Wicked (27 page)

As he took the stairs two at a time, lust burning through his brain, her words jarred. "I'm sorry," he murmured, passing down the corridor to the bedroom fronting the sea. "Forgive my selfishness; I'll make it up to you."

"It's nice to have you back again," she purred, understanding the intense concentration required to deal with the enemy, his crew, the aftermath . . .

"Oh, yes," he murmured, his libido in ramming speed as he pushed the bedroom door open. "I'm here."

Possessed, impatient, he didn't even undress her the first time, instead pushing her skirts aside and mounting her in seconds, his initial climax only marginally delayed for hers. Wild, rapacious, he was insatiable at the outset, taking her twice swiftly before he discarded his clothes and hers, as if only insensate release would purge the recent violence from his mind. And while her reasons differed, she needed him too, and hot-blooded, she rose to meet him, wanting him deep inside her, wanting his touch, his closeness, the blissful ecstasy, not knowing any more than he why desire fed on desire and each reeling orgasm only pitched their fever higher.

Very late that evening, their heated passions at last abated, they lay in each other's arms, the moon drenching the room in silver light. "You do . . . something to me. ... I don't know what it is. ..." His smile appeared. "But it's damned fine."

"Yes, isn't it," she murmured, lightly tracing a finger down his muscled torso, reflecting on the infinite degrees of pleasure she now knew existed in the world. On the love infusing her body and mind.

Brushing a kiss across her forehead, he gently asked, "Are you sleepy?"

She shook her head, still warmed by an inner glow of contentment, feeling as though she might never sleep. Wanting to hold her present feelings intact, as one wished to make a fragile soap bubble last.

"Do you care to swim?"

She hadn't swum for four years, not since her father died. Twisting around to lie across his chest, she smiled up at him. "I'd love to. Although I was wondering . . . could w
e
—
I
mean ... is it possibl
e
—
i
n the water?"

His smile was wicked. "And highly probable."

"Well then?" she murmured, her gaze provocative.

"You prefer not delaying your next climax?"

"I adore new experiences," she purred.

******************

They slept very late the next morning because swimming was exhausting in altogether new and delightful ways and it had been nearly dawn when they'd returned to the villa. After a leisurely midday meal of fruit and rolls and coffee that Beau had made because Serena hadn't actually ever boiled water before, Serena set up her canvas and paints on a terrace overlooking the sea. Beau obliged her by posing nude on a weathered bench, his tanned body shaded by a tumble of climbing jasmine, his brandy bottle conveniently within reach.

Sketching in the rough composition first in a pale yellow wash, she blocked in the sky and sea in light blues and greens, brushed in some semblance of the flower-decked wall and bench, and then concentrated on the beauty of the man before her.

She worked without speaking for almost an hour, carefully defining the gracef
u
l line in his sprawling pose, the broad width of his shoulders and his rawboned strength, the indolent tilt of his head, the sun glistening off his dark, silken curls. His hands were strong, slender, with the capacity for offering exquisite pleasure; she painted his hands with care. And when she started rendering his face, the modulation of shadow and plane, the purity of bone structure, the fine straight nose and sensuous mouth, she worked feverishly, intent on capturing his image before the light changed. She took enormous pains with the eyes, layering her brush strokes, adding color on color, wanting to show the depth and character, the sparkling amusement, the quixotic temperament that charmed and lured. And at the last she added the stitches over his right eye, lightly, a mere dash of color, a remembrance for her of the sea battle.

Beau emptied half a bottle while she worked, politely asking on occasion how much longer, stirring restlessly from time to time, shifting his pose, but obliging with relative good grace for a man of energy.

"The face is almost done," Serena offered when last he inquired, consoling him. "I'm starting your body now. It won't take as long."

"Are we doing erotica?" he asked, his smile insinuating.

"Not if I want to show this anywhere."

"You're showing it ... as a portrait?"

"An anonymous one, darling. Unless you wish to be on display to the world."

"I haven't done that for a while."

"Growing up are we?" she teased.

"Marginally," he lightly replied. "Are you finished yet?"

She laughed. "Stay still for another fifteen minutes and then I can go on without you."

"That sounds familiar."

"Hush," she said. "I'm too busy for that."

Pouring himself another drink, he lay back with a sigh. But a few minutes later, he abruptly stood. "Sorry, I need a break." And strolling over he stood behind her surveying the painting while she continued to work, defining the shadows on the muscled legs, adding a burnt ocher to the darkest shading, highlighting an area with a sweeping line of cadmium yellow. "You're as good as Gainsborough," he said after a few minutes of contemplation. "Better than Reynolds or Ro
m
ney. I see a lucrative future for you."

"Thank you. You've a good eye. Reynolds is as dull as the dead marbles he copies."

"I do have a good eye, don't I," he murmured, moving closer.

She felt his presence behind her, felt the light, skimming kiss on the back of her neck. "And this pretty young artist on my terrace is as good as it gets," he murmured.

"Let me finish the body before the light changes," she urged. "I can work on the background later."

"No problem." And he strolled away to gaze at the sea.

But he was back very shortly like a restless child, standing behind her, his body brushing hers so she felt his arousal. "The light will be the same tomorrow." He lifted the paintbrush from her fingers. "Let me show you the view from the west terrace where the shade is more pleasant." And setting her brush aside, he took her by the hand and led her down a short range of stairs into a bougainvillea-shaded portico with a chaise.

