Page 28 of Temptation and the Artist

She glanced up at him smiling and heard his breath catch. He still held her lightly by the shoulders, his fingers somehow warming through the fabric of cloak and gown. His steady gaze dipped from her eyes to her lips, causing her to look at his, which was a mistake for a spurt of longing hit her that was only part desire.

And then his lips came closer and took slow possession of hers. No kiss had ever begun with such silken softness and overcome her so completely. Stephen Dornan did not snatch and devour, but savored, persuaded. At once sensitive, and deeply, sensual, he let the passion grow and grow.

She sighed into his mouth, deepening the kiss because she could do no less, and he held her, caressing her back and the bare, sensitive skin of her nape.

“Warmer now?” he asked huskily as they come up for breath.

“Much,” she whispered.

He released her slowly, and, it seemed, reluctantly, in order to gather up his paints and brushes, to cover his painting, and fold the easel for ease of carrying. She carried the bag of paints and brushes. They abandoned the lanterns and went carefully down the steps and across the garden to the main path, which was quiet now. Even the music had stopped, although a lot of noise came from the pavilion area.

“Is it midnight?” she said in surprise. “It must be the unmasking.”

“Which is an excellent time for us to escape back to the hotel.”

As they did so, she was aware of every inch of him and of herself. The doorman offered assistance with their burden, and Stephen rejected it with cheerful thanks. Neither Stephen nor Aline voiced the suggestion, yet she continued with him upstairs and along the empty passage to his “studio.”

His bedchamber.

The door closed on the world beyond.

“Are you tired?” he asked casually, taking the bag from her and setting it down beside the easel. “Or would you mind if we continued with last night’s portrait?”

He straightened and, with odd deliberation, met her gaze.

She held it, her heart drumming against her ribs. “Is that really what you want?”

A smile flickered across his lips. “No. I’m scrambling for a gentlemanly reason to ask you to stay.”

“You already gave me one.” Boldly, her heart quaking, she took a step nearer him. “When you kissed me.”

They stared at each other. She didn’t know whose breath it was she heard, labored and shallow. Expressions chased each other through his eyes, most of them strangely desperate. And then he moved, sweeping her almost off her feet and into his arms. Her stomach dived, her whole being delighted in the power of his arms, the hardness of his body, and the sudden, untamed passion of his kiss.

“I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” he uttered into her mouth.

Her answer was lost in his kiss, and by the time that ended, she could no longer recall the question. He pressed his stubbly cheek to hers, and she tangled her trembling fingers in his hair.

“Please,” he whispered in her ear, his breath unbearably arousing, “may I take you to bed?”

“If you don’t, I shall be very—” The rest was buried in his mouth.

Surprisingly, it seemed, he would give in to the urgency of passion, which suited her very well. But even as she clung, dragging his shirt—both his shirts—up over his chest, he stepped back and threw them off himself and stared at her with clouded, yet glittering eyes.

“Let me undress you,” he said unsteadily and held out his hand in an oddly courtly gesture. She wound her fingers around his and allowed him to lead her to the bed, where he tugged back the covers, and then slowly turned her and began to unfasten her gown.

It took a long time. She didn’t mind, for his mouth teased and kissed at her nape, and she could not be still. More kisses traced along each of her shoulders as he finally let the diaphanous muslin and net gown drop down to her elbows. Unlacing her stays was accomplished quickly and deftly, and then her chemise untied as he kissed his way down her back, making her shiver and undulate.

His arms reached around her, sweeping the gown off her arms to the floor. His hands held the curve of her waist, stroking, then caressing their way upward to softly cup her breasts through the thin lawn of her drooping chemise. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him in bliss, and when his fingers circled more boldly, teasing her nipples, she reached blindly for his mouth and found it.

The chemise vanished, and his fingers played on her naked skin. She turned in his arms, running her hands greedily up and down his back, her open mouth buried in his throat as she inhaled his warm, masculine Stephen scent. She dragged her mouth across his clavicles and down his chest, and found herself on her back, reaching blindly for the buttons of his pantaloons.

To her surprise, he let her, even knelt over her to give her access while he gazed down at her hands, at her breasts, her face, breathing heavily. And then he scooted off her to kick off the remains of his pantaloons and drawers. As though he had just discovered them, he took hold of her ankles, then slowly caressed his way up her leg to unfasten one garter, and then the others. She had never found the removal of her stockings so slow or so thrilling before because it seemed his lips had to explore every inch of exposed skin.

“Stephen,” she all but panted, grasping his hair.

His smile was voracious as he pulled himself up, covering her body with his long, lean one. She found delight in sweeping her hands up and down his length, in moving her hips against the long, hard column of his erection. There were more lingering, blissful kisses, the intimate exploration of his fingers, and then his lips, down her throat and collar bone and breasts. She loved the way he responded to her every touch, sighing, undulating, softly groaning his desire.

With growing desperation, she writhed beneath him, arching up into him. His lips, his tongue, found her breasts, leading her to desperate, panicked need. Only then did he enter her body, slowly hilting himself within.

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