Page 78 of Ravishing Camille
She moved with him, her lithe body his solace and storm. She cried out and he knew he had to give her more. He fingered her slick little folds and found the nub that would give her the heights she sought. She bucked and moaned. His. She was totally his.
He told himself to stop. Stop.
And he pulled away.
* * *
Later—much later—he grabbed his shirt from the floor, then went to find a pitcher, water, cloths to clean her skin and his own.
She cupped his cheek and searched his gaze for the answer to some question that clouded her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, dropping a kiss to her palm.
“That was…” She rolled a shoulder, confused. “I have no words.”
“Nor I, my darling.” He let the playful side of him emerge, the one few saw, the one he had so little call for…until now. “We will call it indescribable.”
“And worthy of repetition?”
He burst out laughing. “Indescribable and worthy of repetition! Of course. I will go to my grave repeatedly enjoying such indescribable pleasure.”
* * *
To live with him night and day set her aflame. She could think of nothing else but the delight of his hands, the joy of his mouth, the ecstasy of his body on hers, in hers. He was everything and more she had never hoped to claim. The idea of him as hers was such a fantasy that this idyll with him approached a heaven she had questioned but now believed existed here on earth only with him.
He was a careful lover, tender and considerate. He was an ardent one, demanding and after that first comparatively short coupling, became a man of many ingenious means to bring her to fulfillment. Indeed, she had not imagined the variety and versatility of how men and women could pleasure each other.
But he was skillful, good natured, and she allowed and welcomed from him every exciting moment. His hands on her hips, his lips on her breasts, his mouth on her most intimate places, his cock inside her for long luscious minutes, as he feasted on her skin and told her tales of how next they’d enjoy each other. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, spread across his huge bed in the blue room or on the chaise longue in the flower garden, the sun bright on their faces, he buried deeply inside her…and only to the point where he would not bring her consequences they did not intend.
The day before they were to leave, she ignored her dread of their parting. She rolled into his embrace as they lay upon the bed and traced with one finger the perfection of his bones. He caught her finger and bit her. She kissed him—and he reached for her and rolled her beneath him. Once more, they’d have each other.
She loved him. Simple and forthright, she could tell anyone. Though she had not yet told him, she would save it. Decide if she should employ it. But only if she thought it beneficial. And she would not use it to persuade him to any action. No, she would not. Nor would she bargain with herself about any ending. If he loved her, he would say. If not, then not. She would accept it. Had vowed it.
But today, she wanted something different. Other memories to mark the ending, a set of images that told her of the normality of life.
They had awakened late, the sun rising to midpoint and bathing the world in the glory that was in the lush valley of the Loire. They strolled to the village, hand in hand, and paused to marvel at the white limestone and pink brick chateau along the lane that once had belonged to the artist Leonarado da Vinci. He’d agreed to come to France to the Court to work for Francis the First and it was here after two years, Da Vinci had died. The house, given to him by Francis, remained the property of the French monarchs until the Revolution. Pierce had no knowledge of who owned the lovely little house.
There as they considered the career of that famous artist, Camille told him the details of the offer of her French publisher Daumier. “The chateau is in a town west of here. Blois. It’s another town like Amboise, small, old, once a center of the French monarchy. But the house comes with two servants, so that would be helpful.”
“Have you accepted?”
“I told him I would consider it.”
“It is a fine offer. I don’t know how many such offers an author receives. Is it not practice to simply pay on acceptance of a manuscript for publication?”
“It is. Plus the offer of a house and an annuity is unusual.”
“What holds you back?” he asked, turning toward her, his black hair glistening in the summer sunshine.
I want to live with you. Go to Shanghai. Live anywhere you are. And yet, I also want to have my own ambitions, not live through yours.And since she had no resolution yet for her own personal desires, she had to approach discussing those elements with him with care. “I am not certain I want to live in France and I don’t know this town of Blois,” she said, and that was part of the truth. “I love London, family. My readers. My work with women’s rights. How can I live here apart?”
He frowned at that. “I understand. And I commend you for admitting to wanting all of that. What makes you whole is the sum of all your talents and ambitions. I know that well.”
“I think you do.”
“I have my own desires. Had, perhaps, indulged in too many of them. Now I must trim them. Make my days more…” He waved a hand and sighed. “Manageable.”
Too late she realized she might have given him the wrong impression. That she would not go anywhere. That she would not have him, not consider living with him. “Much to ponder.”