"You have no patience," she softly chided, moving away to look at the view.

"About some things," he murmured, watching her pad barefoot across the worn marble.

"About sex," she said, turning back to him.

He smiled. "That's one of them."

"You've been indulged too long."

"Are you going to pout if I take you away from your work?"

"No," she replied, inhaling the perfumed air. "I'd always rather be with you."

She had no subterfuge; he found it charming. "I could hurry."

"As long as my pleasure isn't stinted."

He tipped his head and gazed at her with teasing scrutiny. "You expect satisfaction every time?"

"Every time," she declared, swinging her arms like a happy child. "Or I'll have to find a new dance partner."

"They'd have to get by my dueling pistols."

"I should look for men who are excellent marksmen then."

"You're much too saucy; I'm not sure I like that in a woman."

"The only thing you like in a woman, darling, is accessibility."

"An endearing quality. Did I mention nudity? You're overdressed."

She laughed and pulled off the loose shift she wore and opened her arms to him.

He gazed at her for a moment, struck by her cheerful abandon, wondering how she'd survived as a drudge in the Tothams' household for so long. Glad she'd been set free for him.

And when he reached out and pulled her into his arms and held her close, he thought for a moment he heard Gillian welcoming him to her home.

"Let's stay here forever," Serena whispered, her chin on his chest, her eyes summer-sky blue and adoring.

"If the war stopped we could."

"Let's stay a
long
time anyway."

"Yes," he said, though he knew his orders for Palermo were pressing. "Tell me what you'd like to do."

"Make love to you and paint. Paradise on earth."

"Leave out the painting for my paradise."

"You're single-minded."

"With you I am." And he kissed her then as he'd never kissed a woman, with genuine affection, with delight separate from passion. It was strangely appealing; he was surprised.

"Have you ever thought about having children?" she asked in the sweet afterglow of that tender kiss.

He gelt a jolt of terror run down his spine. "Maybe ... a very long time from now," he said.

"Did I alarm you?" She'd heard the sudden reserve in his voice.

"No, but let me find the sponges. I'm not planning on becoming a father today."

She was lying on the chaise when he returned, her body pale in the scented shade. "Sorry to have panicked you."

"It's not panic."

"Fear?"

"That's it," he said with a small smile. "I'd be a terrible father and a
worse husband."

"Is that a warning?" Merriment shone in her eyes.

"Could we change this conversation? It's having an unfriendly effect on my libido."

"Like a new form of contraception?"

"Damn right." And sitting down beside her, he lay back in a restless sprawl. Placing the packet of sponges on her stomach, he said, "I don't think I can do it."

"Then I'll have to put you at ease or tempt you or both," she lightly challenged, lifting the small muslin bag, opening the drawstring top. Taking out one of the pieces of sponge she'd cut into a convenient shape to fit inside her, she held it up for him to see. "Why don't you watch this," she suggested, "to reassure yourself. Now pay attention, darling," she genially declared. "I'm taking this impregnable sponge," she went on with a smile, "and placing it here." Her fingers slipped inside her vagina and pressed the sponge upward. "Would you like to check it to see if it's in all the way?" she softly asked.

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze drifting down her body. He shook his head. "I need a drink."

"Courage?"

"Delay."

"I have the impression none of your ladies have asked you about having children?"

"No."

He was deathly quiet, almost grave. She was startled at the change in him. "Why don't I get your brandy for you?" she said, rising from the chaise. "And stop worrying. I don't want a child any more than you do." Her smile was pleasant,
c
omforting. "My question was one of curiosit
y
—
n
o more."

"Good," he said, but he didn't smile back.

But he did later when she walked down the stairs into h
i
s line of vision, his mouth curving into a wide, captivated smile that erased his faint frown. "This is your idea of temptation?"

"Liquor, nudity, and sweets. How can you go wrong?" She struck a languid pose short feet away, the brandy bottle half raised to him in salute, his glass in her other hand, and brilliant against her pale skin glistened two marzipan cherries molded over her nipple
s
—
d
elicious ornaments for her plump, ripe breasts.

"The question now is what should I do first," he playfully intoned.

"Your eunuch mood has passed?"

"That bright red is very attractive," he politely declared, h
i
s wicked grin saying something very different.

"I thought you might like the cherries. Did I say they're soaked in brandy?"

"A woman of intelligence," he murmured.

"He approves too," she softly said.

His gaze flicked down to his rising erection. "Marzipan is one of his favorites."

"You have to have one drink first before you can touch me."

"Do I now," he lazily drawled.

"If you want the full experience, Lord Rochefort, I'd recommend it."

"I've heard that phrase a great number of times in the brothels of the world." His voice held a new wariness.
W
hat is this going to cost me?"

"Nothing you can't afford. Just the use of him," she gently said, gesturing with the empty glass at his fully erect penis. "One drink. How can it hurt when you've emptied most of this bottle already?" Pouring a glassful, she held it out to him.

He hesitated a flashing moment, vigilant after too many women wanting things from him he didn't care to give.

"I'm harmless," Serena said.

"Yes and no," he murmured, taking the glass from her. She would have been far more harmless had he wished to discard her after two days in his normal pattern.