Page 37 of Portrait of a Lady
She bit her lip, muffling a guttural groan and moving against him in a silent invitation. He quickened the strokes of his thumb over her clitoris but held back from entering her, even though it physically pained him with the hot, wet temptation of her cunt beckoning to him.
“Tell me when you’re close,” he urged.
She was almost there, he could feel it in the tension winding through her, the wetness coating his fingers. A tremor tore through her, then she stiffened, her entire body winding taut.
“Now, Hugh...I’m...oh, God!”
Never ceasing the stroking circles of his thumb, he began pushing into her with as much care as he could manage. She issued a strangled cry, her insides pulsating around him as he gained an inch, then another and another. The feel of her climaxing, surrounding him with liquid heat and drenching him in her juices, nearly undid him. But he managed to keep from embarrassing himself as he withdrew and plunged, falling deeper into her, opening her up to him. Tears sprang to her eyes and she sobbed, the sound falling somewhere between one of pleasure and one of pain.
He lay flush against her, sinking in as far as he could go and gathering her in his arms. He dragged his lips over her temple, her cheek, her jaw, the salt of her tears mingling with the sweetness of her skin. She clung to him, turning her head to seek his mouth for a kiss. He drank from her lips, circling his hips and digging deep into her, determined to touch and feel every part of her. He tipped her chin until her deep, dark eyes met his, their gazes locking. Amidst the bright gleam of lust and desire, he saw her vulnerability, her openness to him as the last of her reticence and fear fell away.
His cock pulsed inside her, his entire body quivering with the need to move, to succumb to his own desires. But she was so tight, her body tensed beneath his as she fought against the newness of his invasion. He lightened his touch on her clitoris, caressing her in featherlight motions that made her slowly unwind for him. She sighed, her eyes rolling back in her head and her thighs relaxing from their brutal clench around his hips.
As she grew more pliant, he tested her, moving inside her with short, shallow strokes. She gasped, arching her back and clinging to his shoulders, emboldening him to give her more. Her swift, panting breaths gave way to shocked moans of delight as he rolled his hips, losing himself in the silken glide of her channel around him.
He slid his hands beneath her buttocks and guided her against him until they moved as one, her hips undulating against his in an instinctive rhythm. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he groaned, the deep sound like an answering call to her breathless cries.
Shuddering with the force of the climax he held at bay, he fought for more time, craving the feel of her climax before he let himself go. Adjusting his angle, he found the spot that sent her moans echoing from the walls, her insides pulsating around him in a prelude to her rapture.
His own finish hovered just within reach, so close it stole the breath from his lungs and coherent thought from his mind. But he held back until she splintered again, writhing and crying his name, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Only then did he give himself over to climax, groaning and stroking deep inside her for as long as he could before he was forced to pull away, taking hold of his cock and stroking as the hot streams of his seed spilled onto the coverlet. Head thrown back, blood rushing in his ears and his entire body shaking from the force of his spend, Hugh could only remain where he crouched for a long moment. He’d been determined that she wouldn’t be able to walk when he’d finished, but damn if he could remember how his own legs worked just now.
After a moment, the reminder that he had to see to Evelyn’s comfort spurred him into action. Glancing down, he found her sprawled out in the most delectable fashion—thighs fallen open, breasts heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, hair tousled beyond repair. He’d never seen a more carnally delightful sight in his life, and he wished he could sketch her this way, capturing the moment for his eyes only. The desire to execute an erotic sketch had never come over him as strongly as it did now, but even so, it couldn’t be done. Not this time at least.
He moved her this way and that, so he could toss the soiled counterpane aside and lay her on the clean sheets. Then, he stretched out beside her, turning her so that she faced him and gathering her in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, nuzzling against him with a blissful sigh. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he took that as confirmation that her first time had been everything she’d wanted.
