To Bed a Libertine

by Amanda McCabe

  How could she ever let him go?

  Deep down, she felt that hot pressure growing, expanding through her whole body. Sparks danced over her skin, burning, consuming, yet bringing the most intense delight. All coherent thought fled, and she could only feel.

  “Tristan,” she gasped, her back arching. “Ikanopoio!”

  “Yes, my love,” he answered, his voice tight. “I’m here.” He buried his face against her shoulder as she felt his own climax seize him. His whole body was taut along hers. He shouted out, the fierce, primitive sound muffled against her.

  Then he collapsed beside her, their arms and legs entangled. Erato slowly floated back down into herself, and she could feel his weight pressed against her side, the heat of his body and the cool air around them. Outside the windows it was dark now, night closing in around them.

  She slowly sat up, and made herself breathe deeply until she could think in a semi-coherent fashion again. Tristan rolled onto his back, his eyes shadowed as he watched her remove her rumpled chemise and her black silk stockings. She tossed them aside and lay back down beside him, naked and tired.

  They were pressed very close on the narrow chaise, and she could feel his long, lean body full against hers. He propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her in the dying light, his eyes slowly moving from the tips of her toes to the wild tangle of her hair.

  It felt as if he touched her at each place he lingered, as if he caressed every curve and angle of her body. She suddenly felt strangely shy. At least that was how she thought she felt; goddesses never had occasion to be shy.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice deep and full of wonder. And that shyness vanished.

  “And you are overdressed,” she answered, toying with the wrinkled, ruined fabric of his shirt. She pushed it over his head and tossed it away to join her own clothes on the floor.

  It was now her turn to look. She pressed against his bare chest until he lay flat, and she leaned over him to trace light, caressing patterns over his bare skin. He was that gleaming olive-bronze color here, too, the smoothness of his muscles roughened by a sprinkling of brown hair. He was so warm and handsome, young and alive.

  She bent her head to kiss him just above his navel, and the gaping fastenings of his breeches. He tasted salty-sweet, of sweat and their essences mingled together. It was intoxicating.

  She felt his body tighten under her lips, his manhood begin to stir. She laughed and slid up along his body, trailing her caress over his ribs and shoulders, the groove of his back. She traced the edge of her nail over his flat nipple, and his breath caught.

  “We have all night, yes?” she whispered. She rested her head on his shoulder, letting herself lie against him. His arms closed around her. “There is only you and me tonight. Nothing else.”

  He kissed the top of her head, smoothing her hair tenderly. “Only us. Nothing else.”

  Erato closed her eyes and smiled as utter contentment washed over her. How could she make one night last for all eternity?

  Chapter Four

  Erato awoke suddenly, jerked out of a deep, sweet sleep by a dream of heat and desire. Only it was not a dream—it was very real.

  She lay on her side, her back pressed to Tristan’s chest. His arms were around her waist, holding her tight. He was naked, his hair-roughened legs tangled with hers, his erect penis against her buttocks. He nudged aside her hair and kissed the soft nape of her neck.

  “Are you asleep?” he whispered.

  She laughed, feeling her body come to life again. “No. And you are quite awake, I see.” She arched back against his erection and felt it grow even harder.

  She tried to turn to face him, but he held her still. She felt his openmouthed kiss trail over her shoulder, the curve of her back. The tip of his tongue licked at the tiny freckle just below her shoulder blade, sending sparks shooting along her nerves to the tips of her toes.

  His palm eased up her rib cage to cup her breast, his thumb flicking at her sensitive nipple. She moaned at the pleasure of that touch, and cried out when he lightly pinched it between his fingers.

  “Do you like that?” he whispered, his teeth scraping over her shoulder before he pressed his lips to it again.

  “Y-yes.”

  “And—that?” He pinched a bit harder, rolling her nipple. A jolt of fiery delight made her sight swirl out of focus, and she bowed her back to press her breast into his hand.

  “Yes!” She tried again to turn to him, longing to kiss him, to press her breasts against his bare chest and feel him on her skin. But his grasp tightened, keeping her still.

  He carefully eased her onto her stomach, the soft velvet cushions chafing her sensitive skin. He kissed the back of her neck, his hands sliding slowly, teasingly, down the length of her body.

  “Stretch your hands out in front of you,” he whispered, and as she obeyed he grasped her hips and drew them up.

  She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she could feel every single touch of him against her skin, every delicious sensation. She had never been in such a position before; no man would even dare try, not with her. Yet with Tristan, it was so terribly arousing.

  He traced a light caress down her back, along the cleft of her buttocks, the curve of them. “So, so beautiful,” he said roughly. She felt his touch on her thigh, spreading her legs wide. His finger dipped into her womanhood, and she felt so vulnerable and filled with burning desire. “So wet.”

  “Only for you,” she gasped. And it was so terribly true. She wanted only him now, and she had the suspicion that would never change now that she had found him at last. But did he want her in the same way?

