Page 69 of The Duke's Pet

“An apple?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “But there’s more.”

He switched to brown and traced lines over her breasts and down to her belly. Going back to the red he added more apples, then dotted green leaves around. He avoided her nipples, but even so they twisted and tightened, his attention and the heat of his breath all stimulating them.

“Perhaps some blossom.” He got to his knees and picked a pretty pink shade for his brush.

Jemima watched as he drew tiny flowers around her pubic hair, onto her lower abdomen and her hips.

“You are the perfect canvas,” he said, adding tiny dots of red to the center of the pink flowers. “And so pretty.”

“Sir.” A tug was pulling at her belly again, the way it had when he’d touched her intimately before, the same grip of need that had called to her last night when she’d stroked him.

“Jemima.”

She sucked in a breath. “You called me by my name.”

It was the first time he’d uttered it. Up until then he’d referred to her as little kitten.

“Yes.” He stood, his gaze seeming to bore into her. “Lord help me, but what have you done?”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see?” He gestured to her with his brush. “I cannot help myself around you. You’ve bewitched me, stolen my every thought, every desire and dream.”

“Gerard.” She said his name, hoping she hadn’t pushed too far. It was a risk, but there was something strong between them. It wasn’t conventional but it was powerful.

He said nothing, just continued to stare at her.

Jemima decided to act. She took the paintbrush and palette from him and set them on the side table. With her heart thudding, she then undid the buttons on his shirt.

His mouth tilted into a half smile, as if amused by her bold actions. But he didn’t stop her.

When his shirt was undone, she pushed it over his shoulders. He helped it on its way and it landed on the floor.

“Jemima,” he said again, as though playing with the sound on his tongue. “Sweet Jemima.”

“My duke.” She reached for the paintbrush and dipped it in the black paint.

“What are you doing?” He raised one eyebrow at her.

“You have created the symbol of an apple on my body.” She rested the tip of the brush just below his Adam’s apple. “Isn’t that a symbol of temptation?”

“Ah, yes, I wondered if you’d guess that.”

“And so...” She dragged the brush downward, not in a straight line, but from side to side, creating an ‘s’ shape over his chest. “Shouldn’t you be the serpent in the garden if I am temptation?”

“Serpent,” he said, his muscles bunching as if he was forcing himself to stay still while she had her little play. “You mean I can open your eyes to life and learning.”

“Or that you are a symbol of sexual desire.”

“Do you desire me?”

She ran the brush, still loaded with paint, to his navel. “Yes.” She lifted the brush from him and set her attention on his eyes. “Even though you are not my husband I desire you, with everything that I am.”

Suddenly the brush was on the floor and she was in his arms. He kissed her with a wildness she’d never known before, his hands roaming her body, smearing the paint, wiping his own painted body on hers.

She groaned and latched her arms around his neck, pressed as close as she could be to him. This man had become her world in such a short space of time, and if she had to leave him, she wanted as many memories as possible to keep her warm on cold lonely nights.

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