wished to flip through the pile quickly, but something undefined prevented her from peeking ahead.
“So, I am going to see you in your . . . your altogether?”
“I’m afraid so.”
For that very reason, he’d debated endlessly on whether to show her the drawings or not. He couldn’t care less ifshe saw him naked. In fact, he was hoping that she’d see the genuine article before too much time had passed, but he’d known the images would make her ill at ease. After much deliberation, however, he’d brought them simply because he didn’t have anything else. He possessed two other collections that were similar, in which he was also in the starring role, but they were much more risqué.
“Won’t you be embarrassed to have me gaze upon you like this?” She ran her hand in the air over the picture, indicating his bare state.
“Not really.” He shrugged off her concern. “Many women have seen me naked in my life. I have no great qualms about it.”
She studied his likeness. “You were much younger.”
“Nineteen years.”
“What caused you to do such a thing?”
“I was brash. Foolish. I had no better sense. As I said, the artist was a friend, and he asked it of me. It seemed a great lark at the time.” Once again, he chuckled at the memories of Paris. Ah . . . what a life he’d led growing up on the Continent! “I should mention that my mother brought me back to England shortly after she discovered what I was about. She decided that I had adapted to the French ways much too readily, and that my behavior had become entirely too indecent. She felt I could benefit from the more socially restrictive world I would encounter here.”
“Have you?”
“It’s been over ten years now, and I would say”—he grinned impishly—“that the jury is still out.”
“I think your mother was very wise in forcing you to return.” She sounded too fussy, too stuffy, and much older than her years.
“I don’t know that I would agree with you,” he said, and, unable to believe he’d admit such a thing, he added, “I seem to draw female trouble no matter the country in which I reside.”
“And the woman?” she eventually asked, after staringmuch too long at how his hand manipulated that breast. “What was her name?”
“Lily. She was the artist’s wife.” Her eyes widened with shock, or perhaps dismay.
“And your friend did not mind?”
“We were young. In Paris. The times were more open. He considered the entire episode to be totally erotic.”
Without responding, she slid the second drawing onto the table, then she reached for the third. The couple had moved so that Lily was now on her back with James stretched out on top of her. They were embroiled in an animated kiss, their lips melded, their tongues entwined. James’s hand squeezed her breast as his fingers pressured her nipple.
“Your tongue is in her mouth,” she commented after a long perusal.
“ ’Tis the most passionate way to kiss a woman,” he answered, fixed on her profile, but her attention was glued to the enthusiastic embrace. “A man moves his tongue in and out of the woman’s mouth in a tempo meant to simulate mating.”
“More of the
preparation?”
“Yes.” She was so wrapped up in the lovers that he dared move closer. “Have you ever been kissed?” he asked.
“Once,” she replied, smiling with the memory. “My fiancé was allowed to kiss me, on the cheek, immediately after he proposed.”
“That was the one and only occasion?” He inhaled deeply of the scent of her hair, the smell of her skin.
“The one and only. . . .”
She finally managed to wrench her focus from the painting, and as she did, her breast brushed against his arm, her thigh crushed into his. He could see the gold flecks in her emerald eyes, see his face reflected back. Her pupils dilated, her nostrils flared at finding him hovering so near.
“So . . . you’ve never been properly kissed?”
“No,” she admitted.
They sat
“So, I am going to see you in your . . . your altogether?”
“I’m afraid so.”
For that very reason, he’d debated endlessly on whether to show her the drawings or not. He couldn’t care less ifshe saw him naked. In fact, he was hoping that she’d see the genuine article before too much time had passed, but he’d known the images would make her ill at ease. After much deliberation, however, he’d brought them simply because he didn’t have anything else. He possessed two other collections that were similar, in which he was also in the starring role, but they were much more risqué.
“Won’t you be embarrassed to have me gaze upon you like this?” She ran her hand in the air over the picture, indicating his bare state.
“Not really.” He shrugged off her concern. “Many women have seen me naked in my life. I have no great qualms about it.”
She studied his likeness. “You were much younger.”
“Nineteen years.”
“What caused you to do such a thing?”
“I was brash. Foolish. I had no better sense. As I said, the artist was a friend, and he asked it of me. It seemed a great lark at the time.” Once again, he chuckled at the memories of Paris. Ah . . . what a life he’d led growing up on the Continent! “I should mention that my mother brought me back to England shortly after she discovered what I was about. She decided that I had adapted to the French ways much too readily, and that my behavior had become entirely too indecent. She felt I could benefit from the more socially restrictive world I would encounter here.”
“Have you?”
“It’s been over ten years now, and I would say”—he grinned impishly—“that the jury is still out.”
“I think your mother was very wise in forcing you to return.” She sounded too fussy, too stuffy, and much older than her years.
“I don’t know that I would agree with you,” he said, and, unable to believe he’d admit such a thing, he added, “I seem to draw female trouble no matter the country in which I reside.”
“And the woman?” she eventually asked, after staringmuch too long at how his hand manipulated that breast. “What was her name?”
“Lily. She was the artist’s wife.” Her eyes widened with shock, or perhaps dismay.
“And your friend did not mind?”
“We were young. In Paris. The times were more open. He considered the entire episode to be totally erotic.”
Without responding, she slid the second drawing onto the table, then she reached for the third. The couple had moved so that Lily was now on her back with James stretched out on top of her. They were embroiled in an animated kiss, their lips melded, their tongues entwined. James’s hand squeezed her breast as his fingers pressured her nipple.
“Your tongue is in her mouth,” she commented after a long perusal.
“ ’Tis the most passionate way to kiss a woman,” he answered, fixed on her profile, but her attention was glued to the enthusiastic embrace. “A man moves his tongue in and out of the woman’s mouth in a tempo meant to simulate mating.”
“More of the
preparation?”
“Yes.” She was so wrapped up in the lovers that he dared move closer. “Have you ever been kissed?” he asked.
“Once,” she replied, smiling with the memory. “My fiancé was allowed to kiss me, on the cheek, immediately after he proposed.”
“That was the one and only occasion?” He inhaled deeply of the scent of her hair, the smell of her skin.
“The one and only. . . .”
She finally managed to wrench her focus from the painting, and as she did, her breast brushed against his arm, her thigh crushed into his. He could see the gold flecks in her emerald eyes, see his face reflected back. Her pupils dilated, her nostrils flared at finding him hovering so near.
“So . . . you’ve never been properly kissed?”
“No,” she admitted.
They sat
Similar Books