  As if to assure her, he slid deep inside of her, his hands hard on her hips. As he drew back and plunged even deeper, again and again, faster and faster, she felt the slide of their bodies against each other. She heard the mingling of their breath, their incoherent cries. The pleasure built up again, even more intense and frantic, until it burst. She felt completely unmoored, spinning out free into the sky. Only his touch held her to the earth.

  He shouted out above her, and she felt the heat of his climax inside of her. He slid out of her body, and she collapsed to the chaise. She felt so weak she was sure she could not walk, or even rise from their bed. And she never really wanted to, either. She never wanted to leave.

  He fell down beside her, his eyes closed and his jaw tight, as if he still felt the tremors of their pleasure. Erato curled against him and rested her head against his chest. She listened as his heartbeat slowed, its rhythm echoing her own as if they were two halves of the same whole.

  “I wish we could stay in this room forever and ever,” she said.

  He laughed, his fingers smoothing through her hair. “We can, if you like. We can send out for food and fuel for the fire. I would keep the flames high so you would not need to wear clothes. All we need is right here.”

  “You would soon tire of me, I fear.”

  “Never. I have the feeling that even if I knew you for a hundred years I would never discover everything about you. You’re not like anyone else I have ever known.” He had no idea how true his words were. Erato kissed his chest and snuggled closer to him.

  “Would you tire of me?” he asked. She felt his hands move soothingly through her hair, wrapping the strands over his shoulders as if to bind her to him.

  “I never could. You’re not like anyone I have ever met, either.” Outside the windows it had begun to rain, the drops a soft, musical rhythm against the glass. It was beautiful, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. “I’m so tired.”

  “Sleep now.” He kissed her brow and held her close to him. “I will watch over you.”

  Feeling entirely safe in his embrace, she did just that and slid down deep into dreams once more.

  Tristan studied the contessa’s sleeping face as she lay beside him. He had seen beautiful women before, of course, fine ladies in ballrooms and his models who came from the theaters and back streets. Expensive courtesa
ns, lovely debutantes, and doxies in cheap brothels. Even his own mother had been a renowned beauty, so he had been surrounded by loveliness since he was born. Yet he had never seen anyone quite like her.

  He couldn’t decipher what it was that made her special, even when he looked at her with an artist’s eye and not a lover’s. She had fine, sharp bone structure, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes under silky auburn brows. Her skin was ivory-fair with pale pink cheeks that grew even pinker when she climaxed.

  Yet it was more than that. She had some kind of sunny glow that seemed to come from deep inside of her. A brightness that touched everyone around her and made them feel lighter, happier. She seemed to see and understand so much.

  And when they made love—he was surprised he had not died of the pleasure, it was so burningly intense.

  “Where did you come from?” he whispered. He lightly skimmed the back of his hand over her soft cheek, and she murmured in her sleep and nuzzled against him. She had come to him like a dream, unexpected and beautiful. Would she vanish like a dream, too? He had the terrible feeling there was something unreal about her.

  He had to make the most of every moment he had with her.

  He eased off the chaise, careful not to wake her, and put on his rumpled breeches before lighting the lamps. His sketch of her lay on the floor, and he retrieved it to study its black-and-white lines. Her image smiled back at him, and he liked the pose, the expression on her face—that half smile as if she held a secret.

  Yet it cried out for color. The white of her skin, the red of her hair, those blue eyes, they were an essential part of her. Suddenly inspired, his tiredness vanished, he removed the half-finished judgment of Paris scene from his easel and put a clean, freshly stretched and primed canvas in its place.

  In a fever of creativity, he crushed and mixed the paints until he had exactly the shades he needed. Never had an image taken hold of him in such a way before. He had to paint her. His brush took on a life of its own as it moved across the canvas.

  After a time, hours or minutes or days he could not tell, he heard her stir on the chaise.

  “Tristan?” she called, as if startled she could not find him.

  “I am here,” he answered. He glanced over and smiled at the beautiful image of her as she sat up against the cushions. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, concealing one breast while leaving the other bare. Any picture he painted could never reveal the reality of her.

  “Are you working?” She drew the velvet blanket around her, wrapping it like a tunic.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said. “I just had the sense that I needed to paint, right now.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Can I see?”

  He studied the canvas. Despite his feverish pace it was only half-done, the lines rough, the paint still not smoothed. “Not yet. Soon.”

  “And are you pleased with it thus far?”

  “It is the finest thing I have done,” he said. “But it can’t begin to compare with the original.”

  She laughed. “I’m so happy you’re happy.”

  Happy? He had to stop and consider that. Happiness was something he had little experience of, much like home and love. But he seemed filled with a bright contentment, a sense that now, finally, everything had come right.

  “I am,” he said. “I am happy.” And it was all thanks to her. He sat down beside her again, taking her in his arms to kiss her lips. “Are you happy, too?”

  “I have never felt so marvelously happy,” she answered. She kissed him back as her slender arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. She clung to him, almost as if she feared he would fly away.

  If only she knew. He could never leave her.

  “I think I need to show you something,” she said. She drew back, her eyes full of sadness as she gazed up at him.

  Tristan laughed, and reached up to frame her face in his hands. He could look into those eyes, study her forever. “What have I not seen yet of you, Contessa?”

