The Seduction of Suzanne (16 page)

When he was fully inside her he soothed her with soft kisses, his body stilled. It softened the overwhelming sensation of penetration. His mouth had grown familiar these past weeks. It was easier, sweeter than where his penis lay inside her, pulsing in demand.

She felt him tremble with the effort of waiting and was overwhelmed by a rush of warm feeling, an adoration for the worth of this fine man who laboured to give her pleasure with his body. The strange penetration was not an enemy. It became once more part of him, a complete him she was slowly learning.

She realised there were tears in the corner of her eyes when he touched them, gathered them up with an apology on his lips. Before he could say more she moved in an experimental wiggle, testing. It was such an odd sensation, to be so full of him, feel him stretching her open at her most private place.

Odd but increasingly pleasant. And as one of his big hands cupped her breast, fingertips drawing gently at her nipple, she felt herself contract around his erection and gasped at the exquisite feeling.

She ran her hands over his shoulders, his back, down to clasp his butt
ocks, amazed that she was finally allowed to touch him like this, his skin so hot, his muscles bunched as he worked over her, holding his weight off her.

Then he rolled them both slightly to one side and she felt his hand span her thigh, his thumb between them pressing gently on her clitoris and
. . .oh. Oh, that made it impossible to think. Oh.

He moved his pelvis, starting a pattern of slow thrusts that made her quiver and sigh, instinct leading her to rise and meet him, her feet still braced as she pushed back, his partner.

Sensation lifted, crested, lifted. She took in flashes of sensory information. His hair under her fingertips, his breath harsh by her ear, the curve of a buttock in her palm, a hint of musk scenting the air, and always, dominating everything else, that tugging slide of his body moving in and out of hers where they were made so perfectly to fit each other.

Together they reached for climax, she half-fearing the power taking her over, he urging her on with mouth, hands and body. The room’s clear morning light seemed to splinter and shatter as she peaked again, trembling with the effort not to call out the garbled words that were on her tongue. Release and wonder and
. . . love. He was silent, shuddering and breathing in great, deep gusts which fanned her shoulder, the nape of her neck.

For long, lengthening moments they lay there, under the white drape of mosquito netting, with sunlight spilling into the warm room and gilding bare skin, easing luxuriantly over curves and hollows.

Suzanne didn’t know how much time had passed when she finally came back to herself, emerging from the dark behind her eyelids. She flexed her fingers, and felt them uncurl, brushing against Justin’s great shoulders. He stirred in response, and then rolled right over, his forearm suddenly firm around her waist so that she came too. Wide-eyed and startled, her hands came up to grip his pectorals for balance. Lazily he blinked, and stretched like a cat, his powerful body flexing fluidly beneath her. The sensation made her breathless.

Anxiously she searched his face, not knowing exactly what she was looking for, nor what she should say, in a situation like this.

The arm which had lain heavy across the small of her back lifted, and his hand came to cup the back of her neck. His fingers stroked briefly through her loose hair, then traced down her spine.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Fine.” She found that she had to clear her throat. “Just fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled briefly, then returned to seriousness. “Not too tender?”

“Too tender for what?” she said, then blushed at her own innuendo, embarrassed. However her answer seemed to satisfy him. He closed his eyes, his hand savouring the curve of her waist where it met her hip. She watched him, as his indrawn breath lifted her body. It seemed unreal that she should finally be lying here with him, skin to skin, feeling the heat of him, his scent, his hair-roughened limbs. She drank it in like wine, and like wine, it made her warm.

She squirmed lightly, and felt him respond, his eyes coming open, hand tightening on her waist. He surveyed her as she stared down at him, wide-eyed and solemn. With a sigh he rolled again, tipping her off gently onto the mattress.

“Probably best to get up and get going,” he said ruefully, banked desire clear in his admiring glance over her where she lay, blinking. “Otherwise you’re going to be sore.” He turned away, came to the edge of the bed and stood, unabashedly naked. Feeling bereft, and suddenly highly conscious of her own nudity, she made a belated scramble for her towelling robe. Wrapped in it she still felt vulnerable and unclothed, though Justin’s attention appeared to be directed out of the window. He was right, she did feel tender, a little abraded. Though not enough to have stopped her experimenting further if he’d given her encouragement. But she wasn’t bold enough to stalk him and toss him back into bed.

S
he searched for words to say to him. She wanted to tell him how cherished he had made her feel, how precious and beautiful. That she felt somehow changed, transformed from the woman she had been. But that would sound awkward and gauche.

She wanted to tell him she loved him, but that would ruin everything. And maybe it was just the effect of what they had shared. Maybe it would pass, this feeling that she had set him at the centre of her inner world and never known it until now.

Moving toward the door, she quietly said, “I’m going to go have a quick rinse.”

She saw him start t
o turn, and fled out of the room before either of them could say more.

In the bathroom, she surveyed herself cautiously in the mirror. There was a hectic flush along her cheekbones and her mouth was pink and swollen from kisses. But that hardly reflected the intense inner experience. Pulling her hair quickly back into a ponytail at her neck, she turned on the shower.

As she shifted her weight, the pull of small, stretched muscles made
her wince.

The water warmed quickly, her robe was discarded, and she stepped in under the gentle spray. It took only a few moments to clean away the signs of her response to him, the wetness between her thighs.

She knew the inner change would last much longer. She felt light as air. Free. Bonds broken, fresh and intriguing possibilities laid out before her. She had done exactly the right thing. Making love with Justin could not have been more different from her last experience. . . they shouldn’t even be classified together. The one was a celebration, the other a travesty.

She hoped fiercely she would never think of that night again, never be ruled or influenced by it. She was done with that now. It was history, no part of her life today. Her life now.

