"Oh, Jules. Oh," she gasped, making him feel as though his brain might explode.
He managed to bring his mouth back to hers as his fingers glided up and down her ribs. He tasted carnal desire and needs that matched his own.
When she sighed out her pleasure, his hands stole inward to cup the weight of her breasts. And when he stroked his thumbs across the crests, he found them hard and tight with arousal. Like his whole body.
She made a tiny, sobbing noise that almost robbed him of sanity. When he swung her up into his arms, she looked at him with dazed eyes.
"Your bedroom?" he managed to say.
"The next room on the right."
He carried her to the wide bed and laid her gently on the satin coverlet. Then he followed her down to the horizontal surface, pressing the length of his body against hers. But her clothing had become an intolerable barrier.
Rolling to his side, he began to work the buttons of her shirt, trying not to rip the delicate fabric.
When he had dispatched the blouse and her bra, he lowered the zipper on her slacks, so he could peel them away, along with her panties.
As she lay naked on the bed, he paused to admire his handiwork. Reverently he touched her delicate collarbone, the enticing curve of her waist, the hollow of her throat.
"Beautiful. So beautiful," he murmured.
"I want you naked, too," she whispered. "I've wanted that since last night."
"Yes," he murmured, exalted and at the same time sad.
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it away. But he left his slacks on because he didn't want her to see that it was impossible for this incredible encounter to give him an erection.
Her legs parted, and she moved restlessly, invitingly.
He gathered her to him, taking long, luxurious strokes with his fingers through the folds of her sex, then dipping into her, wringing a pleading cry from her.
"Please, now," she gasped.
"Yes, love," he answered.
It was time to take her. But he had never been more reluctant and at the same time, more needy. He wanted her to remember this, to remember everything he had done. But that could not be an option.
So he did what he must. He put her into a light trance, then delicately sank his teeth into the place where her neck joined her shoulder, drawing blood as he continued to stroke her with two stiff fingers that would have to substitute for his cock.
His own pleasure grew as he fed off that sweet blood and the waves of ecstasy coming from her mind and body. Her hips rose and fell, as her arousal built. And when she climaxed, he felt the echoes of her rapture in his own being. It wasn't exactly an orgasm as a man would know it. He dimly remembered that sensation from long ago. This was different but no less satisfying, so satisfying that he had to ruthlessly cut it short so that he didn't take too much blood.
He turned his head, licking the blood from his mouth, tasting her essence on his lips.
Then he bent to her ear, telling her that he had been inside her, that he had made exquisite love to her, and that it had been wonderful for him.
Easing off the bed, he pulled off his slacks and undershorts and tossed them onto the floor where his shirt lay. Then he gathered her into his arms, holding her close as he kissed and stroked her.
She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open.
"Did I fall asleep?" she asked in a puzzled voice.
"You were tired. From being up so late. And all that feverish work today."
"Yes." She focused on his face. "That was incredible."
"Yes," he answered, because that much was true. "Sleep some more," he whispered. "So I can hold you in my arms."
She nodded against his shoulder, and he helped her sleep again, then allowed himself the incredible delight of simply holding her, while he absorbed the wonderful woman scent of her body, stroked her silken skin, and listened to the sound of her breathing. He had missed this human contact. This contentment. If he could have kept her in his arms for the next hundred years, he would have done it.
But his pleasure must come in measured increments, governed by the sunrise.
Finally, when he had spent all the time with her he dared, he brought her back to wakefulness. "I have to go."
"But you just got here," she murmured.
"No. It's very late."
Easing away from her, he began picking up clothing from the floor.
She watched him, and he knew that her thoughts were still foggy. "What about tomorrow?" she asked, her words slightly slurred.
"Tomorrow night. We can go down to Jackson Square if you want. Or to one of the other clubs."
"I'd rather be alone with you," she said. "Making love."
He nodded and kissed her one last time. "I don't want you to tire of me too quickly."
"There's no danger of that."
"We'll keep the relationship interesting." He squeezed her hand. "I can let myself out. And I'll be back tomorrow night. At the same time."
"Promise," she whispered.
"I promise."
Chapter Six
« ^ »
Taylor lay in bed, feeling relaxed and sated. She remembered Jules coming here. She remembered him kissing and caressing her. She remembered him carrying her to bed and undressing her. And she remembered the part afterwards when she lay naked in his arms. In between, she could remember the ecstasy of orgasm. He was a wonderful lover. And he had brought her rare pleasure. But she couldn't remember exactly what they had done. She tried to recall the weight of his body pressing down on hers. She tried to remember the feel of his penis moving in and out of her. That part was vague. He must have aroused her so thoroughly that she hadn't paid attention to the details, only the feelings.
But that was enough, she told herself. More than enough. Climbing out of bed, she stretched muscles that felt a little bit sore from the exertion of lovemaking.
