Page 10 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
“My name is Joy,” she responded. She realized that by morning, she’d likely be on her way, but for the little time they had she would enjoy the intimacy of hearing a man speak her name.
“It suits you. Joy. I’m too heavy to remain here.” He rose to his feet and reached for his breeches.
She sat up, looking for the dressing gown she’d discarded what seemed ages ago.
“It’s growing late. I had planned to give you some blankets to sleep here, but…would you care to join me in my bed?” He stood before her in his breeches, only the top two buttons holding up the fall, his magnificent torso bared, sweat gleaming in the firelight.
Butterflies stirred inside her, but Joy tamped them down. He’d had his pleasure, he wasn’t seducing her again. No longer needing the propriety of separate rooms, he likely was thinking of her comfort in the offer of a mattress beneath her. “Yes, that would be fine. But first…”
A wild notion had entered her thoughts as she looked at his well-muscled form. When would she have the chance to study a man’s body as she could his? “Might I be so bold as to request the honor of capturing your likeness?” Her eyes locked onto his as she steeled her nerves. “I wish to sketch you, sir—unadorned and in repose, as vulnerable to my pencil as I was to yours.”
A shadow of hesitation crossed the rugged terrain of Moses’ face, his eyes narrowing for a moment. The silence stretched between them, taut as a violin string, until it was pierced by his acquiescence. “If that is your desire, Joy,” he said softly, betraying none of the emotion that softened his gaze for a fleeting moment.
Chapter 7
A short time later, Moses stood before Joy with an unguarded boldness that belied the closed-off exterior she’d seen so far. His breeches lay discarded at his feet, and for the moment he remained still, allowing her the full measure of his unveiled presence, flaccid though he was. He was curious what she had in mind, since it was clear she had little experience with the naked form.
Joy smiled at the sight of him, her eyes bright, and she turned on her heel towards the kitchen. She returned a moment later, a wooden chair in hand, which she placed with purpose beside the chaise where Moses had now seated himself.
Perched upon her chair, she cradled the sketchbook and toyed with a pencil as she studied the drawings he had made, her hair cascading over her shoulder in gentle waves, a crease between her brows.
With cheeks flushed a rose-tinted hue, Joy lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. “Moses, I need you...to look as passionate as I did in these.” Her fingers traced the contours of her own sketched form on paper, the one caught in the throes of lovemaking.
Moses, a man of few words and even fewer outward emotions, regarded her with a steady gaze. The request was clear, to capture on paper the essence of desire, his desire, just as she had bared hers to his artful eye. A wisp of amusement curled the corners of his lips as he observed Joy’s blush deepen, a reminder of how innocent she was. “My dear, might I enlist your assistance? My fervor requires a touch of your inspiration to be properly engaged,” he said.
Joy glanced at the sketchbook before setting it aside with deliberate care. The pencil rolled slightly, coming to a rest a few inches away. She lifted her gaze to his but didn’t rise from her seat. “And how shall I inspire you?”
“Your form is like the finest art. Disrobe. Let me witness the muse in her purest essence.”
With a breath that was part sigh, part resolve, Joy stood and slipped her arms from the silken sleeves of the dressing gown, the fabric slipping down her body to pool at her feet. Unadorned now, she stood bathed in the golden hue of the fire.
Moses’ groin tightened, taking in the sight of her once more. His artist’s soul drank in the vision, while the man within him stirred, reawakened by the sight of her unspoken promises.
“Perfect,” he said, almost to himself. He settled into the embrace of the chaise. He looked upon Joy, her auburn hair a cascade of autumnal splendor, her eyes reflecting both innocence and an ember of curiosity. If he spent a lifetime with her, he might never be sated of her.
“Watch,” he instructed as he reached down, his hand grasping his flaccid member. With a languid stroke, he traced the length of himself, enacting a silent plea for vigor. He licked his lips as he waited for her reaction.
A delicate flush colored Joy’s cheeks. Emboldened by the passion they had already shared, she knelt before him, her hand extended, hesitant yet eager, and mirrored his movements, the tips of her fingers whispering over his skin. “Like this?”
“Harder. And slower... there.” His breath hitched as her fingers obeyed, encircling him with a firmer grasp, her rhythm measured and deliberate.
Joy’s touch kindled a warmth within him, her strokes fanning the flames. Moses gasped, a sound torn from the depths of his chest, as sensation spiraled. “Your hands, are like the most exquisite brushes, painting pleasure with every motion.”
Joy’s eyes shimmered in response, her strokes growing more assured. A smile played at the corners of her mouth and he longed to kiss her.
Later, perhaps. He was her muse for now.
“Good, very good,” he encouraged, the timbre of his voice deepening. “Now, vary the tempo, tease out the passion.”
Moses watched her, enjoying the feel of her hand on him, but knowing he wanted more. “Joy, there’s an element yet missing—one that could elevate this from mere touch to... something far more potent.”
He paused, searching her eyes, which flickered with a curious blend of innocence and intrigue. “Moisture,” he stated simply, as if imparting a sacred secret between artist and muse. “It is the essence that allows passion to glide smoothly, unfettered by the confines of the flesh.”
Joy’s gaze was steadfast, though a rosy hue kissed her cheeks again, betraying her demur exterior. “And how am I to provide this... moisture?”
“Your lips, and your tongue. Let them dance upon my skin, leaving a trail of warmth and wetness.” He took her hand, guiding it to pause in its ministrations. “Here, watch me.”
With deliberate slowness, he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking two of them between his lips and stroking slowly. “Like this. Kiss it gently, then take your time... savor the taste, the texture. Your tongue will be the brush that strokes life into my cock.”
