of a fever, inside her, against her, fighting with all his strength to prolong the pleasure, to protect her from the violence of his need. She couldn't remember feeling anything so exciting.
"Don't swallow," he whispered. "Get me wet."
She let her saliva paint him, let it wrap him in liquid bliss.
"Yes-s," he said, a drawn-out hiss as his buttocks tightened on the sheets. "Oh, yes."
He was as lost as he'd ever been to his work, his eyes drifting shut, his fingers kneading and releasing in her hair. She was lost herself: to the pleasure of giving pleasure, to the lingering push and pull, to the
smell and the taste and the stunning sense of trust. He'd surrendered himself completely. She could not disappoint him. With her free arm braced outside bis hip, she let her head sink even lower. Her body began to sway.
"Can't," he gasped, pressing hard against her palate. "Can't last much longer. You—" He inhaled sharply and pulled back. "You can let go. You don't have to finish me in your mouth."
But she grasped his shaft, holding the crest against her lip.
"I want to," she said, letting the words buzz his most sensitive skin. His eyes fluttered open and searched her face. His fingertips touched her jaw.
"I want to," she repeated and eased him back inside.
He groaned at the slow engulfment and again at the tight withdrawal. He left it to her then: to move, to pull, to rub and tease the spots she'd seen him rub himself. His hands fisted in her hair and her name was a prayerful curse. The taste of him was heady. She did not hurry but soon he swelled against her tongue, as smooth and hard as heated glass.
"Ah," he said, a panicked cry that trembled in his throat. "Ah, Mary!"
She was glad she held his shaft because he could not restrain that final thrust. He stiffened and pushed and came in pulsing bursts. She felt each spasm, each surge and twitch. The experience was both peculiar and enthralling. Never had she been so close to his pleasure. Never had she felt it as if it were her own. His thighs pressed her shoulders, then fell away. As tired as if she'd come herself, she leaned her head against his hip.
"Mary," he said, the sound rich and low. He stroked a curl behind her ear. "Come here where I can hold you."
She groaned, then wriggled upward to the stack of pillows. His arms came around her, easing her head onto his shoulder, a spot that seemed fashioned just for her. The rise and fall of his chest was like the rocking of a cradle. When he rubbed her back, she thought she'd drift straight off to sleep.
"Thank you," he said, and she couldn't help but smile at his heartfelt tone. "I'll see to you," he added, somewhat drowsily. "Just give me a minute to get my strength."
Merry didn't mind a wait, or even a dismissal. Despite her own arousal, she was content. She knew a different kind of satisfaction, one that drowned out everything but the present. Any concern for her departure seemed a distant thing. Yes, she would have to leave. She'd gotten what she'd come for. Tomorrow's show would ensure her public ruin. She didn't expect her parents' reaction to be pleasant,
but she knew they' d be far more understanding if she did not stay with Nic. He himself had reminded
her of the limits of their affair. If she didn't end it, he would. Better she should leave before she found herself losing not just her reputation but her family. Being a pariah she thought she could manage. Being disowned she could not bear.
But these were worries for another day. Tonight she had pleased him, and pleased him well. Maybe in
the weeks to come she'd regret having given herself so freely. Maybe she'd wish she'd kept a tighter rein on her heart. In time, however, she was sure this night with Nic would become a pleasant memory for
her scrapbook: wistful, perhaps, but not repented.
She was strong, after all, resourceful and resilient. She had never known a pain too great to stand. For goodness sake, how long had it been since she'd spared a thought for Edward Burbrooke? Ages, it seemed.
She refused to believe losing Nic would be any different.
* * *
Nic didn't mean to fall asleep - certainly not before he'd seen to Mary—but his well-pleasured body did not consult him. When he stirred again, the light outside was a dusky rose. Mary lay across him, her hair a tangled blanket for them both. Her pubis warmed his hip while the curve of her thigh nestled beside his penis. It was a lovely, abandoned sprawl, made even more meaningful by the fact that she was awake. Her fingers played lightly in his chest hair, the gentle touch almost enough to soothe him back to sleep.
"Mm," he sighed, a moan so happy he barely knew it as his own.