There was a kink in her neck. Well, not exactly her neck. More like the place where her neck and shoulder met. It felt a little sore, and she rubbed it as she walked into the bathroom, then peered at the spot in the mirror, seeing a little set of red marks. Like insect bites.
She went very still, feeling a small shiver steal up her spine. She had the odd feeling there was something she should remember. Something vitally important. But as soon as the thought surfaced, it skittered away.
She stood for another moment in front of the mirror, then shrugged and turned on the shower.
While she was under the pounding water, she began thinking about what she wanted to work on. Quickly she dried off and threw on some clothing. Then she rushed down the hall to the studio and began sketching.
Two hours later, she had a good start on an acrylic painting of a man and a woman lying in an ornate brass bed, basking in the afterglow of making love. She stopped briefly to run down to the kitchen and grab some cheese and crackers. But she didn't stop for long. When the doorbell rang at nine, she realized she'd been working all day, without thinking about how she looked.
And now Jules was here. Padding barefoot downstairs, she spoke to the closed door. "I've been working all day. I'm a mess."
"Do you think I care?" he answered from the other side of the door. "Or are you making excuses to send me away?"
"I never make excuses." As she spoke, she turned the lock.
He came into the front hall, his gaze searching hers. And in that moment, she saw his vulnerability.
"Did you think I'd changed my mind about us?" she asked softly.
"You could be having second thoughts."
"Never."
"Then let me see what kept you busy all day."
Torn, she finally ushered him upstairs, then held her breath as he stood in front of the canvas she'd started. It wasn't finished. But the lovers were clearly visible, their bodies partially covered by a sheet, their sated expressions proclaiming their recent pleasure.
He didn't speak for a long time, and she took her lower lip between her teeth. She'd thought the painting was
good. But now she was showing it to the man who had inspired the burst of creative energy.
"Well?" she finally asked in a small voice.
He turned back to her, and the look of awe on his face made her heart skip a beat. "This is fantastic. I knew you were good. I didn't know how good."
"It's not too… revealing?" she pressed.
"It's perfect. Very erotic and very intimate."
"You inspired me. Well, not just you. Us."
"I'm glad."
"I could use some more inspiration."
His laugh was low and sexy. "Oh, could you?"
"Let me get cleaned up. You're lucky I work with acrylics and not oils."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not going to have to use turpentine to get the paint off my hands."
She left him in the studio, hurried to her bedroom and then into the bathroom.
After washing her hands, she decided that a shower might be a good idea.
When the water temperature was adjusted to hot, she stepped under the spray, thinking that she could probably keep her hair dry if she showered carefully.
But in the next moment, the sliding door opened, and a hard male body came up behind her. A naked body.
"Jules. What are you doing?"
"Helping you get nice and clean."
She started to turn. But he clasped her shoulders, holding her against his length, a muffled sound rising in his throat as he bent his head and nuzzled her hair.
Now it wasn't simply the heat of the water that enveloped her. It was the heat of the man who held her in his arms.
He touched his fingers to the place on her shoulder that she'd looked at earlier.
"What happened here?" he asked, tension in his voice.
She responded to his obvious worry. "It's nothing. I mean, I'm not sure. An insect bite, I guess."
"Okay."
She felt him relax as he bent his head, nibbling at her earlobe, then tracing the interior whorl with his tongue, before stiffening it and probing deeply. The sensation was so erotic that she couldn't hold back a small gasp.
"You're so sensitive. So responsive," he murmured.
"With you."
She felt him smile against her cheek. Then he reached for the bar of lavender-scented soap. His hands were in front of her, strong, masculine hands.
As she watched, he lathered them.
"This smells good," he said.
"Yes."
She had been working hard all day. Yet she had also been thinking of him, because he had been her inspiration. "Jules, I never met anyone like you," she whispered.
"I can say the same thing. You are a rare treasure."
Some men might have said that casually. She sensed that Jules never would, and the words touched her at some deep level that she barely understood.
Although she had known him only a few days, it seemed as if she belonged to him. But she was afraid that if she let him know the intensity of what she was feeling, she would scare him away.
Wanting to see his face, she tried to turn toward him. But he held her where she was.
His soap-slick hand stroked over her shoulder, then downward to her breast. The sensual touch made her nerves dance and tingle. Heat shot through her, heat that had been building all day while she worked. Heat that his hand on her body released.
She threw her head back so that her lips could find the side of his face. But she wanted more.
"Let me turn around," she begged.
"I want you like this," he answered in a husky voice. "Just like this. For your pleasure. And mine."
"Why?"
"It's very arousing to me—having access to your naked body. Having you in my power."
"Oh," she gasped as his soap-slick hands played over her wet skin with a total lack of resistance that was like fire lapping at her nerve endings.
"Oh Lord," she breathed, when he lifted and shaped her breasts, then circled the nipples.
"You like that?" he purred.
"You know I do."