With a half-smile, she tilted her head back under the flow of hot water.  

She barely registered the cool draught that the opening door made on her wet skin. However she certainly noticed when Justin’s arms slid around her torso from behind, cupping her breasts as his mouth descended to sip water from the curve where neck met shoulder. She gasped, her hands flying up to grasp his crossed forearms.

“Sorry,” he murmured in her ear, his voice holding not a trace of apology. “I was out there, imagining you in here, wet and naked, and I just couldn’t resist the temptation.” He took a gentle bite from her nape, and she squirmed against him, making him groan helplessly.

“I know I said we shouldn’t, not for a while, but there are other things we could do together,” he rumbled raggedly.

“Really?” she asked, not trying to hide her interest.

“Oh yes,” he said, and first he described them to her, making her heart beat fast and hard, and then he proceeded to show her, with hands and fingers and tongue. At some point they made it back to the bed, uncaring that their wet bodies dampened the sheets. He brought her to climax again and then again, savouring her pleasure, and when she shyly asked, taught her how to please him in turn.

Chapter Nine

They had spent the morning on a blanket in the garden behind the house, near where her hammock was strung up. Having had their usual discussion about whether or not he would wear SPF 15 sunblock - he insisting that he wouldn’t think of it unless she was the one to rub it in, everywhere, a condition which inevitably led to most of it being rubbed right off again, on the blanket and on her - they were casually sprawled full length, half in the shade. He lay on his back, and she was on her side, facing him, her head propped up on her elbow. She wore one of his faded T-shirts, the threadbare cotton
extraordi-narily soft and smooth against her skin. No wonder he had worn it to holes. It was so comfortable. Underneath it she was naked.

His arm was outstretched, hand hidden in the cloth as he absently stroked the sensitive skin a few inches below her breasts. Looking at his lashes, crescents against the taut curve of cheekbone, then flicking down to follow the strong, clean lines of tendon and muscle which moulded his neck, shoulders and torso, her hands suddenly itched for a brush.

“Could I paint you? Would you mind? Modelling for me, I mean,” she asked abruptly.

He tilted his head towards her, lifting a forearm to shade his eyes from the sun.

“I thought you only did landscapes?” he said, looking a little surprised by the request.

“Well, yes, usually I do. Only I just, well, I’d really like to have you as a subject. If it wouldn’t bother you.”

“On the contrary: I’d be flattered,” he said, a slow smile breaking out.

“Oh good!” she said happily.

“So when do you want to start? Now?”

“Yes.
Let’s.”

“Inside or outside?”

“Inside. In my studio,” she said firmly.

“Clothed or nude?” he asked, a wicked twinkle in his eye 

“I guess, ah, well nude would be best. I mean, I’m not used to painting people, and it would help me to get the musculature right. And everything. Um,” she blushed helplessly.

“You’re the boss,” he said easily, unconcerned. “Only you have to realise that it’ll mean an increase in my fee.” He stood and took a corner of the rug, tugging gently on it. She obeyed his unspoken request and rolled sideways so that he could gather the woollen blanket into his arms. She stood and contemplated him warily.

“What fee?”

“Every model needs to be paid,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“Of course,” she said, becoming businesslike. “How much do you think is reasonable?”

“I have to admit that I haven’t had much
experience in the field,” he said contemplatively, as if giving the matter serious consideration. He took a couple of steps closer to her, so that she could feel the gentle scratchiness of the blanket’s wool against her belly. “I’m sure that we’ll be able to work out some equitable exchange.”

Meeting his gaze, she saw the heat. There was no mistaking his meaning.

Three days ago she would have been tongue-tied and nervous. Now she met his eyes boldly, giving him stare for stare.

“I’m sure we can,” she replied smoothly. “I’m perfectly willing to be . . . accommodating.”

“Good,” he said with some satisfaction. “In that case I am at your command.” He gestured her towards the house, and she swept past him, head held high and excitement clenched in her chest. Perhaps as much from his words as from her impromptu art project.

In her studio she took the blanket he still carried, and spread it out so it lay under a skylight. Now that it was so close to midday, the sun shone almost directly down. Usually she chose not to work around noon, when the light was bold and harsh. However this time she wished to make an exception, for a stark, high key image. “Now if you’ll lie down there and make yourself comfortable, I’ll get things set up. Then we’ll make any necessary adjustments to your pose.”

Without demur he obeyed her directions. She went and fetched a small prepared canvas from its rack, set it on her easel, collected a range of brushes and began putting oil paint on her large, flat plastic palette. Slow-drying oil would give her longer to work, to blend tones describing the rolling curves of a body.

Pausing to take a long look at his pose, she decided that there was nothing which needed changing. In the strong sunshine every detail of his body and the wrinkled grey rug was picked out clearly, the contrasts between light and shadow sharply delineated.

Lying on his stomach with one arm outflung and his head turned towards her, face still and eyes closed, he looked like a young god, or an angel, pausing for a moment’s rest on earth.

Then he spoke, his matter-of-fact tone breaking the illusion. “Do you want me to move at all? If so, you’d better tell me now, before I fall asleep.”

“No, you’re fine. Go to sleep if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I shall,” he said without hesitation, and she smiled slightly.

After that, all was silent except for the occasional faint whisper of palette knife against canvas. She worked quickly, her exceptional eye for colour making the transition from portraying landscapes to portraying human flesh easier than she had anticipated it would be. Falling into the familiar trance of painting, she didn’t notice the broad beam of light from the large overhead window moving until it began to fall away from her subject. Then, with a muttered imprecation, she emerged from behind her easel, and stooped down to grasp the edge of the blanket in both hands, disregarding the paint marks she left on the worn grey material.