  A pale pink blush covered her cheeks, and she touched the stain wonderingly with her fingertips, as if she had never felt such a thing before. “I—I am blushing!”

  He laughed even harder, completely delighted. “So you are.”

  “Oh, Tristan, you are a miracle.” She kissed him again, fiercely, but just as he tried to deepen the caress she drew away. “But there is something you should see, something you must know before we go any further.”

  Tristan frowned, unsettled by her solemn tone. “What is it? I promise you, nothing can change my feelings for you.”

  “Just close your eyes,” she whispered, stroking her hand softly over his face. “And hold onto me.”

  Slowly, the scent of roses and lilacs suffused the air, replacing the dusty smell of paint and paper. The breeze turned warm and soft, bearing the sounds of laughter and water flowing from fountains and splashing against marble. There were the faint strains of music, much like that heard at Lady Russell’s drawing room, except full of life and freshness.

  Erato was home.

  She opened her eyes and gazed around the marble pavilion. It was just as she had left it, yet something was different. She was different. The boredom and restlessness that had plagued her before she left had vanished, and she felt new and free.

  All because of Tristan. She held tightly to his hands, half-afraid of what he might say or do when he saw the truth. Would he be angry, reject her and insist on returning to England? If he did, she would have to let him go. The other gods sometimes held humans against their wills—look what happened with Apollo and poor Daphne. The Muses never did. Their task was to bring enlightenment and happiness.

  And, more than she had ever wanted anything, she wanted Tristan to be happy.

  “Open your eyes,” she whispered.

  He opened his eyes and blinked at her. For a moment, it seemed all he could see was her. He gave her his beautiful smile, the one that made her forget everything else, and leaned in to kiss her.

  Erato knew that if he kissed her she could never let him go. She would be as bad as those selfish gods, and unworthy of Tristan’s love. Even if he stayed with her then she would never have what she really wanted—his freely given love.

  She pressed her hands to his bare shoulders, holding him away from her. “Look around you.”

  “I’d rather kiss you.” he said. His hand slid about her waist as if to drag her closer. She resisted, laughing.

  “Look first,” she said.

  He raised his gaze over her head—and his eyes went wide. His arms stiffened. “Where are we?”

  “This is my home.”

  “But how did we get here? We were in my studio!”

  “I brought us here. You have to know the truth, Tristan.”

  “The truth? I don’t understand this at all!” He broke away from her, scanning the pavilion as if he sought an escape route. There was nothing but fountains and velvet couches, glimpses of blue sky and green fields between the marble pillars. Surely it did not seem a threatening prison?

  But his eyes were burning as he swung back to face her. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “Not a joke at all. Please, Tristan, just listen to me,” she begged. Erato found she could not concentrate on her task with him half-naked like that. Her mind kept wandering to more pleasurable thoughts, when it was so important she convince him to stay with her. She waved her hand, and he was clad in the soft white folds of a tunic. She wore her favorite pale green robe, belted in gold cords.

  Tristan stared at her in angry astonishment. “How did you do that?”

  “I can do many things. You see, Tristan, I am afraid I told a little lie when we met,” she said ruefully. “I am not a widowed Italian countess.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, watching her with narrowed eyes. At least he had not pushed her down and run from her. Surely that meant there was hope? “Then who are you?”

  “I am Erato, the Muse of Erotic Poetry. And you are at Mount Olympus.”


  He laughed harshly. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

  She felt a wave of irritation and longing rush over her. He was not making her task easier, the infuriating, gorgeous man! And their entire future relied on this. “You do not believe me?” She snapped her fingers and a fleet of cupids flew into the pavilion.

  “What is your wish, Erato?” they chorused, falling over one another as they sought her attention.

  “Wine for my guest,” she said. “And later we will want supper. You must attend to his every wish. And where are my sisters?”

  “Dancing by the river!” they cried, avidly studying Tristan and laughing with each other. They flew away, only to be back in an instant with trays of goblets filled with various wines. They all beseeched Tristan to try their wine, as it was the best, but Erato sent them flying off again.

  “Here, Tristan, have some wine. There is sun-wine—my favorite. Or raspberry or rosé. Anything you like. You have but to say and it’s yours.”

  He took the goblet she held out, peering into its depths as if he looked for poison.

  “It is quite safe,” she assured him. “And very delicious. Here, I want to show you something else. Maybe this will convince you.”

  She took his other hand in hers, gazing up at him as she willed him to remember their lovemaking. Remember what they had become to each other, and trust her.

  He seemed to soften a bit, and even took a drink of the wine. “Very well. Show me.”

  “Come with me.” She led him out of the pavilion, down the grassy, sun-splashed slope where the shepherds played their pipes for the cavorting nymphs. Their short gowns were transparent in the intense light, but Tristan watched only her.

  She took him down to the river, past her sisters on the mossy banks. They called out to her, staring at Tristan, but she waved them away. Hopefully there would be time later for him to face a full Muses’ inquisition. For now she led him over the footbridge and to the clearing of the oracle spring.