Stroking his fingertips down her bare back, he sought the right words to say, some way to tell her it had been beyond what he’d expected. But how could he? To reveal the depth of his feelings at the moment would only complicate the matter. She had hired him to give her an experience, and he’d done that—would continue to do that until she grew bored of him as all the others had. They always looked at him with stars in their eyes after the first few tumbles. But it never failed...eventually they would find the man they wanted to marry, or one they wanted to have an affair with, or simply decide they were ready to move on with their independent lives. Then, he was no longer needed or wanted. It had never bothered him before, because he’d always known Benedict could quickly match him with another suitable woman, one who would use him for pleasure while he relied on her for money.
And it wouldn’t bother him this time, because he wouldn’t let it. He’d decided to enjoy his time with Evelyn until it ended. At that point, he had faith that the one thing he’d always wanted would finally be his. He would have work—real work—as an artist to occupy and fulfill him.
As he gathered her closer and kissed the top of her head, he discovered that there was no need for him to attempt to say anything. Evelyn had fallen fast asleep, her arm wrapped tight around him, her face still burrowed in the haven of his chest.
Chapter 8
“While London’s eligible bachelors fear the machinations of the desperate debutante, they often fail to notice the most dangerous creature of them all...the matchmaking mama.”
-The London Gossip,19 March 1819
Evelyn observed the interior of Hugh’s studio from the doorway, her wide eyes darting to take in the haphazard mess of an artist’s refuge. Canvases in varying stages of completion stood here and there on easels. A long table against one wall held paint pots and vials of chemicals, along with cups filled with brushes, palettes stained from pigments long since washed away, and a number of other tools she could not name. A pedestal in one corner held a sculpture she assumed had been made by his hand, while several blank canvases stood propped against one wall. The scent of the potions he used in his craft lingered in the air. Various pieces of furniture sat in no particular order about the room—chairs, a chaise longue, a cushioned stool—each one awaiting a human subject.
She smiled, leaning back into the warmth of his solid form. Wrapped in his dressing gown with the hem dragging the floor, she ought to feel quite scandalous. Instead, she was practically overflowing with blissful happiness and couldn’t seem to stop grinning. There was none of the regret or shame she’d thought to feel after letting herself be compromised by Hugh, but it had all been so gloriously perfect.
She had awakened to find him sitting up in bed beside her, the charcoal in his hand moving over a page in his sketchbook. He’d been sketchingher, her head rested on the pillow, a bare shoulder peeking out from under the coverlet, her hair splayed in disarray about her face. Upon realizing she had awakened, he’d asked her to remain where she lay while he finished.
After setting his book aside, he’d lain beside her, taking her into his arms and asking her how she’d felt, if she were in any pain. His consideration never ceased to touch her, warming her heart in a way she couldn’t hope to fight when she felt so content. She had confessed to a bit of soreness, but otherwise feeling just fine, more than fine, really. He’d sent for a bath to be prepared in the adjoining room, and she’d soaked away the stiffness and soreness that had set in while she’d slept. Returning to his bedchamber wrapped in the dressing gown, she found him half-dressed in a shirt and trousers with a tray laden with an early dinner. The sight and smells of the food reminded her that she’d hardly eaten a thing and was now absolutely ravenous. They’d eaten in companionable silence before Hugh had invited her to see his workspace.
His hands came down onto her shoulders, his lips pressing against the top of her head. “See? I told you...this is the only place in the house where I’m allowed to make a mess.”
She chuckled, moving out of his embrace and farther into the room so she could take a closer look at his work. Pausing before a finished painting depicting members of thebeau mondepromenading down Rotten Row in Hyde Park, her smile widened.
“If these paintings prove anything, it is that you ought to be able to make as much a mess as you please, especially if this is the end result. Hugh, these are beautiful.”
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it with a soft smile and pride lifting his chin. “Thank you. A few of them need a bit more work, but I’ve been preoccupied with finishing my piece for the Exhibition.”
Gazing about her, she took in a collection of landscapes as well as a handful of portraits. “Which one is it?”
He came forward to take her hand, then led her to the large, wide canvas closest to the table holding his supplies. He stood back and gestured toward it.
“This one...I call itVirtue and Vice.”
