Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (books for 20 year olds TXT) 📗

certain sorts of men who were besotted with red hair, just as there were certain sorts of women besotted with artists. She wondered if Peter was imagining Ursula laid out here. She wondered if Peter had painted Ursula nude, and if he had, if it had evolved to fevered lovemaking, right here on this chaise?

The picture of Peter crouched over her, his powerful hips, stripped of their proprietous wool breeks, moving to hastening beat, danced in her mind. She was liking this mixture of strong wine, a man who knew how to make a woman feel like she was the only person on Earth and a very active imagination.

“I am about to begin,” he said in a low voice.

Yes.

The first scratch of brush on canvas sent an electric shock through her. It was as if he had drawn the brush down her flesh. A delicious tingle slithered through every nerve, and a welcome warmth bloomed under her gown where her heel was tucked between her legs. She took another long sip.

“You are perfect,” he said. “’Tis exactly what I want.”

Exactly what he wanted. She closed her eyes and smiled. There was something powerful y seductive in that phrase. The image returned readily—Peter, with his hand on her face, guiding her hungry mouth to his. When his hand in the vision ventured lower, her own nipples tightened.

Cam wondered if Peter could see the change through the thin muslin. She found herself reveling in the notion and grinned. Lost in time? Why not make the best of it? She settled her weight more firmly upon that heel.

The brushstrokes continued. Peter worked briskly, and every scrape translated to the rustle of silk as flesh met flesh. In her mind, he took her hips and held them hard as he plumbed her depths.

A wild heat rose between her legs, and Cam found herself responding as easily to the image in her head as she might to the real thing.

Good God, where are you going with this, girl?

It had been six months since she and Jacket had made love, and during that time she’d had no desire to go to bed with anyone. The part of her that responded blindly to the cal of lust had been muted that day after she’d opened their bedroom door. Yet here she was constructing an interlude as erotic as those in the novels she’d read.

There was a strange freedom to being cast into another time that she’d never felt before. It was as if she were in a dream of her own making, with no one to justify her actions to but herself. This, she decided, could be a very dangerous thing.

She turned, and a nipple brushed the carved wood of the arm, sending a magnificent plume of heat through her. But the wood was Peter’s finger, and she longed for his touch.

She moved gently, no more than the motion of inhaling and exhaling, and let him rub the tender flesh. He taunted her.

She could feel his throb, let her fingers ride the satiny flesh.

He drew up beside her, spoon to spoon, and rol ed the nipple slowly, kissing her neck and ear, the barest scent of vanil a reaching her nose as she stretched against him like a cat.

Oh, the Rhenish is definitely working.

She stole a glance at Peter. He was laboring intently now, brushing the paint on with short, expert strokes. She closed her eyes and opened them again, and this time he was looking at her. Her breath caught, and he looked away.

“Is he in your thoughts, Mrs. Post? I do not wish to shock, and you wil pardon me for saying this, but as you carry yourself with far too confident a grace to be a maiden, I intend to speak plain. You must be filled with him, do you understand?”

His brown eyes deepened in color, and she felt her blood pound in her ears. “Aye, I understand.”

“Some women cannot do it. But I see you have no fear.”

“‘No fear’ might be overstating things.” Her heart was thumping so hard she wondered if he could hear it.

“There are certain things I can do to enhance the effect—

if such an