Page 57 of Portrait of a Lady
Evelyn went up on tiptoe, threading her fingers through his hair and pressing her lips to his. “I love you, ever so much.”
“And I love you. Now...we have one other matter to see to this evening.”
She fought the urge to stomp her foot and demand he take her to bed right this minute, and toyed with the belt of her dressing gown instead. “What matter is that?”
He strode back to the bedside table and lifted the lid of his paintbox, revealing several rows of pots situated into little wells, each one filled with watery substances holding pastel colors.
“Painting, Hugh?” she groaned. “Need I remind you what tonight is?”
With a chuckle, he took her hand and pulled her toward him, tearing at the knot in her belt. “I know very well what tonight is, thank you. And I think painting and wedding nights ought to be combined more often. When I’m done, I am certain you will agree.”
Before she could respond, he opened her robe and let it fall to the floor, revealing what she wore underneath. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her wearing the gossamer scrap of gauze she’d posed for her portrait in. The material left nothing to the imagination, displaying the pink circles of her nipples and the dark triangle of curls between her thighs. His mouth fell open as he reached out to touch her, skimming his hands up her sides until he cupped her breasts, strumming her nipples with his thumbs.
He smiled when she whimpered, arching her back in a silent plea for more.
“Tonight, my lovely muse,youare to be the canvas.”
He slipped the gown off her shoulders, trailing his hands down her arms as he coaxed it off her body. Her skin prickled from even so slight a touch, her body starved for the contact she’d gone without for several long weeks.
“And what a lovely canvas you are,” he murmured, running his fingertips down the valley between her breasts then across her belly. “On the bed, wife.”
Curiosity and anticipation spurred her into action, and she did as he asked, setting her book aside before climbing up onto the bed. She laid in the center of the mattress, arms at her sides, breath accelerating as he approached. He stood beside her, lifting a brush from his paintbox and glancing at her with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“I am not certain if you know this, but many of the pigments I use in my work with oils are quite toxic.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is this talk supposed to be some artistic form of seduction? Because I must say, it isn’t working.”
He laughed, dipping the slender brush into one of the pots. “I only mentioned that to say...I wracked my brain for a way to do this without endangering you and stumbled upon a most pleasing solution. You see, watercolors will not do, for they also carry their own risk of toxicity...but certain pastel crayons—the right colors, you see, those known to have little to no risk...well, they make an adequate enough paint when ground down and mixed with water and a binder. So, here we have it...the perfect paint for the perfect canvas.”
“I am relieved,” she quipped. “Though, if you poison me, I will be forced to haunt you.”
“At least, you’d always be with me,” he said, climbing up on to the bed and straddling her hips. “Now, I need you to lie very, very still…”
She gasped at the first touch of his brush against the inside of one wrist, the coarse bristles ticking her sensitive skin. The cold paint only exacerbated the sensation, sending goosebumps rippling along the surface of her skin. She glanced down to watch as he created a swirling green pattern along the inside of her arm, like a vine. He went back for more of the paint, then continued, his brow furrowed in concentration as he trailed the brush along her skin, leaving the most arousing sensation in his wake.
Evelyn stiffened when he found a particularly sensitive spot, fighting not to squirm and writhe in reaction to the electrifying feeling. He took his time, painstakingly creating smaller vines growing off the large one, arching them over her shoulder, across her collarbones then down the other arm. More of them were painted down the sides of her body, skimming her breasts, winding over her belly, then down her legs. Parting her legs, he lay between them, swirling the brush down her inner thighs in patterns that made her eyes roll up into her head and her toes curl. All the while, his breath fanned against her exposed cunt, making her yearn for him to put his mouth there. But, he refrained, seeming determined to finish his work. After the vines came the flowers, little buds that he painted along the vines in shade of bright blue, lavender, and soft yellow.
He stared up at a her with a smile when the brush swirled over her nipple, staining it purple. Repeating the action, he watched her nipple pebble against the brush, hardening to near painful limits. He went on creating the flower around the tightly furled bud, as Evelyn lost complete control of her sense. Closing her eyes, she forgot his directive to lie still, soft moans spilling from her lips as he teased her with the brushes, finding the most deliciously sensitive places to paint his flowers, and seeming to derive satisfaction from her reaction to each touch.
She trembled beneath him, her back arching when he painted a flower around her navel, dipping the brush into the hollow and swirling it. God, whoever knew painting could be so stimulating? She felt as if she’d go up in flames at any moment, and he had only touched her with the brushes.
The paint dried quickly in his wake, unlike the oils he used on his canvases, and the tautness of it on her skin only added to her agitation, her need. And thank God for that, because the moment he was done she did not think she could wait another moment without throwing him down onto the bed and mounting him.
He finished at her left ankle, creating one final blossom there, before signing his initials beside it with a flourish.
By the time he returned his brush to the paintbox and climbed back over her on his hands and knees, she was in a state, panting and squirming, desperate to have him inside her.
“My masterpiece,” he whispered, stroking his finger along the line of her jaw. “Would you like to see how magnificent you look?”
What she wanted was for him to make love to her, but curiosity once again got the best of her. She nodded, so he stood, then offered a hand to help her from the bed. He led her to the mirror standing in the corner, much like the one he’d stood her before in his studio.
She found herself glad she had looked, because she was once again stunned by Hugh’s skill. She looked like some sort of woodland nymph, as if real-life vines had climbed up her limbs, bursting with flowers all over her body.
“My compliments to the artist,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to find him removing his shirt.
“This artist finds himself bursting with inspiration whenever you are around.”
He stripped off his breeches and stockings, now as naked as she as he pushed a chair toward her. Her bemused expression melted into a knowing one as he sank into the seat, spreading his legs and taking hold of the hard root of his cock. Her mouth watered at the sight of him stroking it, his eyes growing heavy-lidded as he reached for her.