Just with his knowing touch on her breasts, he brought her close to the edge. Then he rinsed one hand under the shower spray so that he could grasp her nipple, squeezing and pulling and sending the flames licking higher. The hand slid down her body, found the slick, swollen folds of her sex and began to caress her there.
"Jules." She tried to reach behind her to find his cock. But he clamped her hand to her side.
"Let me give you as much pleasure as you're giving me," she begged.
"You are, love. Believe me, you are," he answered and the strangled sound of his voice told her how much he liked what he was doing.
He moved her so that the water beat down on her breasts while he teased her with his fingers, one hand on her sex and the other in the crack of her ass, his touch so sensitive that he brought her to the brink of climax, then moved the front hand away so that she gasped and wiggled and tried to force him to give her satisfaction.
"Please," she begged. "Please. I have to come. Now."
Her plea must have swayed him, because he brought his hand back to her clit, stroking and pressing, making her tremble as the power of her need built.
"Yes, that's right, love," he murmured. "Show me how much you can feel."
She reached one shattering orgasm, that had her screaming with pleasure. But that was only the beginning. He barely let the aftershocks subside before he was pushing her to new heights. And as spasms of pleasure took her, she felt his kiss on her shoulder.
She could barely stand, barely move. Only the support of his arms and his body held her up as he brought her to a third shuddering orgasm.
He turned off the water, opened the door of the shower, and reached for a fluffy towel. Wrapping her like a child fresh from the bath, he cradled her in his arms while he dried her hair and her body before carrying her out of the bathroom and laying her on the bed.
Exhausted, she dozed. And when she blinked her eyes open, he was dressed again and sitting on the side of the bed.
"You are so sexy," he murmured.
"So are you," she answered lazily.
"I promised to show you some more of the French Quarter."
She would have snuggled in the bed, but he got her up, and helped her dress. Then he took her out to a tempting little sweets shop where he bought them both huge waffle-wrapped ice cream cones. Rocky road and strawberry for her. Banana and chocolate for him.
She didn't see him eat much. Maybe she was having too much fun window shopping in the antique stores along Royal Street.
But his ice cream disappeared. And he threw away the cone, saying he had never liked that part.
"I was brought up to eat every bite," she said, finishing the nub of her own cone.
"You were poor?"
"Middle class. But my mom used to remind us about the starving children in India."
"I was one of the starving children in London."
She shot him a surprised look. He'd hardly talked about himself, but apparently she'd gotten him in the mood to reveal something about his past. "But you've done very well since then," she said carefully.
"My stepfather rescued me. Well, he wasn't really my stepfather. But he took me to his country estate. And saved my life."
"Why?"
"I think he wanted a son. So he picked me."
"He must be proud of the way you turned out."
"He died," Jules said, his voice full of loss.
"He was old?"
"No. He had… an accident." He tightened his grip on her hand. "But I don't want to talk about me or John Randolph."
"You didn't keep his name?"
"He never officially adopted me. But enough about me. I want to know about you. Your family. They must be thrilled with your work."
She laughed. "They hate my work. They are narrow-minded, uptight people who live in the middle of Kansas."
"Well, that explains it!"
She laughed. "Maybe. My mother wanted me to be a teacher. She and Dad were willi
ng to send me to the university to get a teaching degree. But they recoiled in horror at the idea of art school. So I ran away to San Francisco."
"How did you manage?"
"I had a little money saved up. My aunt insisted on giving me a little more. And I worked—sometimes as an artist's model."
"Naked?"
"Does that shock you?"
"Of course not! You must have been quite a distraction for the males in the class."
"I did my best to look frumpy."
He laughed. "Resourceful. But you couldn't hide your lovely figure."
"I slumped."
He laughed again.
She was enjoying herself so much that she didn't realize how late it was until there was almost no one else left on the street.
"I should take you home," he said.
"I don't want tonight to end."
"But you need your beauty sleep. Because you're going to work all day tomorrow."
"I think that's right," she admitted.
When they reached her door, she said, "Stay here with me."
"I want to. But I can't."
"Why not?"
"I need to be alone sometimes."
Alarm leaped inside her. "You're not trying to back out of the relationship, are you?"
"No!"
"Jules…"
He pressed his fingers against her lips. "You are the most exciting woman I have ever met. I want to be with you as much as I can. But I need solitude."
"Why?"
"Maybe I'm writing a book, and I need to work."
"And maybe you're not."
He reached for her and hugged her tight, and then he turned and hurried back to his car, leaving her feeling afraid and a little disoriented.
Chapter Seven
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Over the next few weeks, Taylor's days were filled with feverish work, the best paintings she had done in her life. And her nights were filled with Jules DeMario.
"You should contact some gallery owners," he said one evening as they looked through the collection of paintings she'd turned out.
"Which ones?"
"Montpelier. St. Laurent."
"Oh sure. Those galleries are the best in the city."
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