She propped her chin on her forearms and kissed his jaw. "Hello, sleeping beauty."
"Hello, waking beauty."
Even now, she wrinkled her nose at the compliment, making the bump at the end turn up. He pushed
her curls from her endearing little face. Just looking at her made him happy, at peace in a way he hadn't felt for quite some time. The knowledge forced a decision he didn't see any way to avoid. No matter his long-standing dread of romantic attachment, no matter his fears of letting his lovers down: this particular affair was too rewarding to let go. Sebastian was right. Mary was good for him. And maybe, at least for now, he was good for her.
"I know that look," she said, meeting his grin with a furrow of suspicion. "You're planning something."
He wrapped his arms behind her waist. "Not planning precisely. Hoping. I'm not ready to let you go, Mary. I want you to come with me to Venice."
"Oh," she said, scarcely the response he was looking for. She pushed away from him and sat up.
"Venice. That's— that's very flattering, but—"
"I could paint you there." He dragged his hand slowly down her breast. "In a gondola. Drifting down the Grand Canal. You said you never got to travel. Venice isn't the Forbidden City, but it's very beautiful. And we could go to Rome. That was on your list, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she said and pressed her palm to her heart. "Nic." Shakily, she laughed. "You don't know how touched I am that you remembered. Or how honored I feel that you'd want to keep me longer than you usually keep your lovers. I wish I could accept. I really do."
"You could if you wanted to."
"It's not that simple."
Abruptly grumpy, Nic sat up and pounded a pillow behind his back. "Is it the expense? Because, as far
as I'm concerned, you've earned it."
"No." She shook her head, her eyes shining with regret. "It's not the expense. My reasons are personal."
"And that means?"
"It means I don't want to discuss them."
"You're tired of me." He didn't believe it, but he had to say the words. Her speechless response was all his pride could wish.
"Of course I'm not," she said once she'd recovered. "How could I be? Good Lord, most women go a lifetime without meeting someone as skilled in bed as you." Her chin drew up with the stubbornness
he'd grown to love. "Staying simply isn't possible for me and I don't want to spoil our last night by
arguing about it. Please, Nic, let's not end what we've shared with a fight."
Only a cad could have refused her. He cupped her slender shoulders, his thumbs smoothing the muscle, his fingers drinking in her skin.
"Anytime you change your mind," he said, "I'd be happy to take you back."
The promise was one he'd never offered in his life. For him, once an affair was over, it was over. The lapse might have frightened him if he'd actually thought she would accept. Instead, she whispered his name and slid her arms around his back. Her lips found his ear, then his cheek, then the deep, drawing welcome of his mouth. The kiss was another plea to remember what they'd shared, to keep their last
night sweet.
Nic could not resist it. Forcing his anger away, he lost himself in what was easy, in what he'd always known he was good at.
He might not be able to keep Mary Colfax, but he could damn well make her miss him.
Twelve
Tatling's. the picture gallery, had its premises on
tall and extremely solid in appearance. Lighter blocks of stone encased the display window and formed
a medieval-looking arch around the door. The effect was one of respectability and discretion, both of which were bound to be tried today.
Her stomach queasy, Merry let Nic hand her down from the carriage. His face was set in a glower, as it had been all morning. She supposed she should have been flattered that her refusal to stay with him had put him out of sorts. Maybe later when this was behind her she would be. For now, though, his mood merely added to her tension.
She wished she hadn't promised she would attend. She feared last night would make a far better parting memory.
Of course, letting him come alone would have been a disgraceful display of cowardice. She had walked into his studio—indeed, she had walked into his arms—with her eyes wide open. The least she could do was stand by him to face the public consequences of her acts.
If she secretly hoped there would not be any today, that was only because she was human.
She lifted her skirts to cross the pavement. "Oh, look," she said, feigning a lightness she did not feel, "they've put one of your pictures in the window."
It was a modern scene of couples strolling down the new Thames Embankment. Fog softened the
figures' edges while a curving line of gaslights swirled like specters in the mist. It was an eerie picture,
as different from his Godiva as it could be, though Nic's touch was apparent in the skillful handling of
the light.