Forbidden by Susan Johnson (best feel good books txt) 📗

here and you needn't get out of bed at all."

"This isn't decadent Paris."

"Tradesmen refuse money in Montana?"

"Gossip travels fast in a town this size."

"As it does in Paris. So?"

She grinned. "Will you always be a spoiled child of fortune?"

"In some things—yes. I intend to keep you forever. In that Iwon't be thwarted. And in other small ways, as well, I refuse to be gainsaid." He snapped the button off with a small ripping sound. "Smaller buttons or larger buttonholes from now on," he declared, his smile lighting his eyes, "If I'm going to be your dresser."

"And undresser."

"Even more, then, we'll need ease of operation."

"Right now, I'd be content to not dress for a month or so."

"I'll arrange it."

"I'd die of bliss… before a week."

"I wouldn't let you."

"Arrogant."

He grinned. "I read about this somewhere."

"In addition to volumes of empirical experience."

"From the day I met you, I've been faithful," he said, shrugging away her statement. "Now stand up and we'll get rid of—"

Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him in a great rush of love, overwhelmed by her emotions and his faithfulness.

"Did I say the right thing?" he asked, his mouth curved in a roguish smile as she released him.

"It had better not been smooth and consummate charm," she sternly charged, although she was teasing and he knew it.

"I brought you presents, too, as a measure of my consummate charm. I hope they work."

"In what way?"

"In the usual way," he teased. "Now don't pout," he playfully added, "or I won't give them to you."

"I'm not pouting," Daisy said, her lush bottom lip irresistibly rebuking, half playful and half serious, at the thought of all the other women he'd bought gifts for. "You've no doubt had previous success with amorous bibelots."

"You don't like presents?" he said, lifting her to her feet so he could slide her skirt and petticoats off. "You'll like my presents," he went on, immune to her small jealousy, as he placed her reclining against the snow-white pillows. "Soon."

He washed her then with warm scented water left ready on the washstand, the act itself erotic as he slowly smoothed the linen cloth over her thighs and upward to wipe away the residue of their lovemaking.

And she was content to let him care for her, redolent in her love, lazy in the aftermath of her climax, warmed by the heated room and her heated senses.

He washed himself afterward with an efficiency she admired and begrudged. How many times had he done that before in how many boudoirs before how many admiring ladies?

He was beautifully formed, his erection turgid and engorged. But he seemed detached from the phenomenon of arousal, and she wondered how he disciplined himself to subvert his obvious physical need to some rational chronology of gift-giving. But she discovered later, as he had years ago, that the ebb and flow of passion was enhanced by respite. Bringing over a small leather portfolio, he took numerous prints from it, spreading them across the bed. And with a punch for himself and warm almond milk for Daisy, they sat crosslegged on the white satin coverlet admiring Bonnard's seductive array of female nudes. In various stages of undress, small feminine women bathed or rose from bed, lay indolently, covered or uncovered their slender legs with long black stockings, admired themselves before mirrors, lazily brushed their hair.

"They're beautiful," Daisy said, gazing at the score of small prints, "and very stylish in their black stockings."

"They pale in comparison, love," the Duc replied, Daisy's voluptuous form, perfection, "but they've a sense of independence and charming freedom I thought you'd like. I've another in a different style," he added, rising to fetch a small painting that had been tucked away behind a chair.

The painting was of a mother holding a baby just out of the bath, a delicate, patterned composition derivative of Japanese prints, but imbued with a touching rapport between mother and child.

"This was done by an American woman painter—Mary Cassatt. I thought you might like it."

Both the mother and baby had dark hair, their heads close as the mother held the small child in an affectionate embrace, and Daisy felt a small heated joy at the tender scene… and at Etienne's thoughtfulness. "I didn't buy you anything," she softly said. "I feel guilty." Her fingertip ran over the elaborate gold frame.

"No gift could equal the child you're giving me." And leaning over, he kissed her, a long, slow, heated kiss of sweetness and love that deepened so she felt a glow begin to radiate in a seeping languor of arousal.

He felt her response, felt her mouth open beneath his, tasted her welcome, felt her low purr of desire vibrate delicately against his lips. With tender leisure he absorbed the resonance of her warming passion, his mouth and tongue toying and teasing, nibbling and possessing until Daisy wanted more.

Lifting his mouth, the Duc took the empty cup she held in one hand and placed it with his on the nightstand. "I don't know if Louis is aware or not," he said, taking in the sultry passion of her glance, "but the warm almond milk his mama prescribed as a soothing elixir is used for another purpose in the Arab world."

"Maybe that's why it's considered a panacea to fatigue," Daisy murmured, her smile warmly seductive.

"Perhaps," Etienne answered, pushing the prints and painting to the foot of the bed. "It's healthy certainly, with milk and honey, ground almonds and egg whites," he added, turning back to her, the tenor of his voice taking on a husky richness as he continued. "And we must keep you healthy." Both his hands brushed over the swelling rise of her breasts, slid around their flaring fullness where they touched her inner arms, and moved to the prominence of her nipples. He stroked the sensitive peaks gently, tugging them into flaunting stiffness, murmuring as he bent his head to take one into his mouth, "I'll accustom them to the coming baby." He sucked gently at first and then with more explicit